[𝝑𝑒] :: true form!sukuna finds out his favorite pregnant concubine is injured :: tags. fluff, angst, reader gets called ‘woman’ :: ac. @/greybookman on x
you want that damn scroll.
one of the old texts on yokai lore sukuna left half-unrolled on a high shelf days ago. boredom and the restless energy of pregnancy drives you to it. standing on the tips of your toes, with one hand braced against the lacquered cabinet, you stretch up.
your belly, round and full at nearly eight months, shifts heavily. the baby kicks hard as if protesting.
“just... a little more—“
the wood creaks. your foot slips on the woven tatami mat and then the world tilts.
you hit the floor with a sharp cry, pain lancing through your side and wrist. the scroll clatters beside you. for a moment you lie there, breathlessly. your hand instinctively cradles your belly. the baby moves again. it’s still strong and alive.
relief floods you, but it’s followed quickly by fear.
because your hear them. those heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. too fast and way too purposeful.
the sliding doors slam open with enough force to rattle the entirre frame. sukuna stands there, all four beefy arms tense, crimson eyes blazing with immediate and lethal irritation. the mouth on his abdomen twists into a snarl before the one on his face even opens.
he takes one look at you on the floor, at the displaced cabinet, the way you clutch your wrist and the temperature in the room seems to drop.
“what,” he growls, “is the meaning of this, woman?”
you try to push yourself up. trying to make yourself seem presentable, “it’s nothing, my lord. i only—“
“do not.”
two of his arms move before you can finish. one massive hand catches your shoulder while the other slides beneath your knees. he lifts you as if you weigh nothing before carrying you to the thick futon piled with silks. the third hand hovers over your belly, not quite touching, while the fourth grips your injured wrist with surprising gentleness. though his expression promises murder.
you wince as he probes the swelling. a bruise is seemingly already blooming.
sukuna’s eyes narrow at the bruise on your wrist. something inside him twists, “you fell.”
“well, i reached for a scroll,” you admit quietly as you hold your head down in shame, “didn’t think—“
“yeah. you obviously didn’t think,” his voice is deceptively calm now. the kind of calm that precedes slaughter.
he sets your wrist down and rises to his full imposing height. the black tattoos shift across his skin as his muscles flex, “tsk. y’re crawling about like some reckless servant chasing trinkets, and look where that got ya.”
the air grows thick with that ominous cursed energy you’ve grown used to. outside in the gardens, you hear a distant scream. you swallow thickly. that was an unfortunate soul who was probably been lingering too close at the wrong moment.
sukuna doesn’t even glance toward the sound. his focus remains locked on you.
he kneels again, red eyes boring into yours. one hand cups your chin to tilt your face up, “do you have any idea what i would do to this entire fuckin’ country if you lost that child?”
your heart stutters.
you know he isn’t exaggerating. sukuna’s affection is a double edged blade. it’s obsessive, violent and all-consuming. you have seen villages erased for lesser offenses than inconveniencing his property.
“y-yes, but i’m alright,” you whisper, “the baby kicked just now. it’s still strong and kicking."
as if to prove it, another solid thump presses against your belly. sukuna’s big hand moves immediately, his warm palm spreading over the curve.
for a long moment there’s silence. then he exhales through his nose, a sound closer to a growl.
“you will not leave this chamber without my presence until the birth.” it isn’t a suggestion. “servants will bring you everything. if you desire a scroll, they will fetch it. if you desire the moon itself, they will bleed trying.”
you reach up with your good hand to brush fingers along one of his wrists. you tilt your head as you look up at him, “you’re angry.”
“furious.”
the word drips with venom. yet he lowers himself beside you on the futon, two arms pulling you carefully against his chest while the other two adjust pillows behind your back. the contrast is dizzying. his body radiates power and heat, capable of tearing mountains, but he handles you like a fragile thing.
