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hptografi · 1 year

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Sayang sekali Air Terjun seindah ini sudah mulai tercemar Sampah! Foto kiriman dari @ion.hazardas 🤩 dalam featured daily of the day 👊 melalui tag/hastag/mention. Terima kasih ya sudah berpartisipasi 🙌🏼 📍 Grenjengan Kembar . 📱Xiaomi Redmi Note 10 Pro @xiaomi.indonesia ⬛ Nisi Filter ND 64 @nisifiltersindonesia . Follow aja dulu @hptografi ⭐ Ikutan setor, cukup dengan Tag, Mention @hptografi, dan cantumkan #hptografi dengan menyertakan type device. Buat yg belum terpilih, jangan bersedih. Masih ada hari lain. Tetap semangat dan tetap berkarya bersama @hptografi 😉🙌🏼 . #waterfall #waterfalls #airterjun #water #raw #hptografi #foponsi #mobilephotography #android #photooftheday #naturephotography #nature #xiaomi #shotonphone #longexposure #longexposure_shots #lightroom #reels #capture #image #natureshots #healing #travelling #waterfallphotography https://www.instagram.com/p/CoOSMCHP_Kw/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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hptografiid · 1 year

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pseudowho · 5 months

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Infiltration, Chapter Five: Breaking Point

Nanami Kento and the reader must pretend to be married to infiltrate a deadly Curse-user cult and take it down from the inside.

*SMUT/NSFW/18+ BEGINS HERE*

A slow-burn fic with fluff/comfort, angst, smut and heroics from our favourite salaryman.

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Your mind, body and soul had ached for Kento for so long, that falling, pliant and supple, into his hands and mouth, was instinctual. Your hands grabbed his lapel and hair fiercely, desperately, as you tasted his tongue, minty and warm against yours. An involuntary moan climbed out of you and Kento drank it down, grappling your body against his, as eager as you to feel unadulterated contact between your bodies.

You were so drunk on each other, you forgot that you were supposed to be acting. As the cupboard door swung open with a creak and a crack as it hit the wall, your lips parted with a wet pop, both of you blinking in the daylight as the elderly librarian spluttered at you, ears reddening, hands on his hips.

"What are you doing in here?" he boomed, as you squeaked and rushed to cover yourself up. Kento pushed a hand through his hair, sheepish, glancing between you and the librarian, as if you'd offer him a get-out clause.

"I told you he'd find us," you squeaked at Kento, still reeling, only half-acting. Kento looked a little smug in his humiliation, smiling at the librarian with a loose, embarrassed laugh.

"I'm, uh...I'm sorry, sir," Kento offered, teenagerish, tie and trousers still undone, lips pink and slightly swollen as he bowed deeply. You had turned to face the back of the cupboard with your face in your hands, mortification and arousal still thumping through your veins in equal measure. The librarian bristled, prudish and cross. He looked sternly down at the back of Kento's head.

"Names?" he demanded. Kento shared your alter-egos with practiced ease. The librarian stuttered again, "Mr. and Mrs. Tsuda? From the, uh...from the...from the..." he trailed off, deflating. He huffed, moustache-hairs fluffing out.

"Just came in here for a bit of, uh...a bit of hanky panky, did you?"

"We uh...we thought it would be...funny, sir," Kento mumbled weakly. His hands were folded over his lap in apparent subjugation, but he felt his semi-erect cock remain, almost confused, as if wondering which way to go between humiliation and arousal.

"Yes, well..." the librarian continued, still deflating, now wagging a finger at you and Kento, "...go and find somewhere else for your...your...shenanigans," he finished weakly. Kento offered him another smile, sincere and grateful as he bowed again. The librarian couldn't help but smirk as he rubbed his beard, two young lovers caught in the act in his cupboard.

"Yes, yes, well...I do remember myself and my wife couldn't keep our hands off each other, either," he and Kento shared a laugh as you shot Kento a furious look.

Kento pulled his arm around you as you left, still absolutely baking with embarrassment and stunned by the kiss. You could barely remember the walk back to your little house, Kento's arm feeling unnaturally warm against you, your shirts both rumpled, silent, unspoken words weighing heavily in both of your chests.

Kento let you through the door first and you practically ran to the bathroom; by the time Kento had closed and locked the door, the bathroom door slammed shut in his face. Kento had a moment to evaluate what had just happened- a sordid flurry of emotions, your body, soft against his, and most of all, how eagerly you had kissed him back, just enough for him to hope beyond hope--

Kento pressed his head against the wall, tortured, still buzzing from the raw adrenaline, before dropping to his haunches, holding onto the doorframe, rocking his forehead against the wall as he swore rhythmically to himself.

You slammed the bathroom door, gasping and tearful before leaning over the sink, aggressively splashing your face with cold water. The kiss had been too real, you thought, your mind chaotic with a flurry of unasked and unanswered questions. There is no going back from that, you thought, solemn, convicted. Even Kento wasn't that good an actor...was he? Face in your hands, you recalled how urgently you had kissed Kento back, mortification deepening at how badly you had given yourself away if Kento didn't feel the same.

Breathing in a shaky breath, you released it in a slow, trembling puff through pursed lips. Desperate for distraction, you reached for your notebook and pager, sending a series of abbreviated messages, of details of the outlying cult members sent for recruitment. A few minutes passed after you sent your last message, and the pager buzzed; a brief message of confirmation from Ijichi was a small balm, satisfied, at least, that you were still fulfilling your task.

You jumped as knuckles tapped the bathroom door. Kento called your name, soft, apologetic. You didn't respond; a pregnant pause.

"I'll...I'll give you your space. I'm so sorry." Your heart climbed into your mouth at Kento's apology, and the words you wanted to speak stuck on your tongue; don't be sorry, just tell me that was real. Your throat constricted as you heard brisk footsteps, and the front door opening and closing with a bang.

Wiping your nose and eyes with still trembling hands, you sniffed, tumbling out of the bathroom door, "Ken--"

Your shout cut short, feeling Kento's cursed energy taper away from the house. Eyes pricking with tears, you hiccuped back a sob, feeling so lost without him there, your candle in the dark.

Kento found himself on the tiny arched bridge over the stony river. The sun was setting on the short day, and he shivered with the chill, nerves frayed as the adrenaline began to wear off. All he was left with now, was regret that you'd always believe that his first kiss might always be an act, a lie. Even his thrill at your reciprocity was dulled, knowing that he had forced your hand, feeling a roiling nausea that he had pressed himself on you so aggressively. Kento leaned into his palms, elbows resting on the bridge, groaning his misery away.

After several minutes of profound soul-searching, you and Kento had both reached the same conclusion, the only way to repair the damage; you had to share how you really felt.

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"Will it work?" Father Tatsu growled, barely visible in the faint candlelight, barely audible over the groaning of the beast. Father Shinzu shook his head, sweating, deep in concentration as his Cursed technique strained against its limits.

"The mind is willing, but the flesh is...the vessel, she...she is not enough," Father Shinzu gasped, falling to all-fours from his knees. Father Tatsu sneered, casting a glare to the vessel, knelt before Father Shinzu at the edge of the writhing pit.

"The goddess, she...she must be split," sobbed Father Shinzu, "help me, Tatsu-- she is not stable--"

Father Tatsu clenched his fists before grabbing his brother by the shoulders, shaking his wretched body; "Apply yourself," he growled in Father Shinzu's ear, "for once in your life." Father Shinzu groaned, coughing, blood spattering on the floor beneath his mouth with his enormous final exertion.

The ground between the pit and the vessel cracked like a gunshot, buckling upwards. The vessel shrieked an inhuman shriek, ringing through the chamber in the dark. The pit writhed its last, stilling at the crescendo of a devastating groan. The trees around the Shrine withered and blackened. The grass curled and browned. Death trickled through the seams of the earth beneath the pit, pulsing through veins of rock and root.

Everything and everyone stilled between two heartbeats, life hung on a thread...until with a heave of effort and one final crack through the gloom, the goddess gasped the first breath of life in her vessel, born anew.

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Kento arrived home with cold night air and sprinkles of snow flurrying off his coat. Kicking off his shoes and jacket, his jaw and shoulders were set in a determined line; you had to know how he felt. Calling your name, he walked through the kitchen, and feeling a waft of cool air from the living room, he walked through to see you.

His rehearsed speech disappeared as he saw you with your back to the door, in the onsen, in nothing but a wet white towel. your elbows leaned on the rocky edge of the pool, your chin perched stop your hands. Kento's eyes wandered to the gentle slope of your shoulders, the soft tapering of your neckline down the curve of your back-- his mind wandered to other, more illicit places. His voice caught in his throat as, with a gentle swish of water, you turned and caught his eye.

A few moments passed where you and Kento simply stared at each other, mouths working soundlessly, blushes creeping up on you both, before Kento cleared his throat, his mouth set in a grim line.

Kento bowed deeply to you, not standing up as he spoke; "Please forgive me." Your brain short-circuited as you frowned, now turning to Kento.

"Kento, there's nothing to apologise fo--"

He interrupted, continuing, determined; "Mission requirements or not, I took advantage of you, and made you uncomfortable. It was grotesquely unprofessional. I completely understand if you need to abandon the mission and go--"

"Kento. Stop." Kento stayed in a bow, too captivated by what you were about to say, "You...did what you had to do. And it was...fine. It was better than fine. You're a-- a-- you're...a good kisser." You finished weakly. Kento stood, face neutral and serious, but with a playful glimmer in his eye.

"So...assault is okay...if the assailant kisses well?" You turned, burying your face into the wall as you laughed, the awkwardness now slightly broken. Kento found his usually legendary bravery breaking, suddenly unable to find the words to tell you how he felt. He began to gently excuse himself.

"No, wait! Please, Kento. Stay. I hate it when you leave." You cursed yourself for sounding so desperate, so needy. Then, Kento spoke, and you felt time stop for a moment.

"I don't have to leave, ever...if...if you like." You remained silent, but now that Kento had started he couldn't stop, snowballing, "Before you were gone for three months, I told myself we had to get to know each other better. I'd already planned our first date, if...if you had said yes."

Your heart leapt into your throat. The rest of your life to come sat on a knife's edge and you felt both as light as a feather, and dangerously at risk of falling, all at once. You felt that your very ability to ever feel joy again rested on Kento's next words.

"But now..." Kento continued, slow, thoughtful. You felt yourself teetering as dread crept up your body, and tears pricked in your eyes. When Kento spoke again, you broke, a sandcastle being washed away by the waves.

"Now... I know that if I never get to kiss you like that again, I'll be haunted every day and night for the rest of my life."

A single, gulping, enormous sob heaved out of your body. Months and months of restrained longing, of fervently wanting something-- someone -- so much better than you had ever dreamt of having, swept out of you, and you burst into wracking tears, your face in your arms, and your back to Kento.

Appalled, needing to hold you, Kento made towards the onsen-- "Oh no-- shit-- please don't cry" -- and without any thought other than you, he climbed into the onsen with a splash, wading towards you and pulling you into his arms, wet shirt clinging to his chest.

You babbled, apologising through sobs, trying to control yourself.

"Kento, your suit!"

"Fuck my suit." Kento pulled you tightly to him, his broad palm cupping the back of your head, fingers in your hair, one strong arm around your waist. You stopped crying almost as quickly as you had begun.

"I'm sorry, I'm just-- I'm just so relieved, I thought it was just me--"

Kento looked down at you shrewdly, eyes narrowed, "I fail to see how it wasn't obvious."

"Well, you're so kind, I just thought you-- you--"

"...that I'm a stuttering mess with everyone?"

You sniffed, wiping your eyes with a laugh. Whatever had held him back before had completely dissipated, and you felt yourself melt as Kento stroked your cheek, looking at you like you had hung the stars. You pressed your cheek into his hand, sinking into his amber eyes.

"Please, just...kiss me again, Kento."

He didn't need to be told twice. Corded forearm tightening around your waist, and his fingers gently pulling your jaw towards him, Kento's lips pressed to yours so softly at first that you barely felt it at all. Pulling away slightly and tipping his head to the other side, as if trying to commit every curve of your lips to memory, he kissed you again, firmer this time, and he felt the world fall at his feet as you sighed into his mouth and wound your arms around his neck.

Countries could have been falling to war around you and Kento, and you would have remained completely lost in each other, kisses becoming deeper and needier as you pulled at his wet shirt, fingers unashamedly exploring the planes and cords of his shoulders. Kento felt your fingers burn into him, unreasonably irritated by his wet shirt blocking him from feeling your skin. You moaned into his mouth as he nipped at your lower lip.

Kento felt a primitive urgency rush through him at your sweet little moan, and he had to actively fight against the urge to rip your wet towel from your body. With a shudder, Kento pulled away, eyes squeezed closed with a frown as he pressed his forehead to yours, trying to control his breathing.

Opening his eyes slowly, and seeing yours stare into him, glassy and drunk, Kento rubbed his nose gently against yours, trying desperately to restrain himself. His hands betrayed him as they glossed against the curve of your hips beneath the water, trembling in need as he stopped himself from digging his fingers into the plushness of you, so exotic compared to his own body.

"We should stop," he rumbled, his voice crushed velvet on steel, low and slow. When your lips wandered to Kento's jaw and neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against his thrumming pulse, Kento growled to feel your tongue graze against his throat, completely unable to hide his arousal now with your body pressed flush against his. Kento coughed your name, urgent. You answered with a hum, your fingers now starting to work at the buttons of his shirt.

"If you keep going-- I won't be able to stop-- I..."

"Then don't stop." Kento moaned into your mouth, all inhibition stripped away as he held your jaw, sinking his tongue into your mouth, tasting you as your fingers worked hurriedly at Kento's shirt, the palms of your hands pressing greedily against his chest when his shirt floated away through the hot, cloudy water. Steam swirled atop the water, and lapped against Kento as he moved you against the wall, knee raised and pressed between your legs to hold you there.

Kento groaned as your fingers grazed against his nipples, panting as your eyes drank him in, hungry for what you had craved for so long. Not breaking eye contact, Kento brushed his fingers questioningly over where your towel was tucked in over your breasts. You pressed your hand over Kento's, deliberately looping his finger inside your towel to brush against the cleavage between your breasts; one soft swipe of his finger had your towel falling open, and you shivered as Kento's gaze dropped to your breasts, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his fingers gently rolled your plump nipples between them.

You shuddered, a breathy sigh escaping you, and Kento felt you rock your hips against his thigh. Leaning down to take your breast into his mouth, Kento pressed your hips down onto his thigh, rocking them gently back and forth against the roughened material of his wet trousers. You keened, a high whining noise which punched through Kento's chest like a bullet. He had to hear more, and he continued to rock your hips on his thigh as he played your body like an instrument, his tongue flicking eagerly against your nipple as he sucked it into the wet heat of his mouth.

You floated above yourself, your pleasure taking you off the ground as you lolled, pliable and weightless in Kento's arms. Your hips followed his hand's instructions now, and you rolled against his thigh, Kento's eagerly awaited attentions alone bringing you halfway to orgasm. Your fingers pressed little crescents against his chest as your nails dug in, eyes squeezed shut as you felt the embers of your pleasure burning through you, desperate to reach your peak.

"Look at me," Kento spoke, gravelly with lust as he watched you fall apart in his arms, "I have to know how you look when you cum." You opened your eyes, face slack with pleasure, and Kento studied you as your hips began to stutter.

"Please Kento-- I--" Kento understood, moving your hips fervently against his thigh and you trembled and whimpered, clutching at him as your eyes threatened to close again. Kento leaned in fast, lips pressed against yours as he growled, urgent and authoritative.

"Look at me." Your eyes snapped open as you came with a cry, Kento memorising your agonised blissful face and praises of him as you rode through your pleasure, his hands still rolling your hips against him.

Kento's hand pressed down into the water to squeeze himself, his cock solid and weeping pre-cum inside his wet trousers, and he stressed, his voice tight and urgent, "I haven't-- I didn't bring any protection."

"Don't need it," you insisted, breathless and brisk, and you lifted yourself on Kento's shoulders as you kicked his thigh downwards out of the way, and your supple legs raised your feet to his hips, hooking his trousers between your toes and forcing them down over his hips. Kento gulped, obscenely turned on by your oddly creative flexibility. Kento stripped his boxers, his cock relieved of its confines as he pressed you back to him, high on the prickling delight of your skin against his.