“i should chain you to this bed,” sukuna mutters, lips brushing your temple, “perhaps then you’d stop testin’ me.”
a small smile tugs at your lips despite the dull ache in your wrist. “you’d miss my stubbornness too much,” you chuckle softly.
the king of curses huffs. the mouth on his stomach licks its lips, tasting the air—probably the lingering trace of your blood from a scraped elbow.
you lean into him and lett the solid bulk of his true form surround you. four arms are useful for this, at least. one idly strokes your hair, another rests over your belly, the third keeps your injured wrist elevated and the fourth simply holds you close.
minutes pass in comfortable silence. his cursed energy fluctuates wildly. you can feel the rage still simmering, but it’s more contained. you can feel it coiling around the room like invisible smoke, ready to lash out at the first person who enters.
a hesitant knock sounds at the door.
“enter,” sukuna barks.
a trembling servant girl slides the door open, carrying a tray of bandages and herbal salve. her eyes widen at the sight of sukuna holding you so intimately. she nearly drops everything.
“give it here,” he snaps while extending one arm without releasing you. the girl approaches on her knees, head bowed low, and places the tray within reach before scrambling back.
sukuna tends to your wrist himself.
his touch is precise, almost clinical, wrapping the linen with surprising care. every so often his gaze flicks to your face to check for discomfort. the fury hasn’t left his eyes, but it has shifted. it’s now directed outward. toward the world that has dared let you fall.
when he finishes, sukuna pulls you closer again. “if this swells worse by morning, i’ll flay the physician who attends you. slowly.”
you chuckle softly as exhaustion creeps in. too much happened in a small amount of time for your heavily pregnant self, “‘kay, noted.”
he stays like that long after your breathing evens out. sukuna rarely sleeps much, but tonight he remains vigilant and his hand never leaves your belly.
. . .
by the next morning, word has spread through the estate like wildfire. no one is to allow you out of the inner chambers without the king of curses’ permission.
extra guards patrol the halls. when a maid brings breakfast, she keeps her eyes on the floor and moves with exaggerated slowness, terrified of triggering his wrath.
you watch sukuna from the futon as he paces, big arms crossed in various combinations. he has already executed one overzealous attendant who suggested you might have ‘overexerted’ yourself earlier in the week. the body has been removed before you woke.
“ryo.. come here,” you call softly, trying carefully to calm that rage by using that nickname you made up for him. instead of the usual politeness.
sukuna pauses. then, with a reluctant grunt, he returns to your side. you take one of his large hands and place it back on your belly.
"feel it. he’s fine. we’re fine.”
sukuna’s expression remains stormy, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally, “if anythin’ changes...”
“‘you’ll destroy the world’. . . i know.”
a rare, sharp-toothed smirk tugs at his lips, “good. you’re learning.”
childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else
warnings. angst, fluff, rejection, she fell first he fell harder, caleb is down bad, groveling, miscommunication, caleb sucks at feelings, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, he gives her a nickname adjacent to pipsqueak
preview. "I love you," he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You want to tell him that it's not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you're sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room is not fair. "Then prove it to me."
wc. 8.4k (she's hefty...)
You proposed to Caleb for the first time when you were nine years old, with a flower ring.
The winter air had nipped at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into ice, holding it out to him. Your breath had puffed into the air like a dragon, and you nuzzled your chin further into the wool of your scarf to keep warm. It had been the only flower left after fall had faded away, yet its white petals stood brilliantly in between your fingertips, weathering against the cold.
The child in front of you was closed off. Eyes narrowed, fists balled inside his pockets, and usually adorning a solemn look on his face. Though, it had certainly gotten better since you first met him as one of Grandma Josephine’s adoptive children. Back then, he hadn’t even spoken much—only keeping MC tight at his side, as if she might disappear if he didn’t. He wasn’t rude by any means…just, cautious. Too aware for a child of his age.
But without a doubt in your mind, he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen.
He’d raised his brows. “You just met me last week.”
“It’s love at first sight.”
He rejected you, naturally, but it did little to make a dent in your childish heart. Not when his purple hues gazed into your own, with a softness that didn’t seem intent on hurting you.
The next two decades becomes a perpetual cycle of this encounter—in which you learn that Caleb is a very caring person.
In that time, you learn a lot about him, aside from his gorgeous face. You find that he’s fond of nicknames. Pipsqueak for MC. Splints for you, when you launched yourself off a swing and broke your wrist trying to impress him. Safe to say, it didn’t impress anyone but your doctor, who was baffled you managed to fly so high into the air with your 11-year-old legs. Caleb held your other hand tight in the emergency room as you wailed helplessly, waiting for the doctor to ease the pain. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cry just a tad longer to keep your hand in his.
“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”
“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”
“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”
He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”
The broken wrist is so worth it.
With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.
“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to.
By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.
“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”
“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”
You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”
“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”
It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”
“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”
At this, your ears perk.
“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”
He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”
Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you.
The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.
Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb.
MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.
You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment.
Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.
MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.
The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.
“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”
“Awful. I went through war.”
Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”
“Yours.”
“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”
“Even you can’t save me for this class.”
“Is that a challenge?”
He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food? “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”
Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”
“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”
He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”
You shrug. “You tell me.”
His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”
“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”
“With your friends?”
“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”
He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”
You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”
“I’m done studying.”
“Liar.”
Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.
You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.
The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.
A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.
You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper.
He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.
Because he’s not Caleb.
It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.
You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.
But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.
“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”
He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.
You nod again. Smile again.
Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.
You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.
The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.
You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.
No messages.
Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.
Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.
And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.
[you]: hi
The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.
[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?
[futre hubs <333]: i can
You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him.
It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.
You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.
Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.
The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good.
But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.
You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.
Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble.
A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her.
You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.
“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“I told you to grab a jacket.”
“You nag too much.”
He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.
“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”
“You and your questions.”
“I want to know.”
He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”
You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”
“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”
“...Other than that.”
“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”
“Something else.”
“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”
Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens. “Splints?”
You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”
“I was just kidding around.”
“Jokes have some truth to them.”
“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”
Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.
Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.
But nothing comes.
The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.
You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct.
Caleb glances at you. Then away.
Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.
“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.
You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.
Another pause. God, it’s awkward.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”
Just not enough.
“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.
Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.
“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”
You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”
He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”
Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.
“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”
The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair.
Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.
“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”
Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.
Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.
So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.
The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.
The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”
He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.
Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner.
“I dunno.”
You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”
He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”
“Not hungry,” he mutters.
“Don’t care. Sit up.”
He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.
You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.
“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”
He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”
You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.
“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.
Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”
He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”
“Learned from the best.”
His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”
Your hand stills. “What?”
He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”
His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”
“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”
You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.
“Idiot,” you whisper.
He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.
“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”
“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”
You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.
“…Is she okay?”
It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.
“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.
“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”
You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.
“Like what?”
“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.
He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”
There it is. It’s always about her.
You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him.
“Does it matter?”
Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”
“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”
“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”
Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”
You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.
“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”
“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”
He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.
He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”
“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”
“You’re angry.”
You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”
“What?”
“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”
You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.
“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”
“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”
“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”
“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second.
“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”
“I am now.”
“What has gotten into you, splints?”
“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”
Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.
“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”
But you’re not over it. Not at all.
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.
“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”
The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him.
You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.
“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”
But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips.
“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”
You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.
A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins.
Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.
Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.
His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.
Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.
“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave.
You don’t wait to see if he hears you.
The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by.
You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.
If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?
Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.
You press it and shut your eyes.
Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.
Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable?
Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.
“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.
“No.”
He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”
You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right.
As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.
“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”
“I don’t read them.”
Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”
Silence.
“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”
You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone.
[1:41PM]
[caleb]: are you eating well?