Your hand pressed flat against Kento's abdomen, ecstatic with the electric twitches of his muscles beneath your palm, and how he looked to you, desperate and needy, as he held your hand against him. Shaking and desperate, Kento urged your hand downwards, grunting with pleasure as your fingertips grazed over his neatly trimmed hair and against the base of his cock.

Needing to feel him in your grip, your hand slowly encircled Kento's erection, marvelling at its length and girth, and the strange duality of the silky skin over woody hardness. Kento held his breath as he felt your fingers around him, dreamy lights popping in his vision, groaning lowly as you started to move, stroking him firmly, squeezing slightly at the tip.

Kento's arms caged you against the wall as you eagerly pleasured him beneath the surface of the water, thrusting forwards into your hand, jolting as the edge of your palm grazed his balls, tight and heavy against him. His head was swimming with fulfilled fantasies and he moaned and whimpered, white-knuckled with ecstasy as he gripped the rocky wall behind you. Feeling his orgasm creep up his thighs and back, Kento gripped your hand with a hoarse groan.

"Please. Not like this-- inside you-- please--" Holding onto his biceps, you wrapped your legs around Kento's hips and waist as he threw his abandoned shirt on the wall behind your back, protecting you from the harsh stone wall. Forehead to forehead again, Kento committed you, like this, to memory as he lined his cock up with your entrance, taking a few moments to glide his long fingers appreciatively between your perfect folds.

"I love you," he urged, sinking slowly into your pussy with a low groan, "more than you could ever know."

Your eyes pricked with tears again, heart and body so perfectly full as Kento bottomed out with a shuddering gasp, wanting beyond want to feel you exquisitely close to him, joined and necking softly in delight.

Slowly, meticulously, Kento began rolling his hips against yours, and his gentle ministrations had you reeling as you felt every ridge, every inch of his cock slipping through you. Kento buried his face in your neck, with low, steamy huffs against your throat with each thrust, determined to let his pleasure build slowly.

Yours did not; lost in the eroticism of finally feeling him inside you, you urged your hips against his, matching your movements until you felt his tip kiss against your cervix, chasing the sensation with whimpers and cries. Kento plaited his fingers with yours beneath the water, thrusting into you hard and slow, not sure how long he could last after wanting you for so long.

Feeling your belly clench with pleasure, you came, shuddering weakly, clutching Kento close. Feeling your pussy flutter and squeeze around him, pulling him in, Kento followed you into your orgasm as he came, thick ropes of his seed filling you deeply, Kento fearing nothing of the consequences, as long as you could be his until the day he died.

Panting and spent, both letting the water hold you as you held each other, you kissed Kento's closed, fluttering eyelids adoringly; "I love you, Nanami Kento. I always have. You deserve everything good in this world."

Kento could have wept, brimming with pride over the privilege of holding the enormity of your adoration in the palms of his hands.

Snuggling into his neck, you whispered to Kento; "Can you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" He mumbled, nose in your hair.

"About our first date that you planned."

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Infiltration Chapter Six: Exposed, LINK HERE!

@angelofthorr @nn-hh192 @vxmethyst @moonmalice @daisynik7 @heyitsmirae @black-swan-blog27 @shamelessreaderthere @orikuu @vocosys

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nina-ya · 6 months

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Three Times You Tried to Confess to Sanji and The One Time That You Did

A/N: I wrote a similar thing for Law here!! Pairing: Sanji x Reader CW: Mild Zou and WCI spoilers in the first section. WC: 1210

Clutching the letter tightly in your hands, you wanted to express what your heart couldn't openly confess. The words written onto the paper were your unspoken declaration, a small piece of paper holding all of the feelings you held for the cook of the Straw Hat Pirates.

You carefully reviewed each line, making sure the content truly reflected your emotions. The air was thick with a mix of anticipation, longing, and anxiety. Carrot, your new friend, offered reassurance and support, reassuring you that your feelings have been properly expressed in the letter. After moments of contemplation, seeking comfort and determination in the bunny's encouragement, you finally decided to seek out Sanji, determined to offer this expression of your unvoiced affection.

You made your way across Zou, your steps filled with a sense of urgency and purpose, searching every nook and cranny, hoping to find Sanji. But to your dismay, you discovered that he had left. The news hit you like a sudden gust of cold wind, a cruel twist that left you reeling in disbelief and despair. And to add to the heartache, you overheard the news of Sanji's impending marriage. It was a bitter blow, a cruel irony that twisted the knife in your heart.

Tears streamed down your face, your emotions raw and uncontainable. The devastating realization, leaving you in an immense amount of anguish. The letter now felt like an unbearable burden. With trembling hands, and tears clouding your vision, you crumpled the letter, feeling the weight of your shattered hopes, and tore it to pieces. The shreds of your unspoken love fluttered to the floor, scattered remnants of your heart's confessions now reduced to a pile of shreds at your feet.

This time, you tried to take a more direct approach. You had planned your words, rehearsed your confession, and prepared yourself to finally confess your feelings for Sanji. You found him in the kitchen, in the middle of preparing dinner for the crew. The conversation started off casually, but as you attempted to lead into your confession, your nerves began to show, evident in your fidgeting and the trembling of your voice.

"Sanji, there's something I wanted to tell you," you began, your heart racing. His interest piqued, and he looked over at you, ready to hear what you had to say. However, in a cruel twist of fate, as you stepped forward, your elbow accidentally knocked over a pot of boiling water, causing the scalding water to spill onto your arm. Pain shot through you, and all thoughts of your confession dissipated instantly, replaced by the searing sensation now engulfing your arm.

Sanji's immediate concern was for your well-being. He rushed to your side, his worry evident, as he hurriedly tended to your burn, calling out for Chopper to assist. The intense pain and his genuine concern overshadowed any romantic confessions, leaving you both preoccupied with the physical injury and his genuine care for your well-being. The moment had been abruptly replaced by the urgent need to tend to your burn, the confession buried under the weight of unexpected physical pain.

What better way to confess your feelings to Sanji than through a meal? The plan was set, and it was to cook a nice dinner, ending with a special dessert that held a hidden message. You wrote the phrase "I love you" in melted chocolate on the dessert. Everything was unfolding perfectly.

The dinner had gone well, the two of you savoring every bite, yourself being filled with anticipation for the dessert. Finally, the moment arrived, and you placed the dessert in front of Sanji, the plate concealed beneath a dome. He lifted the cover, revealing the sweet treat, and while his initial reaction indicated he found it visually appealing, it was far from the reaction you had hoped for.

Sanji complimented the dessert's appearance, but his response was far from what you had expected. Your heart sank as you leaned over to inspect your chocolate message, only to discover that it had melted, losing its distinct form. What was meant to be a declaration of love had transformed into an abstract, artistic scribble that was virtually indecipherable.

Behind a beaming smile that masked your disappointment, you watched as Sanji grew more eager to taste the dessert, oblivious to the hidden message. It seemed that fate had conspired to keep your feelings hidden for yet another day.

You stood there in the kitchen, a delicate bouquet of tulips clasped in your hands, each petal a silent symbol of the depth of your feelings for Sanji. The vendor had assured you that this bouquet was the perfect way to declare your love, even gifting you a book filled with the language of flowers. Your plan was set: presenting these flowers to Sanji would be your confession.

The day had seemed blissful, the earlier battles resolved, the air filled with the anticipation of revealing your emotions. You were waiting in the kitchen, the tulips held tenderly, ready to make your heartfelt gesture. But fate had other plans.

A call disrupted the tranquility, a frantic Usopp on the Den Den Mushi urgently relaying an unforeseen incident on the island. In that split second, the bouquet, the flower book, and other non-essential belongings slipped from your hands and onto the kitchen counter. Without hesitation, you sprinted out of the kitchen, the impending battle calling for your attention.

The flowers lay forgotten, as you rushed to join your crewmates on the island, focused on the imminent conflict. The confession you had longed to make would have to wait for another day. After all, in that moment, surviving to tell him of your feelings took precedence over all else.

…

After the battle, the crew wearily made their way back to the ship. Upon boarding, Sanji immediately headed to the kitchen to prepare a comforting feast for everyone, a way to refuel both their bodies and spirits. As he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes landed on the bouquet of tulips.

Intrigued, Sanji approached the flowers, admiring their beauty and inhaling their sweet fragrance. Carefully, he took the bouquet into his hands, running his fingers over the soft petals. His attention was then drawn to a small tag attached to the flowers, bearing his name. He was taken aback, wondering, These are for me?

The sight of the flower language book nearby further deepened his curiosity. He flipped through its pages until he landed on the section dedicated to tulips. As he read the page, a realization began to dawn upon him. Tulips were a declaration of love. He furrowed his brow, his mind racing to identify who could have gotten him the tulips.

Then, his gaze fell upon the scattered belongings near the tulips. He recognized them as your belongings. A sudden revelation struck him. These tulips, the very flowers that symbolized a declaration of love, were from you.

A rush of emotions overwhelmed him.. He was left almost speechless, clutching the bouquet, his heart racing with the knowledge that you reciprocated his feelings. He could barely contain his happiness. Filled with a new sense of determination, Sanji marched out of the kitchen, eager to find you and to show you that your love did not go unheard.

#one piece #one piece x reader #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #black leg sanji #sanji #sanji x reader #one piece sanji

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drxmxss · 4 months

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do yall remember a week or two ago when taeyong liked that cute video of that couple staying up with their baby on reels…and everyone was like aww he wants to be a dad so bad how sweet…(or also that he wants to be pregnant but that’s neither here nor there)

edit: heres the link btw!

https://x.com/taeyongpictures/status/1739896348520980920?s=46

well! imagine you and him have been married over a year now and you start to notice he’s been having a bad case of baby fever.. always tagging you and sending you videos of cute little funny baby videos on tiktok and mommy vlogs saying “wouldn’t you look cute doing this?” and dragging you around the store to look at baby clothes bc how are hats that small!! just gushing and cooing at the itty bitty pink socks with bows and you swear you see a tear in his eye.

obviously you aren’t oblivious to this. you knew having a family was one of his goals, and it was yours too!! but both of you worked and even though he made enough to support the both of you and more, you’d assumed he would wait a while after marrying you, but after he had literally squealed in the middle of the store over a tiny pair of overalls you decided it was time to have the conversation with him again.

“honey…do you want to have a baby?” you ask softly one evening in bed, your arms are wrapped around his waist as you both start to fall asleep. taeyong almost breaks your arms flipping over so fast to look at you with bright wide eyes.

“why? do you? what brought this up? are you thinking about it?” he asks you quickly, hands on your shoulders. you smile softly at him, thinking how cute he looks when he’s so excited about this.

“well anyone would be stupid not to see how badly you do..you almost burst into tears looking at baby clothes and my entire fyp is just babies babies babies from everything you send me. you obviously do.” you say. taeyong frowns now, looking a little guilty “well yeah but..i don’t wanna pressure you if you aren’t ready..”

“Of course I’m ready my love..I just wanted to make sure you were.” you reply, hugging him close.

hearing that made taeyong snap almost instantly. that night he’d made it his mission to cum in you at least 3 times, saying “I don’t care if your birth control doesn’t wear off yet this is practice baby we gotta get ready for the real thing.” right after he makes a calendar marking the days of when you would be ovulating next.

“the real thing” turned into a big event for the two of you. you thought his baby fever would settle a but after telling him you were ready to start a family, but if anything it made it crazier. everyday he made sure to bend you over anywhere and everywhere to take him raw, at the blink of an eye he was ready and it always made you feel so special that he was that excited to breed you :(( he’d love how compliant you are and loves to just fill you up all day everyday. the thought of you round with his babies just sets something feral off in him.

and now instead of just looking at the baby clothes he was buying them by the rack not even bothering to care about the gender. “maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll have twins.” he’d tell you. everyday a package came with a new pair of booties. “im not even pregnant yet taeyong!” you say, opening another box to reveal another pair of footie pajamas the perfect size for a newborn.

“i know but isn’t it the cutest thing baby?” taeyong coos, folding the pajamas neatly and storing them in the already too full closet in your shared bedroom.

one night, while he’s scrubbing your skin softly in the bath after yet another attempt he whispers “i think this time worked darling..i feel it..”and the thought alone makes you beam, his fever starting to rub off on you more and more. “i think so too my love..” you mumble back, admiring the way the water and his arms feel around you.

a few weeks later, you start to feel a bit ill and decide to take taeyong with you to the doctors office, a positive pregnancy result makes the both of you giddy, all smiles and kisses in the little observation room.

“by the way” the doctor says, flipping a few pages on the chart, “it looks like it’s twins!congratulations!”

you have to catch taeyong before he falls to the floor, but the excitement doesn’t falter still.

#i got carried away ahaha #i need to make him a father idk #drxmxss yapping #nct #nct imagines #nct 127 #nct scenarios #nct smut #nct taeyong #nct x reader #lee taeyong #taeyong x reader

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teataglia · 2 years

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𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟐: 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 + 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing: atsumu x f!reader

warnings: smut, facesitting, oral (f!receiving), petnames (angel, baby, sweetgirl), masturbation (m)

tea’s note: haha just realized that ive been writing so much about the reader getting eaten out buuuut everyone deserves head so im gonna keep going hehehe, day 12 down, not proofread again sorry! maybe ill do it tomorrow probably not tho, enjoy anyways!! look forward to lauren’s fic tomorrow: megumi + aphrodisiacs!

wc: .8k

kinktober masterlist !

“Tsumu, I’m not sure about this,” you whisper, cheeks aflame as you hover directly over Atsumu’s open and drooling mouth. Your thighs tremble from anticipation and strain, letting out a meek whimper as you feel his hot breath hit your folds. “What if I hurt you?”

Atsumu barks out a laugh, he’s just so desperate to feel you on his face. You’ve been unintentionally teasing him for the past twenty minutes while you debate on whether to take a seat or not. It took ten minutes to get you to even bring your cunt anywhere near his face, and another ten of your hips floating right above him. Your pussy lips so close yet so far, just out of reach of Atsumu’s eager tongue. “You won’t, angel, now sit.” Atsumu’s thick fingers wrap around your thighs gently trying to tug you onto him.

You resist and pout. “But what if I suffocate you?”

“That’s the point, doll,” Atsumu sends you a lopsided grin, even though you both know he’s not joking.

“But-”

“No buts unless it’s yours on my face,” he’s been so patient with you all night, but now he’s getting restless. His dick twitches against his abdomen, bare, leaking and sensitive. One of Atsumu’s massive hands snakes down to grab it, giving a few rough pumps to keep himself at bay. This doesn’t help, in fact makes it so much worse when he sees the slick collecting at your core. His mouth waters, trying so hard not to buck his hips into his fist.

You glance behind you, hearing the raw slaps of skin on skin. You eyes widen and hole flutters as you see what exactly Atsumu’s doing behind your back. Being front and center of your reaction, Atsumu groans and raises his head enough to give your kiss a gentle kiss.

You jerk at the unexpected contact and glare down at him, tangling your fingers in his blond hair to hold his head down. You were intending to calm him down, but instead your action triggers the adverse reaction of Atsumu groaning at your force, hips jerking wildly.

“Baby,” his tone drips with desire and his half lidded eyes stare up at you pleadingly, “I can make both of us feel real good if you just. sit. down.” Both of Atsumu’s hands fly again to grasp your hips, pulling you unceremoniously down onto his face. After so much exertion of keeping yourself up, your thighs give in, allowing you to fully sink onto his extended tongue.

The wet muscle immediately laps up your juices, running over your slit repeatedly. The lewd noises Atsumu’s mouth makes leaves you squirming and bouncing on his face, completely overwhelming you. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head deliciously, but not too tight that he can’t hear the sweet moans that fall from your parted lips.

Your hips rock into him harshly and you start riding him, angling your clit to brush against his tongue with every buck. The feeling of you losing yourself on him has Atsumu lightheaded and he’s drinking you in harder than before.

“Fuck, angel, you taste so good,” Atsumu’s growling between slurps, the intense vibrations on your folds has your eyes rolling back. “That’s it, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.”

And you do.

Your mind reels when you feel Atsumu’s tongue trace from your clit to prod at your clenching hole. Stuttering in his grip, he forces himself in. A wanton moan tears from you as you feel your walls stretch to accomodate the intrusion. His deft tongue hones in on the area that has you tightening around his tongue, stroking and flicking against it. His nose presses firmly against your clit and the sensations combined send you over the edge.