[caleb]: i made this today
[caleb]: [image attached]
[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later
[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho
[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)
[8:13AM]
[caleb]: hi splints :)
[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it
[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining
[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3
[5:32PM]
[caleb]: ranked first today
[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/
[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol
[caleb]: hope you’re okay
[11:23PM]
[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid
[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then
[caleb]: i still don’t
[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that
[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…
[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then
[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say
[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol
[caleb]: it was never about her
[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person
[caleb]: miss you a lot
[caleb]: sleep tight
You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.
“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech.
“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”
“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”
You don’t respond.
Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.
‘I love you.’
The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.
Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.
Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.
Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.
Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.
You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.
Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.
“…We’re a mess.”
A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”
“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.
Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod.
Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.
“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”
Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”
“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”
He grins, lopsided. “You should.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.
You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”
He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”
“You nag too much.”
He kisses your nose. “Hm?”
“You’re emotionally repressed.”
“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.
“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”
Your jawline.
“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”
“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.
Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”
“I will,” he whispers, just as his mouth slots against yours, and a warmth blooms throughout your chest. You melt into him, like you always have and you always will. “I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life.”
i rarely see firebender wife x zuko so can i please request that? a scenario where she gets mad at him or something
a/n: hope you enjoy the request anon! <3
summary: a tense dinner results in a long overdue apology from your husband
The bitter taste of fruit tart on your tongue pales in comparison to the bitterness you feel in your heart as you stare at the empty seat across from you. This is the fifth day in a row you’ve had to eat dinner alone, and you’re starting to grow tired of your husband’s abandonment. You understand as Fire Lord Zuko has a responsibility to his nation, but as his wife he also has a responsibility to you. You never imagined becoming Fire Lady would feel so lonely, yet here you are enjoying your dessert on your own.
The gilded doors of the dining room swing open and announce the presence of the Fire Lord as he walks in with an apologetic smile that only seems to further fuel your anger. He’s an hour late to your dinner and yet there seems to be no sense of urgency as he comes to press a chaste kiss to your cheek.
“I’m sorry I’m late, the council meeting took longer than I anticipated,” he explains deprecatorily while taking his seat across from you. You only offer a brief hum of acknowledgement in response as you take a sip of your tea, peering over the rim to watch him take a bite of his meal. His chewing immediately falters in time with the grimace that appears on his face as he struggles to swallow. “My food’s a bit cold.”
“Why don’t I warm it up for you?” You offer with a pleasant smile only for your amicable facade to immediately fade as your sharpened gaze hones in on his plate. With a precise flick of your fingers a blast of fire strikes his dish, setting his food ablaze and effectively startling your husband in the process as he reels back from the flames.
Picking up the freshly charred piece of meat with a wince, Zuko takes a nervous swallow as he meets your gaze. “Alright, clearly you’re upset with me.”
“Really? What gave it away?” You ask with a sarcastic roll of your eyes. Sighing, your husband pushes his plate aside while lifting his remorseful gaze to meet your resentful stare. He hates bearing the responsibility for your anger, and he wants nothing more than to fix what is troubling you so you can both enjoy what is left of the evening together.
“I’m sorry I missed dinner. I know I promised to spend time with you, but there were urgent matters that needed my attention.”
“I need your attention, Zuko!” You remind him in exasperation. “It wasn’t just tonight’s dinner you’ve missed but every dinner this week! I know you have duties to fulfill as Fire Lord, but you promised me when we married that we’d be equals. Yet all I do is sit around the palace waiting for you to finish your council meetings in the hopes of receiveing a morsel of your time.“
“We are equals,” Zuko insists only to receive an indignant scoff from you in response.
“The most meaningful contribution I’ve made as Fire Lady so far is picking out a new china pattern for meals you can’t even bother to attend!”
You watch the guilt wash over Zuko’s face at your admittance, the room falling into a state of contemplative silence as neither of you speak. You know your actions may come off as childish or even selfish to some, but you don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect him to make time for you. Zuko has always adored you; he’d asked you to be his wife with the promise of cherishing you and spoiling you for the rest of your years, yet you found yourself becoming nothing but a pretty decoration in the palace. You wanted more than that, you deserved more than that, but it seemed the Fire Lord couldn’t keep his promises.
“I’m going to bed,” you announce sullenly, rising from your seat without meeting his silent stare. “I’ll ask the servants to fetch you another plate.”
You move to walk past him only for his hand to reach out and grab onto your arm. His hold is firm but gentle, effectively keeping you in place as you curiously peer over your shoulder at him. Zuko rises from his seat, still not daring to break the silence as he lifts a hand to carefully cup your cheek. Despite still feeling furious with him, you can’t resist melting into the heat of his palm. You’ve missed his touch after being apart nearly every day, so you don’t protest when he envelops you in his arms with a warm embrace.
“I’ve been careless, and I’ve foolishly allowed myself to forget your needs,” he confesses in earnest, tenderly rubbing the small of your back the way he knows you love. “I’m sorry for not being a good husband, but I’m going to make it up to you. I’ll cancel my meetings for the rest of the week and have the beach house prepared for a romantic getaway to Ember Island. No councils, no obligations— just the two of us together.”
“You really mean that?” You utter in surprise, eyes scanning his features for any signs of insincerity. Instead you’re met with his loving smile as his lips come to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Of course I do, my love. My obligations lie not only to our people but to you as well, and I’m sorry I allowed myself to lose sight of that. When we return from our trip I’ll make it so you can be present for every council meeting. As an intelligent strategist and master fire bender I know your input will help me continue to guide the Fire Nation into a new era of love and peace.”
“Thank you, Zuko,” you profess ardently, bestowing him with an impassioned kiss that has him pulling you closer against his frame.
A content sigh falls past his lips when you finally part, and it’s with great reluctance he finally lets you go. “I’ll let you pack your things while I make the arrangements for us to leave as soon as possible. I plan to spend the entire trip showing you just how sorry I am.”
Your stomach flutters with nervous excitement at his implications, the faint smirk on his lips clearly conveying his intentions for you once you’re both alone at the beach house. You don’t argue with him as you excuse yourself to begin preparing for the trip, already forgetting the fact that you’d initially been furious with him in the first place. You trust Zuko to keep his word to you, and you know that no matter how busy he gets your happiness will always be his first priority. You also trust he means it when he says he has plans to convey his remorse to you for the entirety of the trip in ways that are sure to earn your forgiveness.
You think you really should get into fights with your husband more often.
summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort
It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.
No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.
You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.
Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.
"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."
He blinks once. "Stuck?"
"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."
He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."
His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."
It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.
"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."
Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"
"I'm not your Damian."
Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.
That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.
"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.
That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.
You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.
"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.
Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.
Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.
You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.
Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.
Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.
"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."
The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.
"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.
"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."
He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."
This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.
"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.
He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.
Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.
"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."
Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.
"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."
Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.
Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—
Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.
Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.
It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.
A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.
Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.
He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.
"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."
You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.
"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"
His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.
"She's dead."
It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.
Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.
When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.
Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.
You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.
It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.
"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.
There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.
"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.
Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.
"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."
You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.
"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."
His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.
"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"
Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.
"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.
Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."
"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."
"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.
"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.
"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"
He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."
You draw a short breath. "Shit."
Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.
You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.
He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.
"There is nothing here." He states.
"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."
His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.
"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.
Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.
You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.
"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."
You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.
The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.
"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.
Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"
"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."
That... sounds very Damian of him.
You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."
Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."
Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.
This time, you take his hand.
Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.
"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.
His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."
Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."
You raise a brow, confused.
He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."
Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.
"What do you want to know?" You shrug.
His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"
Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"
His smile strains a little, and you realise why.
"Ah." You murmur.
"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."
You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."
He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.