You throw your head back, fingers digging into Atsumu’s scalp as you cum on his tongue. A searing hot white blinds your vision and your form shudders in his secure grip. You ride out your high, Atsumu smugly enjoying his view from below. After only a few aftershocks still plague your body, you topple off of him, back hitting the soft mattress.

He gathers you in his arms, gently resting your head against his broad chest as he feels the tickle of your eyelashes fluttering shut.

“Get some rest, baby. We’re doing that again when you wake up.”

Blissed out and half asleep, you nod compliantly.

“Attagirl,” Atsumu smirks, kissing your forehead as you drift off next to him.

#l+t.kinktober22 #｡⋆ʚ♡⃛ɞ ᴛᴇᴀ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇs #˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ᴛᴇᴀ ʟᴜsᴛs #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu x y/n #atsumu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu smut #atsumu haikyuu

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mosspapi · 8 months

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There's like a 90% chance this will not make sense to anyone else but let me indulge in a little autistic crackposting abt Fall Out Boy for a second

I genuinely love the use of violins/classical instruments in Folie and the way it contrasts with their use in SMFS. Like in Folie, their inclusion gives it a sense of discordance, almost desperation. "I am ripping everything apart and trying everything in my power to get through to you, to get my head above water, to scream for help. This is so far out of left field but I don't feel like I have any other options left." But in SMFS, they almost feel like they're doing the exact opposite. "I am staring down at the pieces of the mess I've made and gingerly sewing it back together. I'm trying to soothe the chaos and rawness and show you that even when things seem so far gone, they can always be reeled in and thrown a life raft." It's just. Idk. Something about the musical similarities being used to create polar opposite emotional states gets me. "I was not ok, and expressing that in the only way I knew how, but I can take that and put myself back together again in the same way I tore myself apart."

#thank you for indulging in my unhinged personal musical conspiracy theories #my playlist kept shuffling Folie/stardust/Folie/stardust back to back to back and it struck a chord in me (pun intended)#I don't think this is articulated well enough to fully get my point across. might come back and edit or add to it later lmao #but I'm just Feeling Things abt it rn. Ough.#armchair speaks #fob #fall out boy

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happyyyandcrazyyy · 9 months

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liquid dreams (draco malfoy x reader)

summary: (y/n) is gone and if the only way for draco to see her is through dreams, so be it

“grief is the price we pay for loving.”

warnings: it’s written in non-chronological order, draco is really going through it, grieving process, mentions of blood (not detailed)

(if there’s any more warnings you think i should add let me know!)

a/n: i’m usually one to write fluff, but i wanted to write something more personal, more raw. this one was a roller coaster to write. hope you enjoy it!

i. five months and twelve days after the accident

Draco opens his eyes in panic, breathing labored and loud. He’s scared and confused, and he would be downright spiraling into an anxiety attack if this wasn’t such a common occurrence.

(The first night it’d happened he found himself unable to breath. He’d desperately stumbled out of bed, the haziness of sleep making everything distorted and disorienting. He’d hit his knee against the door, he’d bled on the white tiles of their bathroom floor. He’d spent two hours in the shower that night, fully clothed. The coldness of the water hadn’t been enough to soothe the burning heartbreak that gnaw on his soul, but it’d been enough to anchor him back.)

It takes him a moment to realize he’s frozen mid-action, one of his hands reaching forward and his fingers slightly curved, as if they’d been grasping something.

No. Not something. Someone.

Suddenly everything comes back, jumbled pieces of a half-remembered dream.

Her smile, the small crinkle by her eyes, the warmth of her skin under his fingertips.

Draco chokes out a gasp.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

In desperation he reaches for his own throat and grips it tightly, just firmly enough to feel the thumping of his blood under his palm. The unsteady pulse tethers him to reality, reminds him that he’s still alive, helps him settle enough for air to fill his lungs.

He chokes out a gasp, coughs roughly.

Instinctively, almost as an afterthought, Draco reaches for her side of the bed only to immediately reel his hand back when he’s met with cold, unused sheets. It’s been months and he still doesn’t dare to sleep on her side, still keeps everything of hers untouched— her blue toothbrush by the sink, her favorite slippers, the book she left on the coffee table. He knows preserving her things won't bring her back, he does it anyways.

Draco sighs and the sound reverberates, taunts him. It’s a reminder that he’s all alone, a reminder that a room once filled with soft snores and gentle laughter is now quiet enough for him to hear the pounding of his own heart, a reminder that over the last couple of months everything around him has been slowly filling itself with grief and sadness and pain and regret.

No wonder Draco can’t sleep, he’s suffocating.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard enough to have dotted spots of light fill his vision, firmly enough to keep the tears at bay. If he concentrates, he can still see the outline of the face he’d been dreaming about.

(Her, her, her. Always her.)

Once his heart settles and he can breathe properly, Draco reaches for the little vial by the bed. It’s already half empty. Without a second thought Draco downs the remaining liquid before tossing the glass aside, ignoring the way it smashes against the floor. He forces himself to lay still, wills his eyes to remain shut. He lulls himself back to sleep, lets the potion bring him under.

(It does not matter that waking up will feel like his soul is being carved out and his heart ripped out of his chest, that he cannot handle coming back to a reality where she’s gone. If dreams are the only place he can be with her, he’ll dream.)

The last thing he remembers before losing consciousness is turning to his side and hugging himself close; a poor attempt at replicating the safety her arms once provided.

ii. two weeks and six days after the accident

Narcissa Malfoy arrives through Floo Network on a Saturday morning. She turns up without a warning, completely uninvited, and makes herself at home. Draco reckons it’s partially his fault, after leaving the magical world he’d been the one that had insisted they connect their home to the Floo Network, for precaution. He’d never shared their location with his parents, but he isn’t surprised his mother had been able to easily locate him. She is a Malfoy, thoroughly resourceful.

She doesn’t hug him, neither does she make any attempt to offer words of condolences. Draco wasn’t expecting them, they’re Malfoys, after all; kind touches are scarce, gentle words even more so, but it still stings, like alcohol burning over a wrongly healed scab. His mother gives him a dismissive look, one that has Draco shrinking into himself.

“This is unacceptable,” is the first thing she says, voice as firm as the last time they spoke to each other, almost eight years ago. Draco can’t help the way he flinches. He doesn’t know if she’s talking about the state he’s in— because he's in disarray, hasn’t showered in three days, hasn’t changed clothes in even longer— or the mess around the house.

She steps closer, scrunches her nose and looks him over with something akin to disgust, then clicks her tongue in distaste.

“Go shower.”

Draco finds his feet moving before he can even process the instruction.

(It’s rattling, having her here after not seeing her for years. It’s also frightening how quickly he goes back to obeying her every order.)

As he showers Draco tries to shake himself out of the whirlwind of emotions that his mother’s presence has unleashed. It’s hard to do so when his mind feels as if it’s been split in half; one part mourning the loss of his wife and the other still expecting her to come home. He’s struggling to grasp his reality, trying to ignore the ever-growing emptiness in his chest. Draco closes his eyes and sighs deeply, he lets the cold water numb his skin, lets it steel him just enough to face his mother.

He thinks he’s handling himself better when he walks into the kitchen— new clothes on his skin and hair still wet —but then he catches his mother’s house-elf reaching for (Y/N)’s dirty wine glass, the one she left half empty when she walked out that night, and Draco loses it.

It’s been years since he’s used magic, but it’s instinctive the way he reaches for his wand. (He never did get rid of the habit of carrying it with him everywhere.) He points it at the creature, hand shaking, but voice surprisingly stern, “Do not touch her things.”

His vision blackens at the corners, blood rushing through his ears. He can’t let them erase the traces of her in their home. He can’t. He can't. Not right now, not when he sees pieces of her everywhere, not when his heart has an open wound that keeps on bleeding and Draco hopes he could just wake up from this hellish nightmare and go back to a place where she's still here, where she's still alive.

“Now, don’t be childish, Draco.” It isn’t until his mother speaks that he realizes that he’s been mumbling under his breath, loud enough for her to hear. His vision clears, the hazy feeling in his brain diminishes. He blinks back into reality, catches a glimpse of his mother’s impassive face from the corner of his eye, realizes the house-elf has backed away from the glass and is now bowing to him, limbs trembling in fear and nose almost touching the floor.

He lowers the wand slowly, almost mechanically, as he turns to his mother.

“You will not touch her things.”

She clicks her tongue. The sound makes him flinch away— because it always came before a slap in the wrist, or his ear being pulled tight — but he somehow manages to hold his ground, wand still held tightly, fingers becoming numb.

“You’re living in a dumpster, look at all the mess,” she gestures around the room with revulsion. Draco can’t see anything but residue of love around the house. It’s everywhere, in the doodled notes left on the fridge and the bottle of wine they never got to finish. He won’t let them take that away from him, take her away from him. Not yet. Not with his heart is still bleeding and missing and yearning.

“No touching,” he repeats himself. His voice doesn’t waver in the slightest, it sounds steadier than he feels, and there must be something in his semblance because his mother relents.

It’s with distaste that she spits out, “Fine, have it your way,” and sends the house-elf back home.

She doesn’t leave, however. She takes over the kitchen, the smell of sugar and cinnamon filling the air— and that’s how Draco knows she’s truly stressed, because his mother only ever bakes when she feels as if she’s losing control of the situation at hand and money can’t fix it. Draco swallows down the pastries when they’re placed in front of him and he’s given a pointed look. (He pretends they aren’t insipid; pretends they don’t feel like ash going down his throat. He doesn’t tell his mother that his appetite is mostly gone, that eating feels like an arduous task, that these days he throws up just about anything he eats. He doesn’t have the energy to do so, he reckons she wouldn’t care, anyways.)

Draco chews and chews and chews until it becomes a mechanical habit and then he disconnects his brain. He ignores the way the buttery, sweet smell that lingers around the house reminds him of the apple pie (Y/N) used to bake, he blinks away the tears when a little voice in the back of his head reminds him that he won’t ever get to taste it again.

His mother lingers in the background— just like she’d done when he’d been a child and she’d wanted to see how much he’d progressed on his French after a two-hour tutoring session, ready to make vile comments about his accent and his grammar —and Draco can’t do anything without hearing an offhanded mumble about how pathetic he’s being. Her lingering used to petrify him, it made him want to be perfect for her, but now it just irks him. Draco wants to yell at her to leave him the fuck alone, but his anger is feeble, and grief smothers the fire before it turns into rage. The words remain stuck at the back of his throat.

Sometimes, when the sorrow eases and Draco is lucid enough to pay attention, he catches the glimpses of annoyance in his mother’s eyes. He knows that the only reason she’s here is to play damage control, to make sure he doesn’t derail too far and tarnish their last name even further. (The reputation of the Malfoy family had taken a hard hit after the Second Wizarding War when his father had been declared guilty and sent to Azkaban. It’d only worsened when Draco failed to fulfill his responsibilities of stepping up as patriarch in his father’s absence, instead deciding to elope and disappear to the muggle world.) Draco also knows that his mother wishes for simple solutions, she expects to place a bandaid over his ruptured soul and have him immediately snap back to his younger self. That won’t ever happen— Draco won’t ever go back to who he used to be before meeting his wife, before discovering love and warmth and safety —and her slowly rising frustration is a sign that she’s beginning to realize that.

In the end it’s his inability to get out of bed that gets her to snap.

“I’ve had enough.”

Draco blinks up at her.

Today is a bad day, the kind of day where breathing hurts and the feeling of his heart pumping is just a reminder that he’s alive and she’s not, the kind of day where he feels as if he’s underwater and slowly drowning.

He sees her mouth moving, hears the distorted words she’s saying, but can’t engage. It’s like he’s watching her through a screen, witnessing a scene far removed from him.

“I’m done letting you play your childish games. I’ve been lenient enough.” Her irritation is palpable, but Draco can’t process it.

He’s sinking and sinking and sinking.

“Get up.”

Why is she yelling?

“Get up, Draco.”

He can’t.

“Unbelievable.” And now she’s grabbing the end of the sheets and pulling them off the bed. Draco can’t bring himself to care. He can’t bring himself to even lift a finger. It angers her. He might be slipping away, but he sees it in the way her mouth tightens into an ugly sneer. Instinctively, he prepares himself for the harshness that always accompanies that look.

“She was just a silly little girl, Draco.”

The words cut sharply through the water and the grief and the pain. Suddenly Draco isn’t sinking anymore, suddenly it’s like he’s been zapped with an electrical wire. The numbness is pushed to the back of his mind and replaced with something darker, something ugly.

His mother doesn’t stop there.

“I thought letting you have your fun would be enough. I thought you would grow tired of her.” And now his brain is functioning properly and the words are making sense and Draco can’t help the way his brows pull up in confusion. His mother notices, of course she does, and she lets out a mocking laugh, one that has Draco’s blood turning cold.

“What? You think you ran away and got married behind our backs?” she scoffs, arms crossing over her chest. “I knew all along, child. I let you run around and play out your foolish little fantasy of love. See how that turned out.”

Draco can’t breathe. There's pressure in his chest, tightening and contracting. Anger begins to ignite; it goes from a fleck to a small flame.

“It’s over, Draco. You’re coming home.”

He shakes his head, manages to find the strength to sit up. It’s the first time he’s moved in hours and his muscles protest.

“I am home.”

That makes her snort, a mixture of disgust and insulting laughter.

“This place?” His mother looks around in disgust. “This isn’t your home.”

She clicks her tongue.

“And that dumb girl? She’s dead,” she scoffs and under her breath adds, “and thank Salazar for that, all that mudblood ever did was stain our name.”

Anger takes over, the flame becomes a blazing inferno, scorching everything around, it runs hot through his veins until all that is left is unrestrained, seething rage. It’s the first time it’s burning enough to destroy.

And Salazar does Draco want to consume everything around him.

“Never talk about my wife that way again.”

The words come out strong for a voice that hasn’t been used in hours.

He doesn’t know when he moves but now he’s towering over her and his hands are shaking by his side.

Silly little girl.

Mudblood.

To dare use those words to describe the love of his life, someone who could light up a room with a single smile and could fix all troubles with a few kind words, makes Draco enraged.

Draco looks at his mother and he just wants her to hurt.

“You don’t know the first thing about love, so who are you to come preach about it, mother.” He spits the words with disgust, uses a tone he knows will sting.

He’s never talked back to her, ever, and her shock is evident in the way she gapes at him with disbelief.

“I won’t have you speaking to me in such—”

“Get the fuck out.”

Draco has never cursed at her before. He’s never interrupted her, either. His mother looks like she’s been slapped, like she doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of her.

“Draco—”

“Out.”

She looks him over one last time, something akin to disappointment in her eyes, before jutting her chin and slamming the door on her way out.

With a sigh, Draco walks back to bed and curls into himself. It doesn’t take long for the anger to evaporate and for him to slip back into despair, to sink and sink and drown.

Numb. Numb. Numb.

Hours, or maybe just minutes, later she comes back. Her tone has been schooled back into the indifferent one Draco is more than accustomed to. She tells him that she’s leaving because of his father, that ever since being released from Azkaban he hasn’t been coping well and she must return home to ensure his health. Draco doesn’t call her out on her bullshit, doesn’t even turn around to face her, he just hums.

Numb. Numb. Numb.

His mother doesn’t come back.

iii. five days after the accident

It feels like floating through a dream, everything hazy and limbs lethargic. He goes through the motions out of pure muscle memory, mind disconnected and hidden somewhere far away. It’s like an outer body experience, as if he's watching himself move and talk without having any true control over it. He hurts so deeply, and the pain is so raw that Draco pushes it away and stores it in a dark place in the corner of his mind, a place where it can’t kill him. He takes all other emotions, too, until nothing but numbness is left behind.

Reality doesn’t seem real, because how can the world keep moving and the sun rising and the birds chirping if she’s gone. How can his heart keep beating if hers doesn’t?

The muggles at work worry about him, even with his mind clouded by grief he can tell. Mrs. Bailey, the kind older lady for who he works by serving tables and mopping floors, hugs him tightly when he walks into the cafe shop less than a week after the accident. She doesn’t say a thing about him missing work, but rather pulls him close, shushing him gently and running a hand through his hair. It's a motherly act Draco is unfamiliar with. Her eyes show so much sympathy, but Draco doesn’t let himself think too much about that because that might end up causing him to spiral, and he won't allow himself to slip (he can't let himself slip, last time he slipped he spent hours in the bathroom floor, pulling at his hair to try to ground himself back to reality, biting down on his lip and bleeding).

Her hug should provide some sort of comfort, but Draco can't feel a thing. That should make him sad, and maybe it does, but all emotions are muted, and he doesn't even try to understand them.

His coworkers are also gentle with him, so much so that if he were in his right mind Draco would find it annoying, but he allows it because he feels as if a single wrong touch might break him apart beyond repair.

They try to reach out to him, too, but Draco finds himself hiding away at home, rejecting every offer to hang out or keep him company. He wishes to be alone— even when the loneliness sometimes claws up his throat and suffocates him —so he can wallow in the waves of sorrow and let them pull him under.

Draco wants to hurt, he thinks, because at least then he’s feeling something.

He floats away in dreams of despair and struggles to find a will to live, sometimes he’s not even capable of picking himself up from bed, and the only reason he doesn’t starve is because Mrs. Bailey drops him leftovers every night.

Draco is so unbelievably grateful for her, even if he doesn’t verbalize it, even if he just nods and offers him a half smile and closes the door in her face. He hopes she knows.

iv. two months and four days after the accident

Draco wouldn’t say he has withdrawn into himself, Pansy thinks otherwise. She never says so— she wouldn’t, she’s been unbelievingly gentle with him the last couple of months, far kinder than Draco ever thought her capable of being — but Draco overheard her talking to Blaise, tone filled with worry.

And Draco, well, he’s dealing as best as he can. It’s just hard to function properly when the sadness never settles and instead becomes stronger, grips his heart and squeezes at the most unexpected moments. Some days are good, and other days he’s drowning and sinking and choking on grief, always halfway through a nervous breakdown. Those days he can’t leave his bed, he can’t even eat, breathing and moving become the most painful tasks. Draco will admit he has become more quiet, more absent, but withdrawn feels like going too far.

In the past, he would've argued with Pansy that he hasn't withdrawn into himself, that he's alright, that he's managing as much as he can. In the past, he would've petulantly argued that she just doesn’t get it, explained that everything hurts and maybe— if ever under the influence of Firewhisky —might’ve even confessed that he feels as if sadness has its clutches so deep into his heart that the wound is slowly getting infected, admitted that he’s scared it will never heal. But this isn’t the past and Draco is nothing but the broken pieces of who he used to be, so he doesn’t open his mouth. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t call her out for speaking about him behind his back, doesn't even try to contradict her.

Existing is tiring and Draco just doesn’t have the energy to spare.

Pansy watches him with something akin to pity and fear, like she can see how he's fading and is scared he'll disappear if she looks away. (Draco doesn't blame her. Some days it does feel as if he could vanish, as if his body could fade into nothingness, as if his mind could give in into despair and anger and just never return. Part of him had hoped time would soothe the emptiness in his heart, but it’d been like applying salve on an open wound. Time hadn’t done a fucking thing.)

And it’s just because he doesn’t have any fight left in him that Draco lets Pansy be— he allows her to coddle him, he eats as much as he can muster when she begs and drinks the tea she prepares before leaving at night. It’s the only reason he’s here right now, back in wizarding London and walking at a stagnating pace through Diagon Alley, because Pansy said fresh air and a change of scenery would do him good and Draco just didn’t have it in him to argue.

He tugs at the hood of the cloak he’s wearing— it’s an old one of his, one Pansy found buried in the depths of his closet, one that fits awkwardly and smells musty but does a good enough job at concealing his distinguishing silver hair— and follows closely behind her.

It’s weird, he thinks to himself, being back in the wizarding world after many years spent in muggle London. He can’t deny that there’s a sense of familiarity at seeing and feeling the magic around, a warm tugging in his chest— probably his own dormant magic, one that hasn’t been used for far too long, responding to the energy around him —but there’s also an underlying sense of unsettledness.

He’d promised (Y/N) to return to the magic world once tension lessened and things sorted themselves out. They were meant to walk these streets together. Draco walks them all alone.

Something twists uncomfortably in his chest. He’s grown accustomed to the pain, so he pushes it down and allows Pansy to grab the hem of the cloak and pull him into a shop.

The smell hits him first, it's a mixture of wet parchment and mint with a hint of licorice. Surrounding him are what feels like a thousand objects— some small, some larger —but all unrecognizable to Draco. It's uncomfortable to see with his own eyes how the magical world has kept on evolving, even after they left. It's even more unbearable that his first reaction is to turn around to meet (Y/N)'s eyes, only to find his side empty. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, one that intertwines itself with melancholy and agony.

Draco distracts himself by looking around. Pansy follows him around for a while, and after realizing that he won't suddenly burst out into tears and collapse (which Draco can't blame her for believing as it has happened before) she leaves him to buy whatever she came here for.

It's as he's mindlessly looking through the stands, fingers flickering uninterested through small parchment pieces that transcribe whatever is mumbled to them, that Draco sees them; small vials, no bigger than his thumb, containing a blueish substance. There's a tag sticking to the lid. Draco moves closer, turns the paper around gently and is met with neatly written, italicized words.

He skips over the first few words, eyes drawn to the last few sentences.

"Our amazing liquid formula lets you control your dreams so you can visualize any event that has happened in the past with vivid detail. Imagine being able to wake up feeling like you just spent the night with your childhood best friend who moved away 10 years ago, or a loved one who has passed away. All it takes is a few drops before bed and voilà! You chose the memory, and we do the rest. The opportunities are endless with our state-of-the-art formula that helps you unlock the past and immerse yourself in memories like never before. Make sure to..."

Liquid Dreams, they call it.

Draco buys a few vials before he's even done reading the tag.

v. two months and three weeks after the accident

Draco stares at the little vial, unblinking. Somewhere out in the living room there's an old clock, the type they don't really fabricate anymore, antique, made of old deep wood and with its classic curvy shape. It's quiet enough that Draco can hear it ticking all the way to the master bedroom.

Tick. Tock.

The vial remains where it was placed by Draco when he bought it almost three weeks ago, contents untouched. It mocks him, an unwanted reminder that he could see her again if he wasn’t such a coward.

Tick. Tock.

He steps closer, reaching out for the glass, before hesitating and backing away, resuming his pacing around the room. The sole of his foot hits the wooden ground soundlessly, the lack of noise makes him feel all the more alone.

Tick. Tock.

Draco chews on his lower lip, makes it bleed. All he wants is within his reach, but he's so fucking scared. Because what happens if he sees (Y/N), or the memory of her, and it does nothing to soothe the burning in his heart. He'd be doomed then, destined to walk the rest of his life with a bleeding wound in his soul, destined to dance with grief until his feet ache and blister and his body just gives up and he dies, too. Draco’s heart wouldn’t survive that.

Tick. Tock.

But then again, a little voice chimes at the back of his head, it can’t get worse than this. It can’t get worse than days that blur into one another, than the way he loses control of his mind, fog condensing in his head, and he blinks awake only to find himself in a place he can’t remember walking to. It can’t get worse than coming back home to an empty house, a cold bed, to solitude, with his heart feeling so heavy it weights him down. It definitely cannot get worse than it is because he’s already missing her with his every breath, with every beat of his heart.

Tick. Tock.

It comes from somewhere within him, the sudden impulse, a surge of energy that has him moving forward to undo the lid. He tips the blue substance back, swallows it down in one go before he can second guess himself. No going back now. In the rush, Draco forgets to think of a specific moment.

Tick. Tock.

The taste is strange, indescribable: sweet and bitter all at once. Draco can feel the liquid burning as it goes down, it leaves an aftertaste that lingers heavily in his mouth. It tastes weirdly artificial, like someone tried hard to make it taste like fruits and flowers but failed, he can feel it at the back of his throat. The effect of the potion is almost instantaneous, the abruptness hitting Draco strongly and making him stumble into the side of his bed.

Tick.

He tries to fight the exhaustion, but it’s like his eyelids are trying to shut themselves together. Draco can do nothing but give in to sleep, let himself be swept under.

Tock.

When he opens his eyes, he isn’t lying in bed anymore. The sun shines brightly in the sky, it makes him squint and look away. He recognizes the smell immediately, salty and musky, like seaweed and sunscreen. Draco knows where he is— the beach near Sussex to which they apparated once they left the Wizarding World all those years ago —and he knows exactly who is behind him. With his heart beating so hard it’s almost painful, Draco turns around to be greeted with a smile he knows too well, one he could paint with his eyes closed.

(Y/N).

Her eyes crinkle with mirth. Something within Draco deflates. It feels as if, for the first time since the accident, he can finally breathe.

When he wakes up in the morning, Draco tells himself he'll be careful with the potion, won't abuse it. But he finds himself chugging down the blue liquid every night, buys a box of Liquid Dreams and keeps the vials hidden under his bed.

Anything to see her one more time.

vi. six months and a day after the accident

Draco could choose any memory, he knows that, and sometimes he does. He picks the first time they kissed (under the snow during a trip to Hogsmeade), he revisits their arrival to the beach near Sussex (because she’d never seen the beach before, had never felt the sand under her toes, and Draco basks on the feeling of her happiness), he relieves their short honeymoon (the dinner under the moonlight, the wandering hands, the stolen kisses, the feeling of her breath against his cheek and her skin pressed right against his). Most of the times, however, he brings himself back to that night. It isn’t intentional, it happens when he doesn’t focus hard enough on a memory, almost as if his mind wishes to torture him further. Because it is torture, going back to their last moments together— to the last time he ever saw her alive —without the blissful ignorance of what’s to come.

On nights like that he wakes with his heart ready to leap out his chest, sometimes halfway through a panic attack, tears cascading down his cheeks, and then he lays awake for the rest of the night, pulling himself together piece by piece, stitching the metaphorical laceration on his heart with deep breaths, before forcing himself to go through the motions, get through the day.

The sadness never disappears, it follows him like a shadow on the sunniest of days. Sometimes it seems to grow smaller— or maybe Draco gets used to its looming presence, it’s darkness —and it gives space to anger, which settles between his ribs and climbs all the way up to his throat and burns. Sometimes it feels as if the rage will seep out of his pores, tainting him. He’s angry at everything, at the world, at her, at himself. Waking up every morning to a reality in which she’s gone makes the anger increase by a tenfold, it’s so so fucking painful, but at night, when he sees her and feels her and holds her— even if it’s just in memories and dreams —the feeling mellows and that’s why he must return to her, must drink the cloudy blue potion every night, because if he doesn’t he knows the mixture of grief and rage and resentment will consume him.

It isn’t a problem, it really isn’t— so what if he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night screaming for her to stay, what if sometimes he wishes he could stay in his dreams to keep on holding her close, what if coming back to reality just makes the whole in his heart deeper, that’s no one’s business but his own. That is, until he starts seeing her outside the dreams.

It begins with shadows, the outline of her body. Draco blinks once, twice, and then it’s gone.

“Malfoy? You good?”

He meets his coworker’s eyes. Mark is young, barely twenty, started working in the restaurant only a couple of months ago. He wasn’t here when Draco lost (Y/N), didn’t get to see the way he broke down and pieced himself back together, didn’t experience the gentleness and leniency with which they all treated him, but he seems to be acutely aware that something happened because he’s soft with him too.

“What?”

Mark cocks his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing, “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Draco thinks he might’ve. He decides to blame it on the lack of proper sleep.

“I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine, because he keeps seeing her. It becomes more recurrent as time goes on, and (Y/N)’s ghost goes from being a just dark shape to taking full on corporeal form. He can even see the little freckles on her skin.

It’s concerning.

Draco knows she’s not real, not really, just the remnants of a memory, a side effect of drinking Liquid Dreams every night when the wizarding company that produces the potion suggests a maximum of two vials per week.

He should stop.

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

He keeps on tipping the vial back, drinking the liquid, making a grimace at the flavor. He keeps being a spectator from within his own body, keeps going back to that night.

It's the only way to be with her.

It always starts the same way, the smell of garlic and oregano in the air, the soft jazz tune playing in the radio. Draco finds himself moving without his own permission, the glass of wine he holds in his hand guiding itself towards his mouth. He's long learned that the experience is gentler for his mind, and overall better, if he doesn't fight it. It's useless, anyhow, he can't change what already happened, he's just reliving his memories.

"Merlin, that smells so good," his voice sound foreign to his ears. He reaches forward to hug (Y/N) from behind, swaying her to the beat of the song and humming the last notes against her skin. She smiles and tips her head back a little, enough to allow him to place a chaste kiss to her neck. Draco's heart tightens at the ease in which they move around one another, the familiarity of her body pressed to his own.

"It's your favorite," she responds gently, moving the wooden spoon with which she's mixing the sauce towards him, tipping it back so he can taste it. It's thick and buttery, rich and only slightly sweet, just like he likes it.

Draco groans playfully, presses his forehead to the crook of her neck.

"I'm the luckiest man."

"And don't you forget it," she teases, moving aside to let him take over. She steals the glass of wine from his hand and moves away giggling when Draco makes a poor attempt at following after her. She drinks the remaining alcohol, sticking her tongue out at him.

He feels his throat close up, melancholy settling deep within his bones. He tries to memorize the curve of her smile, the sound of her laughter. Draco wishes he could change what comes next, wishes he could instead rush forward and capture her lips in a kiss, make her stay with him. He can't, because that’s not what he did that night. Instead, he rolls his eyes, soft laughter falling from his lips. It’s ironic how he’s laughing in his memory, but slowly dying inside as he forces himself to live this moment over and over again.

From the corner of his eye, Draco watches as (Y/N) refills the glass, taking a small sip. He cleans up some pieces of onion, listening as (Y/N) sings softly to herself, the cadence of her voice is smooth, it flows and mixes effortlessly with the one coming from the radio. Draco could hear her sing forever. There's a light patter of rain against the window as he preheats the oven, so he closes the window to prevent any water from slipping in.

It's a slow night, a Saturday night, the type of nights in which they'll cook together and drink a bit, and then some more, and dance drunkenly around the kitchen only to end up in their bedroom, discarding their clothes and rediscovering each other's bodies.

It should've ended that way.

It won't.

Don't say it. Don't say it.

"Hey, love, where did you put the mozzarella? Can't find it on the fridge."

There's a small, soft, "Oh, shit," in the background. Her singing stops. The rain becomes heavier.

"Forgot to buy it," she replies, already moving for the keys to their small car.

It's alright, he wants to scream out, we don't need it. Stay. I'll cook something else. Don't leave.

What falls out of his mouth instead is, "My forgetful little one."

Please stay. Please.

She scrunches her nose up, just the way she always does when he calls her by that nickname. Draco always thought it made her look cute. Now it only makes him want to cry. She crosses the room, presses a quick kiss to his lips.

"I'll be back soon."

He's yelling inside his own head, can feel the dread settling somewhere in his stomach.

Please don't leave.

Don't go.

Stay.

"Be safe," he calls out. He rages within himself, desperate to do something different, say something different.

I love you, and it feels like his throat is going raw with how loud he's crying out. He tries to open his mouth, to move, to do anything, but it's futile.

Because that night, (Y/N) walks out the door, and Draco doesn't tell her he loves her one last time.

vii. seven years, three months and two days before the accident

Draco falls in love quick and hard, and once he realizes it, he's in too deep. He doesn't know how it happens, he just knows that one day he looks at (Y/N)— watches the way snowflakes fall on her hair, slowly painting it white, and how she looks up the sky as if it's her first time ever seeing the snow, smile so bright it makes something in Draco's chest tighten —and he thinks to himself yeah, fuck, I would spend the rest of my life by her side.

(And Draco can't pinpoint where along the line he fell in love, but he knows precisely why. It's all in the way her laugh floats around the air and settles somewhere within his heart, the sound soft and comforting, and how her eyes become gentle when they set on him, like she can see through him and wishes to take away anything that could cause him harm. It's the soft caresses of his hair, the delicate kisses to his forehead, the way in which her hand subconsciously searches for his. It's in the way that (Y/N) sees all parts of him, including the dark and ugly, the sides of himself that he's ashamed of, and she doesn't flinch away in disgust, but rather pulls him closer. It's the way she loves, so effortlessly, and the way she teaches Draco how to be better every day, a better human, a better friend, a better lover.)