"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.
"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."
"So, why are you here?" You push.
A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."
You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.
"What else do you like?" He reiterates.
Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"
"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."
"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."
His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."
"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."
He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"
"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."
He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."
"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."
The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.
He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.
"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."
"I like that."
You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.
"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."
His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."
Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.
"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."
Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.
Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.
It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.
"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."
He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.
He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.
"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."
"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.
You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.
"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."
Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.
"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.
"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"
"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."
"At being fair?" He asks.
"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.
His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."
The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.
He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.
"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.
"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."
Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.
You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.
A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.
"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.
He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.
"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."
"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"
Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.
What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.
"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."
He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.
"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."
"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.
You blink, taken aback by his reaction.
"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."
"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."
His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.
"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."
Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.
"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."
His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."
"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."
"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."
"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."
He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.
"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."
He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"
"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."
He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.
"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."
He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.
"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.
You nod gently.
Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.
When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.
When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.
"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.
As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.
He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.
It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.
"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."
You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."
"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."
This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.
Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.
"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."
That settles it. In two days... you're going home.
"I hate waiting."
"I am aware." Damian murmurs.
"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.
"Alright."
Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.
His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."
You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."
"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.
"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"
"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."
"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.
"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.
"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.
He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.
Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.
"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.
The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.
"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.
Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.
Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.
"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.
"I never got to tell you." He starts.
Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.
"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."
"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."
The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.
He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."
"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."
Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.
"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."
"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."
You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.
Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.
You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.
How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?
Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.
A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.
"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.
He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.
Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.
What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.
"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."
That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.
He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.
"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."
"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."
It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.
In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.
Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.
But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
todoroki shoto x reader | taking care of drunk shoto
cw intoxication by alcohol, fluff, angst if you squint, shoto being lovesick and clingy and a little sad :(
[sho]: Hi love. Are you awake?
received 11:17pm
[sho]: i may have drunk a little. Kaaminri kept re fillong my cup
received 11:20pm
[sho]: I miss you.
received 11:40pm
[sho]: Can I come overr?
received 12:11am
“i think you may have drunk more than just a little,” you laugh, with shoto’s left arm slung over your shoulder. your right arm snakes behind his back, wrapping around his waist. shoto only hums as he slumps his head on top of yours, his weight heavy against your struggling body.
“okay. we’re almost there,” you say more to yourself than him. “just a little further.”
your staggering bodies stumble over to the living room, his sock-clad feet doing nothing but making the journey ten times harder. they slip every so often against the hardwood floors, and you have to haul him left and right just to make sure he doesn’t crack his head open from falling.
“alright, alright. there we go,” you huff out, gently lowering his loose body onto the couch. shoto hums again, nonsensically, as he sinks into the plush fabric.
but not before pulling you down with him.
you yelp in surprise as shoto lets out a soft oof when your body crashes onto his. you wince at the impact, one leg haphazardly over his, the other still awkwardly rooted to the floor. despite your position, he settles into his spot, using two strong arms to haul the rest of you up and to his chest.
he hardly seems bothered by the collision, letting his head fall back onto the cushion. but you still can’t help but ask worriedly, “are you okay? did that hurt—?”
“you’re pretty.”
a beat passes as you bite back a smile, turning your head up slowly. shoto’s already looking down at you, with flushed cheeks and messy bangs that flutter over his glassy eyes.
giggling, you shift on top of him, getting comfortable. your fingers come up to swipe his hair out of the way, his pale forehead now proudly displaying. a handsome sight.
he doesn’t blink at your movements, just simply stares at you in quiet awe.
you whisper, “baby, i think you’re drunk.”
“and i think you’re really pretty.”
his words come out blunt, slightly slurred. and your smile finally breaks across your face. you watch his eyebrows raise minutely, still in awe.