Falling in love is not something he ever planned on doing, the last thing Draco wanted was to drag someone into the mess that was his life, but by the time he has half a mind to think about stopping it, his heart has already crawled out of its place deep within his chest and has settled in (Y/N)'s hand, where it's being tenderly held and thoroughly cherished. It might just be the worse time to be thinking of love— because, despite what the Ministry of Magic insists on, the Dark Lord is back, and the unmistakable mark that contrasts his father's pale skin has never been darker, and there's people with masks coming and going around the Manor, and slowly the pressure on Draco's shoulders is piling and piling and piling and he's beginning to feel like he can't breathe— or maybe it's just the right time. After all, (Y/N) is like a breath of fresh air, like warm, soothing hands on his blemished soul. Draco feels weightless when he's around her, like all his troubles are unimportant and nothing in the world matters but the two of them. He feels at peace, like he can finally rest.

She becomes his best friend, his confidant, and so much more. Draco loves her, can't think of a life without her, wants to keep her safe, wants to be with her.

Maybe that's the reason why a couple of years later, when the Second Wizarding War comes to an end and they're holding each other close after the Battle of Hogwarts, skin torn open, wounds still oozing blood, muscles aching, but both of them undeniably still alive, that Draco cups her face between his hands and whispers against her lips, "Let's start a new life, you and I."

They do.

They leave a shattered Wizarding World behind. They escape the clutches of Draco's family. They abandon magic.

It's the beginning of the happiest eight years of Draco's life. It's also the beginning of the end.

Years down the line, a bottle of Firewhisky in hand and alcohol running through his veins, Draco will wonder if he should've kept quiet, if they should've stayed instead. They would not have been together, his family would've never allowed the union between a Malfoy and a muggleborn, but at lease she would still be alive.

viii. the accident

(Y/N) dies on a Saturday. Her favorite day of the week.

Draco is waiting for her, fingers working steadily to knead the dough for their dinner. She hasn't been gone long, maybe half an hour, but in that time, he's changed the radio station from soft jazz to something more pop. He knows she'll bicker about the music when she's back, will pout and definitely win that battle— because if there's one thing Draco is weak for, it's her —but for now Draco enjoys the bubblegum boyband music that's playing.

Outside, the rain has grown stronger, and the wind howls, creating a low whistling noise that resonates around the kitchen.

The landline phone rings, and Draco's already halfway through teasing her about forgetting her keys and the umbrella— something along the lines that the only reason she doesn't lose her head is because it's permanently attached to her body —when he picks up the phone.

"I'll come out to get you, but you'll owe me a kiss." He's already gripping the umbrella by the handle.

"Uh, I'm sorry, is this the Malfoy residency?"

The grin falls off his face immediately. The voice on the other side is deep and gruff, muffled by the static and the rain. Draco doesn't recognize it.

"Who is this?"

There is no gut feeling, no intuition to tell him there might be something wrong. It doesn't sink in that this has to be about (Y/N) until the voice starts talking again.

The man introduces himself, but Draco forgets the name by the time he's done hearing it.

"Sir, there's been an accident. Your wife..."

It's like Draco's heart falls to the bottom of his stomach.

The umbrella drops to the floor, a loud thud resonating around the room.

He can't breathe.

The man keeps going, his voice getting increasingly shaky as he keeps on explaining the situation, and Draco catches only pieces of what he's saying.

The rain.

A crash.

Dead on impact.

He really can't breathe.

For a second there's nothing but silence in his mind, stillness, and then there's everything all at once. Draco goes from being unable to hear his own breathing to being hyperaware of his surroundings. He can hear the static of the radio behind him, the light buzzing of the electricity in the bulb above his heads, the sizzling of the sauce, the pain on his feet where the umbrella landed before rolling to the floor, the ticking of the old clock (Y/N) bought. He suddenly can't control his body, can't control how he backs away slowly, tugging at the phone's cord— is he moving slowly? He thinks he is, he can't tell, everything around him is distorted— can't help it when his knees weaken beneath him and his hands tremble.

He grips the counter to steady himself.

He wheezes, tries to bring some oxygen into his lungs.

This can't be happening. This cannot be happening.

He saw her less than forty minutes ago. She was going to the store to get cheese. What do you mean dead on impact? What do you mean she's gone. She can't be. She'll be walking through the door any minute now, soaked because she forgot her umbrella. She'll pout about the pop music and Draco will begrudgingly agree to playing more jazz and they'll dance around the kitchen as they wait for dinner to be ready. She's not dead. She cannot be dead. They had survived a war, she cannot be dead.

"I'm sorry, sir." The words are garbled, but somehow, despite his distress, Draco manages to make sense of them.

"I, uh—"

"There's an officer here who wishes to speak with you, sir."

There's shuffling. Draco closes his eyes, presses his forehead against the cool counter. Merlin, this cannot be happening. This has to be a nightmare; this can't be real. It doesn't feel real.

"Am I speaking with Mr. Malfoy."

Draco hates to be called that; it reminds his too much of his father. His voice is soft, and it breaks when he responds, "Yes."

The policeman must hear it because his tone becomes slightly gentler, but no less formal. "I'm sorry to ask this of you, sir, but we need you to identify the body."

The body. Not (Y/N). The body. Draco clenches his jaw hard enough for it to hurt.

He doesn't mean to do it, but he's struggling to tether himself to reality and the officer is awaiting a response, talking to him so softly it's making him dizzy, so Draco does what he knows how to do best; he slips the Malfoy mask on, places it tight enough that it won't fall down and then tightens it further to prevent any cracks.

The mask stays on longer than he intends it to. He wears it to sleep that night, wakes up with it in the morning. It accompanies him to the morgue, loosens a little around the edges when he's forced to make the identification, but stays on otherwise. It keeps him from feeling anything, from facing reality, from breaking down in front of complete strangers who are already looking at him with so much pity. It doesn't really slip off until the funeral, when Draco watches her be lowered into the ground.

She's gone.

Something within him snaps, breaks beyond repair. The mask shatters against the ground.

He cries for the first time that day and it feels as if he never stops crying afterwards.

ix. eight months and eighteen days after the accident

He's doing groceries when it happens. From the corner of his eye, he can see the shape of (Y/N), always lingering, present ever since the day Draco saw her outside of the dreams for the first time. It's eerie. Draco hasn't grown accustomed to it— to her? He doesn't think he ever will. It's one thing to see her in his memories, within his dreams, because he knows she isn't real. It becomes more difficult to discern reality from dreaming when he constantly sees her in real life. (He tries reaching out to touch her once, recently woken up and still a little sluggish with sleepiness. His hand meets nothing but air. Draco jerks his hand back, runs to the bathroom to be sick.)

A part of him, at the beginning, thought that having her around with him every moment of the day would lessen the heavy weight around his chest, evaporate the remains of grief, but this isn't her, just a ghost of his wife.

Draco's so focused on ignoring the hallucination— its blank, emotionless face, the eyes that follow him around —and trying to manage the raging headache he's had since he woke up, that it takes him a while to notice the tapping on his shoulder. It's only when it becomes insistent that he turns around.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but you're bleeding."

For a moment the words don't make sense. Then, Draco feels the sticky substance running down his cupid's bow. His fingers come back red when he reaches to touch it.

The woman, small and old, offers him a blue handkerchief with a kind smile, "Take care, kid. It's been oddly warm these days."

Draco knows the nosebleed isn't in any way related to the heat, but he nods and thanks her anyways.

She lets him keep the handkerchief, "It was my late husband's. I have a feeling you'll be needing it more than I will", and over the next couple of days Draco uses it more often than he would like to admit.

It only gets worse from there. Nausea, vomiting, body tremors.

Draco knows it's the potion, but he can't bring himself to stop. He must see her. He keeps on tipping his head back and chugging the misty liquid.

Most days he wakes up exhausted, the bags under his eyes no longer disguisable. He's irritable, he snaps at the smallest of things. Mrs. Bailey tells him to take some days off, the concern evident in her eyes. It just angers him. He's alright. More than alright. He gets to see his dead wife every night, he keeps her alive. He's fine.

But then he isn't because his body begins to slowly shut down. He starts feeling feverish, fog condenses his head. He lays in bed and time becomes a foreign concept. He's sweating, hot and cold at the same time, it's like he's boiling from the inside and can't escape it. He sees (Y/N), standing at the corner. Is this a dream? Everything sways around him, the world tilts. He can't talk, can't move. He falls unconscious. But not before reaching for the little glass vial and its addicting blue contents.

He blinks awake to the dream.

It's always the same. Garlic. Oregano. Jazz music in the radio. A glass of almost finished wine in his hand.

"Merlin, that smells so good."

He hugs her from behind, sways her to the beat of the song. She twists around in his arms.

She twists around in his arms?

"We need to talk."

It's her voice, Draco would recognize it anywhere, soft and velvety. But she never said those words. She couldn't have said those words. Draco has relieved this memory seventy-three times, he knows.

She steps away, takes his hand, and the scenery around them swiftly changes. The background becomes distorted, it melts down and reconstructs itself. It makes Draco dizzy, the sudden change from dimmed lights and rainy weather to a bright sunny day. They're at the beach near Sussex.

This has never happened before. This shouldn't be happening. Draco opens his mouth, tries to swallow down the bright panic flaring in his chest, and finds out he can speak. This isn't a memory anymore.

"How are you—? You shouldn't be—" He stops himself, looks around. The beach is just as he remembers it, the air is hot, but the breeze is cool. It smells like seaweed and fish. In his memory (Y/N) is smiling. She isn't smiling now, just studying him carefully. "You're dead."

Draco has never said those words out loud before. The pain in his chest, the one that hasn't settled since the accident, burns and then becomes lighter.

"I am," she confirms. She doesn't sound sad, it's almost as if she's just stating facts. The sky is blue and (Y/N) is dead.

When he remains frozen, mind still going haywire, so she takes him by the hand and tugs him along. They walk closer to the ocean. Her hand is warm against his.

"How is this happening?"

She looks back at him, offers a gentle smile, and Draco knows his wife well enough that he recognizes the look in her eyes. You already know. It all clicks in his head. He focuses on the water, realizes that the waves aren't moving as they should, notices that the image is slightly deformed and misshaped. His mind is creating all of his, everything around him is becoming blurry because he never walked close to the shore. (Y/N) figure remains sharp and clear because her image is safely stored in Draco's mind.

"You're not you," he whispers to himself.

She stops dead in her track, turns around to meet his gaze. There's a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, as if she knows something he doesn't.

"Aren't I?"

"This is all happening inside my head. It's a dream."

"That does not mean it's not real."

She sits on the ground, not caring about the sand staining her clothes, and it's such a (Y/N) thing to do that Draco's heartstrings tighten and a part of his mind can't believe it isn't her. She pats the ground and he sits beside her.

They remain quiet for some time. (Y/N) plays with the sand, picking it between her fingers before allowing the breeze to take it away. She gives him time to gather his thoughts, and there's so much Draco want to say. So much. But it's like the words are stuck at the back of his throat and he can't manage to spit them out.

She speaks first, keeps on picking up sand and letting it go.

"You're killing yourself," her tone is soft, but there's a certain harshness in her words. It isn't at all what Draco was expecting to hear.

"What?"

(Y/N) turns to meet his gaze, eyes firm, "You're drinking the potion every night, are you not? You're getting headaches, nausea, nosebleeds. You're seeing me outside the memories."

Draco could lie, but she would see right through him.

"I am."

She nods absentmindedly, like he's just confirming what she already knows. Her gaze leaves his face and sets on the horizon.

"You'll die." There's a slight tremor to her voice, the kind she used to get when she was a few words away from crying.

"Is that so bad?"

She snaps her head back to him, tears on the corner of his eyes. "Don't say that," and her words are tainted with a rigidness he isn't accustomed to.

Her tone should unsettle him, but Draco pushes, "I would get to be with you, wouldn't I?"

She shakes her head. "There's so much left for you to live, Draco. So much."

Draco is the one to look away now, he tries to reign in the anger. She doesn't understand because she's the one that left, she's not the one that has to deal with the ever-growing emptiness and sadness and grief. Draco is the one that stayed. He's the one that was left all alone to cope, to try to find ways to live without her. He's the one that feels her absence, every day with every breath.

"What's the point if you're not around to live it with me."

He looks back just in time to see her eyes soften around the edges. She looks sad now, apologetic.

(Y/N) reaches for his hand and Draco lets her take it.

"Then live it for the both of us. Live it for me."

Just like that Draco deflates, he focuses on the circles her thumb rubs against the back of his palm.

"I just miss you," he confesses, "so so much. You wouldn't understand."

Her grip tightens.

"I know."

"I just want to be with you."

"I know, I know." There's a heaviness in her features, a twinge of pain in the corner of her lips and between her brows. Draco, for a moment, wonders if he's wearing a matching expression, if they both carry the hollowness in their hearts. "I'm sorry I left you." She comes closer, cradles his face the same way Draco did when he suggested they run away all those years ago. He wants to tell her she doesn't need to apologize, that it isn't her fault, but her words soothe some sort of internal ache. "I'm sorry about all the things that could've been but won't ever be." His throat constricts. He thinks about all the things they promised each other (to grow old together, to start a family), doesn't notice the tears falling down his cheeks until she wipes them away. (Y/N) presses her forehead against him, whispers the words against his lips, "I'm so sorry, my love."

Draco shatters, grips her wrists to anchor himself. The sobs that leave his mouth are muffled, quiet, but he knows (Y/N) hears them by the way her hold on his face becomes firmer. She hums, a soft jazz song, the one that was playing the night she died, and lets him cry to his heart's content.

It isn't until he quiets down, sobs becoming hiccups, that she pulls away. She lets her eyes trail over his face, brushes her thumbs against his cheeks and pulls a strand of hair out of his face. Her eyes are sad as she mumbles, "Trapping yourself in our memories and living off the past isn't going to bring me back."

Draco knows. He knows. But he can't bear the idea of never seeing her again, of never holding her, of never hearing her voice.

"I need more time with you."

She smiles softly, "We got eight years of nothing but happiness, my love. That's much more than what many lovers get."

"A lifetime by your side wouldn't have been enough."

It's true. Draco could've lived a thousand lives with her, and it would've never been enough. His soul craved her with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. No amount of time would've been enough.

"I love you." He needs to say it, needs her to hear the words coming from his own lips. "I didn't get to say it that day, when you left, but I do. I love you so much."

"I know."

Draco blinks up at (Y/N), finds her already staring back. In that moment, there's nothing but her.

"Draco, baby, you could've never uttered those words to me again, and I would've known. I felt it in every touch and every look. It was all around us. I know you love me, and you know just how much I love you too."

And Draco does know. Love is raw and primal; it leaves an indelible mark one must carry forever. Love builds and it shatters, it heals and burns. Draco presses his forehead against her collarbone and sighs, people leave, and they die, but their love stays. He loves her, will always love her, and she loves him too, even in death.

The dream begins to melt, to fold into itself. The colors blend together. (Y/N) begins to pull away and Draco panics, grips her a little tight.

"Please stay with me."

There's desperation in his tone, anguish.

(Y/N) comes back close, softly presses her lips against his. "I'm always with you," she whispers as she back away. "Here," she taps right above his heart, the place where her name is branded on his skin, "and here," she presses her finger to his temple.

Everything disintegrates.

When he comes back to himself it's due to a sound. He tries to open his eyes, but they feel too heavy, so it takes him a while to gather enough strength to do so. His tongue is heavy on his mouth, dry. The sweat is making his clothes stick to his skin. Draco feels like he could throw up at any moment.

He thinks of (Y/N).

I'm always with you.

The sound persists in the background. At first it appears to come from far away, it's muted and dull, as if he's hearing it from under water, but it becomes clearer as the haze slowly disappears from his mind. It takes Draco some time to recognize it; someone is pounding on the door.

He would move to open it if he could regain control of his limbs.

It appears like his presence isn't even needed because after a thunderous bang— which Draco somehow recognizes as his door being broken down —the pounding stops. Draco should be worried, someone is inside his house, he can hear the footsteps approaching, but he can't bring himself to care.

I'm always with you.

Blaise walks into his room, eyes frantic and unfocused.

They settle on him and there's a flash of anger before it twists into something more worried, something closer to panic. He looks like he just stumbled across a corpse.

Blaise's eyes dart around the room and Draco can tell the moment he notices the small glass vials that he never bothered to clean up because Blaise's face tightens, "You idiot."

And he's upset, Draco knows he is, can hear it in his voice, but Blaise is still walking forward and kneeling by the side of his bed. He's upset, but his eyes hold on so much concern.

"What have you done?"

The words are whispered, Blaise presses the back of his hand to Draco's forehead, ever so gentle, and Draco can't help it, he catches a peek of (Y/N)'s ghost looming over Blaise's shoulder, smiling softly at him before softly shattering and disappearing, and the tears begin to fall. He's still a little out of it, a little feverish, still thinking of his dream.