“do you get that feeling as well?” he asks, voice deep.
you tilt your head. “what feeling?”
shoto blinks. then he sighs, almost in frustration. “when you smile, my heart starts beating very fast. it concerns me sometimes. i think i should see a doctor.” he says this straightforwardly, very shoto. and is also completely oblivious to how endearing he sounds.
you perch your chin on his chest, looking at him with amused eyes.
“you’re being so cute right now, sho.”
“am i?”
nodding, your cheeks start aching from how hard you’ve been smiling. shoto tightens his arms around you, and you sink into his warm hold.
after a moment, you affirm him. “i get that feeling too.”
“you do?”
“mhm.”
shoto cocks his head to the side, serious as ever. “then i should give both our doctors a call tomorrow, no?”
this makes you laugh. teasing him, “i think it just means we love each other, no?”
shoto’s eyes then widen, odd astonishment written clearly on his face. it baffles you.
“you love me?” he asks quietly—in wonder.
your heart just about bursts. partly due to fondness, partly due to disbelief. “well, yes. i am your fiance,” you say affectionately, wiggling your hand up to flash the shiny ring on your left ring finger.
shoto takes your hand, brings it close to his face. he examines the ring, turning your fingers this way and that. after careful scrutiny, he pulls back, looking at you with fascination while exhaling slowly.
“i’m a lucky man,” he breathes out. so innocent in his reverence.
warmth swells in your chest. and another round of giggles escapes your lips, just as the smell of mint and sake hits your nose.
water, you abruptly think. should probably get him some water. that headache’s going to be mean tomorrow morning.
without warning, you squirm out of his arms and sit up. he follows, though clumsily.
“where are you going?” shoto asks, and you’re taken aback by the sudden alertness in his tone. you try to ease him onto the couch again, but he relents—stubborn.
“getting you some water,” you softly say, trying to be reassuring—trying to smooth out the sudden furrow in his eyebrows with your thumb. “i’ll be right back—”
“don’t leave me.”
you pause, eyes widening.
shouto’s eyes are glistening now, more than just an intoxicated sheen. and your heart drops at the subtle panic in his voice, your other hand coming up to cradle his cheek.
“no… no, i’m not leaving you. i just think you need some water right now—”
“can i come with you?” he asks lowly—shyly.
you shake your head, a little perplexed. “no my love, stay here on the couch. i’ll be quick—”
“please, don’t leave me,” he quickly says again, slurring.
your face twists, mouth soundlessly opening and closing as your mind tries to grapple with the sudden shift in mood.
he’s never usually like this. then again, he’s never usually drunk. but there’s an underlying tone in his voice, a desperation that seeps through—a little too raw. a little too real.
shoto chases after his own words before you can fully process them. “i love you. i know i have trouble expressing it. and i don’t say it enough, but i do. i really do…”
his hands grasp onto yours. an iron-grip hold. words tumble out of his mouth, his usual calmness far from seen, his usual quietness far from heard. you would've found it intriguing, if not for the utter dejection and anxiety on his face.
“you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he says with furrowed eyebrows. “you see me for who i am. i love you. and i can’t imagine—”
alarm bells start going off in your head.
“hey…” you try to shush him. but his clutch tightens impossibly so, gleaming eyes never leaving yours.
“you showed me what love could be. what it should be. and i don’t want to ever lose you. i don’t want to mess this up—”
“shoto—”
he quickly cuts you off, breathing heavily. “perhaps i can change your mind? what can i do?”
the hopeless look in his eyes absolutely crushes you.
with a heavy heart, you stroke his hair, smoothing down the red and white tufts. it’s your first time seeing him like this, and it aches you to think that he would ever think you’d leave. even if this conversation was unfolding while he was drunk.
“sho, you don’t have to do anything—”
“but—”
“i’m not leaving,” you say firmly, looking him straight in the eyes. “i won’t ever leave. no matter what, okay?”
shoto blinks. then blinks again. his voice is quiet—tentative when he asks, “you mean it?”