I'm always with you.

Draco clenches his fists. He doesn't feel the nails digging into his skin, deeper and deeper, until Blaise places his hands over his own and softly coaxes them open, "It's okay. You're okay."

Blood flows freely down his palm. It doesn't even sting. Nothing can ache more than his heart.

Draco shakes his head. Nothing is okay, it hasn't been okay since the day she died.

Blaise sighs softly, "I know."

Draco doesn't know if he muttered the words or if his best friend can read his mind.

"I just miss her," it comes out watery and weak, but Draco doesn't even care. He's breaking, falling, shattering.

He sees the way Blaise swallows hard, closes his eyes and looks up to the ceiling, breathing hard. "I know you do, but this..." He gestures at the tiny glass vials that lay empty by the foot of his bed, before setting his eyes back on him. "Draco..."

"Don't." He begs, because he can feel the anger beginning to simmer, buried underneath the steam of illness and confusion, but Blaise has always been one to speak his mind, ruthlessly so, and so he presses on.

"You're hurting yourself."

You're killing yourself, her voice echoes in his brain. You'll die.

"Leave it alone."

"I can't," Blaise stresses, tightening his grip on Draco's wrist. The words don't surprise Draco, Blaise has always been a fixer, unable to let go once he figures out a problem and has effectively resolved it, but they do anger him. "For Salazar's sake. Liquid Dreams, Draco? Really? Have you've got any idea how harmful the potion can be if ingested on the daily."

He does know, he does, he's seen the effects, has felt them on his body. His limbs shiver, his heart is racing, his skin shuffles between being unbearably hot to freezing cold. He might've ignored the warning tag on every vial, but Draco knows. He just didn't care.

"I just want to see her."

I just want to be with you.

A lifetime by your side wouldn't have been enough.

I'm always with you.

He presses the back of his hand against his eyes, tries to mute the resonating voices in his head.

"No," Blaise responds, "You're trying to keep her alive." Draco's breath comes to a sudden halt, eyes opening and focusing on Blaise, fire burning beneath them. Blaise doesn't shy away, doesn't even flinch. He's always been bluntly honest. Draco has never hated that quality more than he does know. His final words come out soft, "You can't. She's gone."

You're dead.

I am.

He doesn't know if it's the fever or the potion, but his next words come out manic, rushed, erratic.

"She isn't! Not when I drink the vials. Not when I see her every night."

Blaise's gaze softens. There's pain in his eyes.

"You've got to let her go."

Trapping yourself in our memories and living off the past isn't going to bring me back.

"You don't understand, Blaise." Now he's shouting, feelings jumbling within his chest and words tumbling out his mouth. He's confused and scared and hurt and sad and angry, and it comes out in the way of a sharp tone that cuts like a knife, "You couldn't even begin to comprehend what I'm feeling, what my life has been like for the last months."

Blaise remains impassive, but his features harden. Draco catches the brief flare of annoyance in his eyes.

"My sister died in the war, Malfoy." His words come back with the same razor-sharp edge Draco used. "So did my father, in case you forgot."

Draco breathes heavily, guilt pools at the bottom of his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, and Blaise doesn't say anything back, but Draco knows he's forgiven by the way his friend's shoulders relax. For all his tough exterior, Blaise has never been able to hold onto anger. Draco wishes he could be like that.

They stay quiet for a while, time that feels like an eternity.

It's Blaise who breaks the silence. "I know it hurts, and I know you miss her, but you're keeping her hostage in your dreams and you're holding onto the pain."

Draco exhales shakily.

"That's not going to bring her back."

"I know," he whispers, tears slowly filling his eyes once more. Trapping yourself in our memories and living off the past isn't going to bring me back, he hears being mumbled by his ear. "Fuck, I know."

He looks up at Blaise and by the way his friend briefly looks away Draco knows he must look absolutely shattered.

"How do I let her go, Blaise, when it feels like my soul was ripped in half?"

Blaise swallows hard. There are tears by the corner of his eyes, too, "You let yourself hurt, you let yourself feel."

Live it for me.

I'm always with you.

"I'm sorry I left you alone, Draco. I thought you wanted to... I don't know, process privately. I'm sorry I wasn't here."

Draco shakes his head. "Don't be," he closes his eyes with a sigh, "When I felt myself slipping, I should've said something." But it's difficult to do so, to reach out, when you feel so alone and alienated, and Blaise must know, must understand, because when Draco opens his eyes, Blaise is also shaking his head.

"And I should've noticed before," he responds, and Draco knows he isn't just talking about the grief, but also about Draco's borderline addiction to the potion. "You are my best friend, after all."

They stare at each other for a split second before Blaise sighs and looks away, "We'll talk about it later. Let's just focus on getting your fever down."

Draco has known Blaise long enough to understand what goes unsaid. Don't worry, I'm here now, I've got you, you're going to be okay.

And Draco isn't okay, not even close, but this feels like a step in the right direction. He feels lighter. His heart aches, but it's manageable. For the first time in months, Draco doesn't feel the overwhelming itch to go back to his memories.

x. two years after the accident

For the longest time Draco thought he would die without her, and maybe a part of him does. But as he stands in front of her grave, a bouquet of heliotropes on his hand, he thinks that maybe that's okay. The last year has taught him how to let go of the hurt, let go of the part of him that isn't really him anymore, and instead hold onto her, onto their love.

It never stops hurting, there's always a lingering, dull pain in his heart, but Draco learns how to live with it. He thinks that's okay, too. The pain is a reminder that he loved and was loved. Love hurts because it's everlasting, because it never truly goes away. Grief is the price we pay for loving. That's okay, he reckons, it's a small price.

Draco presses his hand to the headstone, squats down to place the flowers on the floor, closes his eyes and allows himself to feel. Healing isn't linear, he's learned, and it's okay to sometimes feel a sorrow so deep it pierces and reopens the wound in his soul, as long as he can release the sadness and the pain, as long as he swims with it but doesn't allow himself to drown.

Having Blaise and Pansy around helps and Draco is more than unbelievably grateful for his support system. (For Blaise, who helps him through the days of withdrawal, who opens up his house to him, who helps him look for a grief counselor. For Pansy, who teaches him how to paint with oil, and how to pour his feelings into blank pieces of parchment instead of bottling them up.) He learns that he's not alone, never was. He learns how to lean on someone else when he needs help.

It takes time, but he slowly regains parts of him he thought had shatter beyond repair. He cooks pizza for his friends, he drives to work, he listens to slow jazz songs and thunderstorms without the urgent desire to break down. He wears his wedding band around his neck.

He heals. Slowly, but surely.

Draco learns that the memories he shared with her will always be there, for him to think back upon, but they are not meant for him to live within.

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mintmatcha · 1 year

Text

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! Mind the tags!!

TW: angst, mentions of child loss, cisfem reader with she/her pronouns

Kirishima’s voice echoes down the hall, despite how he tries to keep it quiet. The sound is almost covered by the distant mumblings of the radio, but his timbre, throaty and familiar, carries, creeping down the hall to where it isn’t supposed to be. With your eyes closed, you can picture him, with his outside coat still pulled over his shoulders and mismatched shoes crammed into his feet.

“Hey, congrats, man,” he says. The phone had rung a couple minutes ago and without a doubt, you know who’s on the other line and what they’re talking about. Only Bakugo would call this early in the morning, only one topic needs to be whispered, “I’m really happy for you. Tell your wife I said congrats too.”

He shifts, socked feet sliding against the carpet. The hot compress pressed into your stomach lost its heat hours ago, but still, you clutch at it, pulling at it through the covers. No matter how you try to settle in, your bed offers no comfort, so you lay there and don’t even try to sleep, listening to a conversation that you know will make you hurt.

“Uh, yeah- maybe. Soonish. I, uh- yeah. I know, we're next,” Kirishima whispers. A singer once told you that whispering is harder on your vocal cords than talking and you can hear it now, tearing up his voice the lower he tries to go, scratching it unbearably raw. “Listen, I gotta go. We were at the hospital last night, so--- Yeah, we’re fine. She’s fine. I’ll explain another day, okay?”

He exhales. It’s shaky. “I’ll explain later. Bye.”

Kirishima sighs with the weight of the world and you feel it too, crushing your rib cage. Every breath aches like your body doesn’t want to take it.

Your husband stands in the hall for a long time, still and sighing, pulling each breath deep before letting it out again through his teeth. Eventually, he slinks into the room, tiptoeing over to his side of the bed. He knows you aren’t asleep-

How could you fall asleep after that?

“Hey,” he tucks his legs under him as he settles into bed and you roll over to face him. Bags have settled under his eyes, dark and creased from tears he hasn’t yet shed. For now, in front of you, he stays strong, unbreakable even without the quirk.

"Are... are you still cramping?" he stumbles over himself, "I can heat that thing up again.”

There's a familiar knot in your lower stomach that comes and goes, but shake your head anyway. If it hurts, it feels real.

"Just let me know," he rubs his knuckles down your arm, "Anything for you."

You need him to say it. The knowledge you’re not supposed to have itches.

But Kirishima is too kind. He kisses your forehead with a delicacy that makes your eyes water.

"I love you," he says.

“They’re having another kid, aren’t they?”

Kirishima recoils at that and the horrified, ruined expression on his face tells you what you need to know.

“Honey,” he whispers. His body crumples into yours, practically laying on top of you, and his weight pressed the heat pack even harder into your already aching core. Hid head nuzzled deep into your cheek, muffling the way his breath hiccups with an inhaled sob as he gathers himself. “Oh, sweetie.”

“It’s fine,” you reply.

He's not fine, lamenting in a tone that almost makes you mad. It aches so horribly that you've gone numb to it all, why can't he be the same?

"I didn’t want you to hear that.”

“It’s fine.”

He squeezes you like he needs you closer than actually possible, adjusting his grip every couple of seconds when the proximity doesn't satiate him. “I didn’t want you to know. Not yet. Not so soon."

“There's no reason to get upset about it,” The edge of the hospital bracelet eats into your wrist. “It’s not their fault our babies can't stay alive."

When he reels back to stare at you, you can't meet his gaze. You know what you fid. The wound between you is still too fresh to prod, but you hit it anyway.

"Don't say that."

It was only a couple hours ago when the doctor patted your knee like he cared and said he was very, very sorry, but there just isn't a heartbeat anymore. These things happen, he said, the first fifteen weeks can be fickle, try not to blame yourself, the bleeding won't last long.

Kirishima just nodded the whole time, head bobbing up and down with a thinly veiled, wide eyed horror.

You did nothing. You've heard it before. You both have.

"Why would I be upset that Bakugo's having his third kid?" You're picking at the edges of Kirishima's sleeve, freeing frayed edges, looking anywhere but at him and those sad, sad eyes, "I've been pregnant three times too. It's no big deal."

"Please stop," he says, much louder now.

“It's not their fault I'm broken."

“Please stop.” Kirishima's hand hooks behind your neck as he pleads, thumb running out your cheek, “I- you're being cruel."

"My baby died," you say simply, "I'm allowed to be."

Kirishima's lower lip wobbles and for a moment you swear he fractures, about to slip completely apart in your hands. Against the bloodshot white of his eyes, the iris seems faded and tired. The cut through his monolid has long silvered, much thinner than it once was, but still there, a reminder that he was young once.

Your own eyes burn with tears once again.

"Not to yourself. And not to me. You don't get to be mean with me." His thumb brushes over your cheek again, softer this time. Despite his quirk, his hands are smooth and uncalloused, their touch almost tickling. "I lost him too."

On your first date, Kirishima offhandledly mentioned he wanted his children to have quirks just like him. Back then, it was nothing more than a silly whimsy, but that thought creeped its way into your daydreams, then into your hopes, until it cemented itself there, a permanent fixture of your idealized life.

It takes effort to step out of your own grief. Kirishima didn't physically lose the pregnancy like you did, but he is still mourning all the same, letting go of a dream he's clutched for longer than you probably know.

"I'm sorry." You finally hug him back, squeezing with all the might your exhausted body can muster.

"I know." His shoulders hitch and quiver, but he doesn't cry. Not yet. The quiet of your empty apartment eats at you both, the only sound being that of your uneven breathing, out of sync with each other. Eventually you both relax into each other, taking solace in the simple comfort of proximity.

"Bakugo's gonna ask," Kirishima whispers suddenly, "And I don't know how to tell him. I can't just-"

He sniffles. "I'm not you. I can't just say it."

You run your knuckles up and down his knotted back, but stay silent. You understand, of course, the suffocating, unbearable misery that sits in the room is almost too much to address.

But how are you supposed to live with something your husband can't even talk about in public?

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redheadspark · 5 months

Note

Druig with "Shh, it's just a nightmare. You're safe" and "You are so fucking powerful" for December prompt? 🤗

A/N - Ahh! This is lovely! I do like this request, thanks dear friend!

Powerful

Summary - Druig is haunted, but you bring him back to the living.

Warnings - Just a mix of Angst and Fluff

“Druig….Druig wake up!”

Druig woke up gasping for air, eyes wide and his breath short in his throat as the dimmed room on the Domo was all he was seeing. Yet in the back of his mind, tucked away in the most vulnerable part he would rarely tap into himself, was the moment he was thrown to the ground by Ikaris and almost killed within seconds. It felt so real to him, from feeling the wind whip around him as he was launched, to the rocks digging along his skin and armor as he was being pummeled deeper and deeper into the ground. It was too much for him, no matter that it was in the past and he was safe away from Earth. He was living it all over again.

But there were hands on his face, framing his cheeks and rubbing his clammy skin soothingly. The sensation of body warmth next to him under the satin sheets, and a soothing scent that he knew for centuries was now flooding his nostril as a silhouette was seen perched over him. He knew that face, it was the very face that he fell in love with. No matter that it was dark in the room, he knew the dip of the nose and the round cheeks along with the long hair draped over the shoulder.

You, his wife of almost 2,000 years.

“Shh,” you cooed as you stroked his brown hair from his eyes that were still wide. One of his hands reached up to grab your wrist, almost using it as his own anchor as the nightmare was slipping away from him like the water on the shore, “Shh, it’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.”

Druig gulped, nodding his head as he felt his heartbeat go down again from rushing so quickly. You sighed in relief, leaning over to kiss his head a few times to bring him a bit more peace, “You scared me good, Druig,”

“Sorry,” he mumbled his voice feeling raw and thick as you tutted.

“Nothing to be sorry about, my love.” You reassured him. Druig looked away from you at the window, seeing the galaxy and the scattering of stars right outside the Domo, reminding him yet again that you both were away from Earth. Thena and Makkari were asleep in their own rooms, your ship on its own solo journey to look for other Eternals out in the cosmos.

“It was Ikaris again, wasn’t it?” You asked him tentatively, Druig’s head going back to see you give him a look of concern. He said nothing, but you knew fully well that it was about Ikaris. Taking in a long pause, you looked down for a brief moment to control your own fleet of anger that was festering out.

“He can’t hurt me anymore, luv,” Druig said in a calm tone, his hand on your wrist tightened sightly to get your attention, “He can’t hurt us. He’s gone,”

“Good,” You replied shortly, Druig sitting up in the bed as he was keeping his eyes on you, “And I’m glad I got a few good hits in on him from what he did,”

“Hey,” Druig said to you, seeing your eyes slowly drift back to him as he gave you a reassuring look, “I’m fine and alive thanks to you.”

Maybe it was enough that you needed to hear since the cold demeanor you had in your eyes was now melting away. Druig knew that you had beaten Ikaris down to a pulp after Druig was taken out of the picture to stop Tiamut. He saw the evident look of fatigue on your face and in your body language when you two reunited on the beach, his heart was breaking from seeing how worn down you were and still reeling with rage and anger towards Ikaris. This was not what he wanted for you, knowing how good and deep your soul was and how filled with happiness and love you have been for centuries. But he also knew how protective you two were of each other, considering each other as equals when it came to living a life together on earth.

Ever since you both left the beach, Druig had nightmares almost every night. He was never one to get nightmares to begin it since it was rare for all the time he’d been on Earth. But Ikaris’s assault was vivid in his mind, almost engrained in his psyche, and Druig hated that he was reliving it over and over again.

However, you were always there to wake him up and bring him back to reality. It always helped when he saw your face, when he heard your voice or simply felt your presence as his nightmare melted away. You were a source of peace for him, even in the more troubled times in the past when he felt hopeless in stopping the humans from harming each other, you reminded him of his worth and all the good he has done on the planet.

“Come here,” Druig urged you as you both fell back into bed together, Druig letting you rest your head on his chest while his arms were rubbing your arms up and down in a soothing motion. You held him close, breathing him in as the soft hum of the Domo and its energy was floating in the room. Druig loved holding you like this, for as long as you two were together as a couple he would hold you in his arms as you two slept or simply embraced each other. Being powerful beings, it seemed silly to be in such a vulnerable position together. Neither one of you cared though, being open with one another was the purest form of love you two had for each other and there was no resistance for it.

Now more than ever, after stopping the world from ending and almost losing one another, you both were never far from one another’s touch.

“I’m beyond thankful for you,” Druig reassured you as your arms were still wrapped around him and you were listening to his heartbeat through his thin shirt, “You’ve saved me from being lost so many times in the past, even when I didn’t feel powerful enough to change what I wanted in the world—“

“You are so fucking powerful,” You said in a determined tone, Druig going quiet as you were staring out into the window to see the stars floating by at a slow pace, “You’re powerful enough to know what’s right and what needs to be done, Druig. I love that about you, and I’ll willing to protect you and that part of your heart because of it, okay?”

Druig smiled for the first time that night, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as you two were embracing in silence again. Druig loved that passion that you had, being the more abrasive one out of the pair of you. He spoke his mind about plenty of things, but you were a pinch bolder with your own opinion and was never afraid to hold back.

You would remind him every day how powerful he was, and you would pull him out of the darkness every time too.

The End

Hurt/ Comfort Prompt Session

#druig x reader #druig x female reader #druig imagine #druig x eternal!reader #drug x female eternal reader #fanfiction #writing #barry keoghan #druig #eternals #my love #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu eternals #mcu phase 4 #mcu fandom

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starlitheaven · 2 years

Text

: ̗̀➛ RAW — SATORU GOJOU

note. for @dearestgojo. thank you so much angel, it means a lot for you to say that :’) I hope you like this btw. automatic morning sex thoughts when I heard the song. for the 1k follower event. based on raw by loony.

tags. thigh fucking, consensual somnophilia, unprotected sex, lovedrunk gojo.

1.8k

rays of early morning sunlight filtered through the drifting sheer curtains, bathing you in a soft ethereal light. the breezy sunrise of Santorini was a beauty to marvel at with the distant sounds of the glistening azure waters and wind chimes in the streets below, but satoru believed that it didn’t compare to the sight of you in a deep slumber. naked and wrapped up in the high thread count bedsheets, letting out cute little snores.

the aegean sea had absolutely nothing on you. all of greece couldn’t hold a candle to his baby resting peacefully like an angel after a long night of being ravished by him—your bare shoulder and nape littered with the lovebites he greedily marked you with. satoru traces his fingers over the exposed skin, getting the phantom feeling of his teeth sinking and suckling into the soft flesh. he licks his lips and brings them down to your shoulder, nosing along your throat and inhaling with a low groan. his palm settled over your hip, rubbing small circles as he nuzzled into your neck.

satoru could never have enough of you, it made him dizzy. ravenous. not just in a physical sense, it was all of you. he wanted every bit of you every single day. his love for you often made him feel untethered and a little clumsy. so aware of how precious you are and how lucky he is.

you continued to sleep, the sun slowly rose above the horizon, and satoru was getting hard.

he looped an arm over your stomach and pulled you up against his groin with your back flush to his chest. satoru had woken up aching for you—dreamt he was licking and sucking that delicious rizogalo from last night right off of your sticky tits and belly. suddenly, you had been riding his cock by the shore; neck bared and tits bouncing under the greek sun as you sweetly cried his name over and over. (he ignored the fact that the old driver talking about his foot fungus also appeared in the dream).

you still smelled of your body wash, similar to the rose petals that littered your bed last night and was part of the catalyst to several rounds of fucking all over the large hotel suite. it left him reeling how insatiable you both were for the other and how many times you did it after exploring santorini—bent over the bathroom sink, against those balcony doors, riding him on that plush loveseat, in the jacuzzi as you sipped on champagne. satoru isn’t surprised at all that you’re knocked out exhausted and unaware of him grinding his clothed dick over your backside. you’re in nothing but a t-shirt, making this all too easy for him. not even wearing underwear.

the sight of you soft and vulnerable has satoru humping you dry until his precome is leaking in his underwear with a damp patch. he has permission but has never actually touched you in your sleep. even giving your tits a squeeze has him buzzing with excitement right now, knowing you’re unaware. he continues to grope you, feeling sneaky and dirty.

you shift briefly at this and satoru coos in your ear, hushing you back to sleep. once your breathing evens out, he leaves a kiss behind your ear. “shh, don’t mind me.” he murmurs playfully, pulling his hard cock out of his calvin kleins. reaching his long arms over you, he blindly grasps for the lube left on the bedside drawer.

it hits him then. he’s doing this, he’s really doing this. he’s doing this and you have no idea. the perversion of it all has his pulse beating faster, and he thinks he could get off on this alone.

satoru uncaps the lid with his teeth and pumps himself to spread the lube over his throbbing cock. keeping your thighs closed tight, he slowly slides his wet dick in between. the sounds of the early morning waves are drowned out by his long groan as he feels the way the plump skin of your inner thighs close around his cock. and oh—oh fuck.

it’s even better than he imagined. he’s always loved your thighs but this? satoru whines low in his throat, biting the inside of his cheek as the top of his cock begins rubbing against your bare lips with the drag of his hips. “hah—shit—” he closes his eyes, leaking even more. he pulls the covers down to get a good look and the sight is so lewd. “you’re killin’ me here, babe...”

obviously, you say nothing, and that for some reason gets satoru going. the thought of using your sleeping body like this was only raising his high and encouraging him to pump his hips faster. he rocked against you, looking down at himself every now and then with soft pants. he felt hot all over, consumed by lust and depravity. your body was heavy and motionless, aside for the soft noises you unconsciously let out every now and then. it seemed your body was enjoying being thighfucked.

a part of him wishes he had grabbed his phone to film this. to capture his overbearing desire and the filthy sounds of your slippery thighs enveloping his throbbing dick. a tight knot was forming in his abdomen, building and building as you remained unconscious. his large hands began to rove up your body, settling on your tits as he kneaded the soft flesh. he keeps rolling his hips.

your thighs are slick with lube and satoru’s precome. he feels it. feels himself leaking all over you as he continues to roll his hips. breathy whines slip from his lips and he does his best to muffle them into the heat of your skin by nuzzling into the crook of your delicate neck.

“yeah, yeah, fuck.” he pant, licking at your flushed skin. his pace is getting sloppy now as he feels himself reaching his limit. it consumes him and now all he can think about is how good it’ll feel to come all over your thighs. how pretty they’ll look sticky with his load. knowing you, you’d probably make him lick you clean and that thought alone has him going at a rougher pace. “baby, baby. oh, you feel so good. shit. you’re being so good for me.”

the sounds of the sea grounded him before he went too hard on you. the tides pulling in and out reminded him of your soothing voice bringing back to earth. you were the only one who could keep his frivolousness at bay. you lived in his mind and he loved it.

satoru had been so lost in his ardor that he hadn’t noticed the soft noises escaping your lips. even in your sleep, it seemed that his cock sliding over your cunt stimulated you. in fact, it hit him then that you were wet. messily wet. well, that’s hot, satoru thought smugly.

“mmm?” you moaned, voice groggy with sleep. you turned halfway to face him with one eye still closed. it seemed your mind was just catching up to the way your body has been reacting to him. “toru, what’re you doin’? oh.—k-keep going.”

cute. he placed a kiss at your temple, not stopping his fervent movements. “ah, good morning, baby.” he hums breathlessly, going back to holding your hips. “was I being too rough? kinda lost myself there.”

you were all too used to satoru having normal conversations in the middle of sex. that and realizing exactly what he was doing, while you were asleep no less, was arousing you. “I’m kind of sore from last night,” you confessed.

he stopped his movements instantly at your words, bringing his hand over your stomach to rub soothingly. “shit. my bad, babe. feeling tender?” he frowned. he recalled the massage oils in the bathroom. “want a massage? a bath? i can make it bubbly and smell good, ya know.”

the concern in his voice was endearing. as much as satoru was coming undone from using your sleeping body to get off, he missed having you responsive. it’s one of the reasons he rarely ever gags you, because you’re his favorite person to talk to and why would he take that away?

still, now he’s just laying there with his cock still hard and on the edge.

it had taken you some time to get used to taking a cock as big as his. even then, you’re still quite sore afterward, especially after multiple rounds like last night. not only that, but he kept spanking you and as he told you how good your ass looked in the dress you wore. still, you couldn’t deny it felt oddly good to ache from lovemaking.

“it’s not that. you handled me like a rag doll and now my body is all sore,” you snorted. satoru pouted and mumbled an apology into your shoulder, giving it a little kiss. he looked fucked out already— white hair sticking to his forehead, blue eyes low and hazy with lust, cheeks hot and pink, and lips swollen from biting on them. to think you made that happen, and you were asleep! you maneuvered yourself onto your back, pulling his arm towards you. “can we just do it like this? just don’t call me your starfish again.”

satoru nodded frantically, removing the sheets completely and uncaring that they fell over the side of the bed. your legs spread invitingly for him, treating him to the sexy visual of your glistening cunt. dripping and swollen with arousal, it made his mouth water as he slipped his raw cock inside of you.

that pussy of yours had him seeing stars. dying and coming back to life. you squeezed him and sucked him in like you wanted his soul. he could do nothing but continue fucking into your sopping cunt, nothing but a slave to your body. it took no time for him to get back into that space, that unbelievable high that had him groaning over and over, cursing under his breath as he watched that little hole swallow him. he was obsessed with watching himself slide in and out, seeing your puffy pussy stretched out just for him.

he leaned down to give you a quick kiss before nuzzling into your neck once again, whispering praises as he pounded into you. good girl, you were made for me, i was made for you, take my cock, just like that, yeah that’s it, you’re so wet for me babygirl.

your slick thighs were pressed against his flank, quivering as you panted out breathy moans. satoru felt like no other. even when he’s sloppy his rhythm still gives you pleasure and he never forgets to stimulate your clit. your tits were brushing over his hot skin as his rough pace continued.

“fuck me, fuck me,” you moaned, digging your nails into his lower back. “satoru, satoru, satoru!”

satoru began to nod eagerly and then—

he let out a long deep groan, the same way that he does when he...

the room was suddenly quiet, save for the sound of him trying to catch his breath.

“pfffft,” you snickered behind your hand, wrapping your arms around his broad back. it’s almost like he…yeah. there’s no doubt about it, you feel his hot spunk inside of you. he’s weakly thrusting into you, milking his cock with your tight cunt. “sa-satoru, already? it’s been like two minutes...”

it’s almost unthinkable, but satoru’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. there's tears in his eyes! he’s never come so fast, not even when he lost his virginity. it should be embarrassing, but he quite honestly finds it hilarious. soon, you two are laughing together as the morning sun continues to rise over the sky.

#wish I was in santorini now #the ending was not planned and i'm sorry if it's rushed #i've been blocked over this for like two weeks cause i CANNOT write smut to save my life #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #summer mix event

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8-rae-rae-8 · 2 months

Text

He's a dog with a bone

Phillip Graves, with Shepherd as his handler... He was wrapped around Shepherd's finger. Loyal to a fault

TW: drugs, fighting ring AU, handlers, abuse

A needle stung at his side almost every day. For work, he would remind himself.

In the cold, dark room that's all he could feel. No hands holding him down, but they wouldn't have to. He was limp, sore and tired.

These drugs, if they were even that, made every feel like it was flipped around. He could ride the high for a few minutes then growl with bloodthirsty rage.

For all he knew was that they would send him out during his times of anger. He'd fight raw and dirty, only to go back to that cold, dark room when he was no longer useful.

Scraps were his earnings. Cut meats, and breads if he was lucky. When he wasn't completely limp, he'd eat until the plate was empty. On the days he wasn't fed, bugs crawled the walls and floor… he wasn't above eating them alive. Food or not, that injection would come and all he could do was let the effects work. An empty stomach would be a disaster.

These were fighting rings. Through his constantly blurred vision, he could see that. But he'd never heard of anyone being treated in such a way that he did.

He was a mean dog, they told him. He bit accurately, fought messily and didn't hesitate to break bones. If he wanted to make it another day, with blind hope, then he had to win these fights.

He was on a leash, his handler holding it very tightly.

“If you're good, you can have a bone…” His handler would say.

That meant anything from bones with meat, to completely meatless. Still, he would salivate and work his hardest to get the food he wasn't even guaranteed to get.

He was a good dog, his handler told him when he won his fights. His handler spoke with red, evil eyes, yet the praise was like water to his dry throat.

But then he was a bad dog when he lost. A finger would mockingly point at him, tell him the meanest things then leave him without dinner.

He was all muscle and bone. Clinging to bone without the excess fat to soften any blows. He wasn't granted the privilege of clothes beyond underwear and shorts.

All to fight, only gear if he was allowed any more.

On good days, the perfect ones, he was given a bed. A dog bed, but a bed nonetheless. It was better than the blanket he laid on most of the time. It was a luxury to his bruised and bloody form.

For a long time, his name was lost in his own mind. He knew who he was. But he wasn't called by his name for so long. It was all cruel names, calling him a dog, a toy.. whatever his handler could say that would get his attention.

If his handler was very angry, it was a quick snap of “Graves!” to get his attention. To get him back on his feet. It never failed, and would always reel him back in.

He was a violent dog. That he wouldn't deny. He was violent. He bit anyone who tried to help him, even the hand that fed him. It was sickening when he would realize his mistake.

But he was a loyal dog. He ate from his handler’s hands, even if he had times that he would bite. He leaned into the rare affection that kept him so attached.

He was given tests of his loyalty. If his handler was attacked, they wanted to see if he would fight back. And he did. He guarded his handler with his life. With his life. It would leave him more bloody than his fights, even though it was a test, because he didn't know. He didn't know it was a test. The praise he would get for being so good and protecting was better than any win, better than any drug.

It was brainwashing, realistically, that had made him so dependent and loyal. Years of being dumbed down into just a mutt. His personality remained in the form of being defiant, sometimes a little goofy, but rough. Very rough.

He had his moments, playing with toys or watching a show as a treat for being good. Usually after his “tests”. There were moments that he was happy. He was given food, toys and entertainment. This was one of the ways that his handler kept him wrapped around his finger. It was easy that way.

Those nights, he'd go to sleep in a bed. A real bed. He'd even wake up there and be allowed more rest. He was lucky.

His handler would be nice the following day, but it would immediately be back to the floor and fights. The sheer possibility of that kind treatment was enough to keep him going, to get the possibility of being content for even a few hours.

It was truly common knowledge that he was wrapped around his handler's finger. The way he watched his handler for orders, waiting to be told what to do. He was so loyal, too loyal, but nothing broke that trust he had for his handler. After everything, even the pain he'd suffered at his hand, he was loyal.

Loyal like a fucking dog.

#cod drabble #fighting ring au #cod Fighting ring au #phillip graves #call of duty #philip graves #general shepherd #cod

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annaizscribbling · 5 months

Text

In which the farmer is not quite human. Pt 2: Willy

Willy pulled his old wool coat a little closer to his chest. That battered old flannel had seen more years than some of the younger folk in town. They just didn’t make coats like that anymore. The ocean air was bitingly cold. The fish weren’t really biting today, but he’d stay out until dinner time. He wasn’t the type of man to mix up his routine; even when the fish were being stubborn. The ocean never claimed to be predictable, or even kind. It owed him nothing. Willy simply knew how to withstand the tide.

He doesn’t notice the sound of rhythmic footsteps over the crashing waves. The farmer approaches.

“Ahoy there, Lass,” Willy says gruffly, nodding at her as she walks up.

The farmer smiled at him. She wasn’t much of a talker, that girl. Usually, she just nods or shakes her head, unless she’s really got something to say. Her tanned skin and calloused hands echoed her occupation. Through sheer willpower she managed to jumpstart the local economy through her farming, mining, foraging, and of course her fishing. The farmer was a good fisherman. Well. Fisherwoman, he supposed. She recently got hitched to Robin’s son, the sickly lad. They seemed happy though.

“It’s late,” Willy says, rebaiting his hook for the umpteenth time, “don’t you farmer have to get up early?”

With another smile, the farmer just shrugged. Young people. Never stop long enough to hear themselves think, Willy supposed. Though perhaps the farmer girl wasn’t quite the same.

Another cold breeze swept over the waters. Willy bit back a shiver.

The farmer did not react to the cold. In fact, she was in a thin knit shirt, not equipped with sleeves, and decorated with a pattern reminiscent of a ribcage. That and a pair of baggy cargo pants. It was hardly winter attire. She didn’t have on so much as a hat or a pair of gloves, yet here she was, fishing beside him.

She threw her line in the water, without even baiting it. She just cast her line. Granted, it was excellent cast, going an impressive number of yards out. But still, it was a plain hook. She wouldn’t catch a damn thing.

“Come on, Lass. No bait?” Willy said with a raised an eyebrow.

The farmer stretched her neck, keeping a careful watch on her line. “Forgot it,” she said simply.

Willy shook his head; he’d taught her better than that. Maybe the cold was getting to her head. She was never going to catch any—

The farmer began to get a sharp pull on her line, carefully, masterfully even, she began reeling in a fish with precision. In less than a minute she held aloft an albacore. A massive one.

Willy stared at her.

“… good catch,” Willy said after a long pause.

She just nodded once, before throwing another baitless hook into the water. Willy just watched her, not exactly paying much attention to his own line anymore. Sure, the farmer was an odd little duck, and he was fond of her, but sometimes …

Sometimes he wasn’t so sure what she was. He can only chalk up so many things to the fact she used to be a city girl. City girls don’t spend six hours digging up clay on the beach for no apparent reason. They don’t fell half a forest in an afternoon, or remain forever untouched by the elements or fatigue. Harvey once told him at Gus’s that occasionally she’ll collapse in the mines, covered in slime and monster blood. She’ll return in the morning more often than not. It’s the only time either of them had ever seen her anything other than wide awake and energized,

Willy snaps out of his thoughts when he sees her rummaging in her bag out of the corner of his eyes. The farmer pulls out an uncovered bowl of soup and a raw leek. She quickly devours both things. Willy doesn’t ask any questions. If there are answers to be given, it isn’t his business.

They fish in silence, with Willy scoring a catch and the farmer catching six more fish of her own.

He’s done asking questions. She’s a great fishing companion. She respects the water. Willy’s leaving it there.

Part one

#stardew valley #stardew valley willy #stardew #stardew farmer #the farmer is a cryptid #sdv sebastian #anais writes

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crownofstardustandbone · 14 days

Text

Of Wildfires and Dandelions

Sequel to "Of Second Chances and Small Joys" and "Of Wedding Dances and Gravity"

Buck leans heavily against his front door, aching and exhausted down to his bones after an emergency three day shift in the wake of raging forest fires that had left death and devastation in their wake and have him feeling shaken and in desperate need of comfort.

A warm hand wraps around the nape of his neck and he almost sobs with relief, sinking back into the heat of the body pressing against him as his keys are plucked from his fingers and Tommy unlocks his door. He lets himself be guided into the house and stays where Tommy pushes him against the counter for a moment as he locks Buck’s door and tosses his keys into the bowl on the counter.

Tommy holds out a hand, his eyes sad and understanding and Buck’s throat goes painfully tight as his vision swims with unshed tears and he takes it, grateful for the way that Tommy reels him in and holds him close. He struggles against the urge to break down, to not focus on all the scorched bodies he’d pulled from the rubble, or the scent of seared flesh and smoke that’s still clinging to him, but it’s impossible to ignore.

“Please,” he whispers brokenly and Tommy makes a soft crooning sound and cups the back of his head, rocking him in place as he finally start to shatter apart—breath wet and hitching as the tears start falling. Tommy holds him through it as he shakes and cries, until eventually he’s got nothing left but hollow exhaustion.

“C’mon Ev,” Tommy murmurs, stepping back a little and taking his hand, leading him upstairs and into the bathroom where his big hands strip them both in quick efficient moves that would normally turn him on, but at the moment all they elicit is a deep sense of gratitude.

The water is hot when Tommy guides him into the shower, and his hands are gentle as he uses a soaped up loofah to scrub the blood and soot and grime from Buck’s skin, the water eventually running clear between their feet. When Tommy scrubs his hair for him Buck melts into it, breathing shakily as a deep sense of tenderness invades his chest and leaves him feeling cracked open and raw.

Tommy washes himself quickly and Buck feels terrible for not reciprocating, and it must be on his face because Tommy captures his face in both hands and kisses him softly. “It’s okay,” he whispers, “we’re okay.” Buck swallows hard but nods minutely and seeks out his mouth for another kiss, another tear slipping out at how raw he feels inside, quickly washed away by the water pouring over both of them.

They stay like that until the water starts to cool and Buck is swaying with exhaustion, eyes barely able to stay open as Tommy ushers him out and dries him off, hands competent and sure as he gets Buck into a clean pair of briefs and then pushes him into the cool sheets on his bed. He watches through heavy lids as Tommy dries himself off and tosses the towel over the door, droplets of water still gleaming on his broad back as he pulls on his own briefs.

Tommy smiles softly at him as he round the bed and slips under the covers with him, pulling Buck back against his chest and holding him close as exhaustion takes them both over and they slip deep into slumber’s embrace.

When he wakes up, the bed is empty beside him but there’s a small bundle of dandelions on the pillow next to him and Buck grins, tucking his face into his pillow as a flush rises on his cheeks. He hears footsteps on the stairs and looks up, heart leaping in his chest when he sees Tommy’s sleep rumpled hair and soft gaze, admiring his strong physique for a moment before his attention is grabbed by the breakfast burritos and orange juice on a tray that he’s carrying.

“Are those from the place on the corner?” Buck asks hopefully, voice low and raspy from smoke inhalation and screaming.

Tommy nods and rests a knee on the bed before transferring the tray into Buck’s lap and putting the small bundle of dandelions on the tray beside the food.

Buck strokes their golden petals softly, smiling at them for a moment before lifting his gaze to Tommy, “You picked these for me?” he asks, already knowing the answer, the blush that rises on Tommy’s cheeks taking him by surprise.

Tommy nods and slips under the covers next to him, leaning his big broad shoulders back against the headboard. “I like ‘em,” he says softly, “they mean strength and resilience and I dunno, they remind me of you, of how strong you are,” he says shyly, shoulders up around his ears and Buck’s heart clenches so hard in his chest with affection that he can barely breathe for a moment.

Shoving the tray of food down the bed he pushes aside the blankets and settles himself in a surprised Tommy’s lap, hands going to cup his face like Tommy does to him so often and then kisses him, long and slow and sweet. Tommy’s arms wrap around his waist and hold him close as they kiss and kiss and kiss, until it’s hard to breathe and Buck feels alive and free, happier than he’s ever thought he could be with a partner.

Eventually he’s forced to break apart so they can breathe and he feels it when Tommy’s lips curl into a smile against his.

“What was that for sweetheart?” Tommy asks and Buck’s suddenly choked up by the intensity of the emotion he feels at that simple pet name, of how good things are with them, and he has to shake his head and breathe for a moment, lean back and grab the dandelions and twist them between his fingers so their scent is released into the air.

“You make me so happy,” Buck finally says softly, “I feel better when I see you smile, and I’ve never had someone take care of me like you do. It just…it means a lot to me Tommy,” he says quietly, cheeks hot with emotion, and when he chances a glance up from the flowers he finds Tommy’s eyes are bright with emotion just as his own must be and his heart turns over in his chest.

“You make me happy too sweetheart,” Tommy says, voice thick and low, thumbs stroking gently at Buck’s hipbones. “I like taking care of you, being with you,” he murmurs.

Buck hums happily and twirls the dandelions, “So, you don’t think I need to make a wish on these to keep you, to have you be mine?” he asks shyly, heart thumping hard in his chest as Tommy stares at him, a beautiful smile growing on his face with every breath they take.

“No,” Tommy murmurs as he leans in, “no I don’t think you gotta wish for that, I’m already yours,” he whispers before his lips press against Buck’s and he’s lost in the embrace.

Tommy pushes him back back back into the sheets, still kissing him, and the flowers get lost between them, crushed and fragrant as they kiss until their lips are bruised and hot.

The sheets smell like dandelions long after they both leave the bed, after they’ve gone to another shift of saving lives, after it should have long washed away—because every day that they’re here, Tommy brings him another small bouquet and Buck falls a little more in love with him.

#bucktommy #buck x tommy #911 abc

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ekowolf · 6 months

Text

TW: Suicide (song)

how much can your skin crawl before you want to rip it all from your bones?

Strong for Someone Else Pt.2. (TW: SA)

Her standing here broken was his victory lap.

She let her eyes glance downward. Oh Rao

Her body was a sea of red. Her white button down in tatters, filet open.

Her blue bra.

Exposed.

Her legs barely covered by the remnants of her skirt.

Exposed.

The matching blue underwear that should have been there but now nowhere to be seen.

Exposed.

Salvation was right in front of her.

She hoped.

She knew she didn’t deserve it but—she hoped.

Her mind cycling through images like flickering reel of film. The pain. The searing pain. The hands. The smell potent to her nostrils. The water overwhelming her lungs. The gravely voice in her ear. The hands. The cold metal shackling her legs, her wrists.

The hands.

She knew she was spiraling. She knew the darkness was consuming what little was left of her. Her strength giving its last gasp before her reserves were depleted.

Her body couldn’t even find another ounce of energy to pull her hand back the few tiny inches to knock.

Too far. Too much.

She did the only thing she could do, she called out to her best friend and hoped her superhearing could pick up the sound over the game night frivolity.

The voice that came out of her she didn’t recognize, much like the rest of her; it was breathy and raw, her chest screaming with the effort to expel it.

Almost there.

“K-kara…” Lena felt her vignetting vision pulse and close in on her further like the shutter of a camera.

How much time passed since she said her best friends name? Seconds? Minutes? Her mind was unlatching from reality. Was she even at Kara’s door? Maybe she was still…there…back there?

She felt herself falling forward, the door disappeared as if it was never really there at all. Or maybe it was her that wasn’t really there?

Falling. She was falling.

She waited for the ground to claim her, to eat what puny remains was left of her—it isn’t much.

But the ground never came. Instead she felt strong, warm arms catch her so delicately it could have been a cloud that kept her from the ground and she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

In a way it was as similar to a cloud you could get—her friend who touched the sky and danced with skyscrapers.

She scraped the bottom of her reserves and used the last drop of energy to open her eyes.

She just wanted to see her.

One more time.

One last time?

Blue eyes like the sky on a clear summer day right before the sun went down, twinkling its few sacred stars so they could be seen through the atmosphere. It was a gift to see both night and day at once. That was Kara.

She could see Kara’s mouth moving but there was no sound. It was as if her ears couldn’t hear anything past the thumping of her own heart. She watched as the blonde turned her head like Kara was saying something behind her. Yelling maybe?

Oh, she wished she could hear her beautiful voice, even then.

She dug so deep to bring her hand up to the warm cheek under those soul piercing eyes that seemed different in the moment. Trying to calm them but like a storm rolling through those eyes looked for release.

She rubbed her thumb gently underneath, catching a tear before it traveled too far down Kara’s soft cheeks.

“D-don’t cr-…cry”, Lena whispered as her lips stuck together with the stickiness of blood like glue curing on a canvas.

But her eyes are too heavy, her body finally giving in, the darkness being just another thing to claim her tonight.

#mind body battle #not giving up #not giving in #i’m just tired #SoundCloud #supercorp #supergirl #lena luthor #kara danvers #katie mcgrath #no sleep club #chronic pain

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cdyssey · 1 month

Text

I think that “The Waters of Mars” and “Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead” are soooooo interesting to view in parallel to each other because they have a lot of complementary beats. (CW: Suicide Reference for “Waters of Mars”)

The Doctor arrives at ‘x’ place—a cold, dark Library, a doomed base on Mars—and meets an extremely accomplished leader of a good crew in Adelaide and River. Both women are necessarily hardened by their experiences and responsibilities in some ways but clearly care for their loved ones and their colleagues all the same.

The Doctor knows almost everything there is to know about Adelaide from an impersonal standpoint—her history, her death, her cosmic place in the wider universe. He initially looks at the Bowie crew and is visibly stricken by the inevitable tragedy of them all. River knows almost everything there is to know about the Doctor from a personal standpoint—he’s her husband, but god, he’s so young, and he doesn’t even know it. Know her. She has years upon wonderful and complicated years of history with this man, and he looks right through her. (She thinks it might kill her.)

As the respective episodes wear on, the Doctor has a clear connection with both River and Adelaide, both of whom can boss him around like people rarely do skskdjnsns. They’re smart and driven and won’t suffer any fools, but they’re remarkably human when it matters most. River speaks softly to Miss Evangelista as her ghost fades from the neural relay. Adelaide doesn’t shoot the infected Andy even though she could have.

But he’s also increasingly frustrated and upset by his helplessness when it comes to them. It scares and unnerves him that River is clearly someone extremely important from his future; he’s always been insecure about not knowing what’s in store, and River is a walking reminder of his lack of personal perspective, his inability to totally have control. He’s drawn to her. She’s so clever and brave and good. He fears what she represents all the same. He snaps at her, clearly distrusts her. River calls him out on being emotional. The Doctor knows that he should leave Bowie Base One. There’s nothing he can do for these wonderful people. What happens on Mars has to stay on Mars; a fixed point is just that—an immutable event in time. But as he gets to know Adelaide—who is also so clever and brave and good—that responsibility becomes muddied by his increasing care and admiration for the captain. He grows taciturn as he watches the mission all fall to pieces. He’s emotional.

But why is he emotional? What’s another central tension that these episodes share? Both “Waters” and “Forest” either directly or intertextually deal with the Doctor simply reeling over the loss of Donna. The wrenching grief of having failed yet another someone that he loves drives the Doctor’s anger and affects his ability to think objectively. River tells him to focus on the present, on the five people who are still alive in the room. (“Dear God, you’re hard work young.”) And the last scene of “Waters” is in stunning and raw conversation with “The Runaway Bride.” Ten alone and grieving is a recipe for disaster. Donna is the first person who’s explicitly told him that he needs someone to stop him. Because if he isn’t stopped, he becomes his own waking nightmare. He becomes the Time Lord Victorious.

The climaxes of both “Forest” and “Waters” are about the Doctor wanting to change history. “Time can be rewritten,” he pleads. And River, angrier and more desperate than we have ever seen her before, pleads back, “Not those times. Not one line. Don’t you dare.” By making him watch her sacrifice, she implicitly shows him that this moment in time is inevitable, and he’ll one day do the same to her in a lake in Florida. (It’s horrible and it’s awful, but, god, if it isn’t an act of unspeakable love and forgiveness too.) But Ten in “Waters” doesn’t have anyone to stop him—not Donna, not River, not even initially Adelaide, even though she desperately tries by blowing up the base. The laws of time will obey the Doctor. He’s a Time Lord, and he makes the rules. This revelation elevates all of his worst impulses—his arrogance, his vanity, and his pride—and for a moment, as we watch him gleefully preen to a horror-struck Adelaide, Yuri, and Mia, we understand that he’s become the villain in someone else’s story. Someone has to stop him, and that Adelaide does. She understands that there are too many things at stake for the future—her granddaughters’ life, the lives of so many others—in the same way that River wasn’t willing to relinquish one fragment of hers and the Doctor’s history. The Doctor realizes the magnitude of what the captain did—what he forced her to do—immediately. He went too damn far.

“Forest” and “Waters” both end with the Doctor running. Running to River, trying to save this person who will clearly mean so much to him one day. Running away from his fate in “Waters,” unwilling to accept the death that soon awaits him. (“Oh, I’m good!” He exclaims jubilantly when he realizes that his future self has saved the professor. / “Oh, I’m good!” He grins at Mia, Yuri, and Adelaide, so pleased that he’s saved them, that he’s single-handedly changed a fixed point.) But the shared impact of these stories is that both River and Adelaide teach the Doctor a lesson about the inevitability of time—its forward march, no matter how much he wishes otherwise. They give him perspective, these remarkable women—and to a being such as the Doctor who is sensitive to the whole breadth of the universe—that’s often the most important gift that he ever receives.

#doctor who #adelaide brooke #tenth doctor #river song #maggie blogs #s: doctor who #I watched waters of mars yesterday and I was SO emotional #genuinely one of my favorite stories of the rtd era #cw suicide #suicide tw

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