“yes,” you say delicately, steeling your resolve when he searches your face.
moments pass. excruciatingly long moments. until finally, his shoulders relax, if just barely. you find yours untensing as well, as he tugs you onto his lap. you give in, because you can never find it in yourself not to when it comes to him.
landing sideways with a thump, his arms immediately encircle your waist, head nestling into the crook of your neck. you rub his back, trying to slow his breathing, feeling his erratic heartbeat through your palm.
“you’re not leaving?” he mutters into your skin.
“never.”
shoto sighs. thankfully, in what seems to be in relief. “you mean it? truthfully?”
you whisper, “yes.”
seconds tick by. your single, but assuring, words linger in the air.
then, softly, you hear:
“...you love me?”
you look up, blinking back tears, arms tightening around his head as you cradle him close. the quiver in your lip just won’t stop, and you hope to the stars that your voice won’t come out shaky.
“yes.”
after swallowing the ball in your throat, you gently lift his head, meeting his vulnerable gray and turquoise eyes.
“forever and always.”
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆｡˚ ⋆
after some time, shoto eventually calms down, the both of you not moving from your spot on the couch. a long debate ensues, the end result with him trailing behind you at 2am, gripping tightly onto one of your hands. your other hand solitarily moves around the kitchen: grabbing a cup, filling it with water, then bringing it up to his lips.
shoto sips, slowly. looking at you the whole time. doesn’t even notice that he finishes the entire cup until you pry it away. you convince him to drink another, and he nods wordlessly, like a puppy.
eventually, your feet pad quietly across the kitchen, and into your bedroom. eventually, he falls asleep in your arms, his intoxicated haze finally taking over. you stroke his hair tenderly, embrace him earnestly—hoping that even in his drunken sleep, he’ll be able to feel it:
ღ summary: You’re in hysterics over Satoru’s cupcake in a jar.
ღ pairing: Gojo Satoru x wife!sorcerer!reader
ღ warnings: Idk if this is angsty or unserious. Being too empathic (positive), pet names like “pretty” and “wifey”
Your morning begins with the sound of low humming and soft drips of water coming from the bathroom. It’s constant—the water pouring out and drumming onto the wet tiles, that is. Satoru’s voice, on the other hand, has a life of its own. It goes high and low, lyrics and then humming, loud, and then quiet again once he remembers that you’re still sleeping right outside.
5:03AM
It’s very early. Too early for you to be up and leaving the comfort of your bed. You consider closing your eyes again, but you realize that Satoru is here. With you, separated by the walls of your bedroom. After weeks of endless late nights and waking up beside an empty bed, suddenly the sound of his singing doesn’t annoy you anymore, instead it makes you yearn for the normalcy of your married life.
Then again, “normalcy” means something different when you’re two overworked sorcerers.
And now the feeling of wanting to spend every second possible with him makes you feel very awake.
Satoru is still taking his sweet time inside the shower once you pattern down to the kitchen, switching on the cupboard lights. You rub at your eyes, and when the darkness finally ebbs away, you spot something starkly standing out against the ritzy furnishing of the room.
It’s a cupcake. Inside an old plastic jar that looks too tall for it.
At first, you wanna laugh. It’s funny, and actually really cute. You think about the way he probably rummaged through the cupboards trying to find the perfect container for his cupcake, one that won’t smush it in any way. Logistically it’s perfect, wide enough to encase the width of the cake, but leaves a lot (maybe too much) space on the top to preserve the hardened frosting and all its sprinkles. He could probably fit another cupcake on top if he wanted to. You don’t even remember having this one at all, it must’ve been an old plastic jar you stored away behind the clutter and forgot about.
It reminds you of what a little kid would do if they wanted to save a sweet treat for later, grabbing whatever was the most convenient around.
You’re melting at the right, but then you start to question it. Why did he pack just one singular cupcake? Where’s his lunch? Was he not going to eat anything else?
Your heart butts in, thinking about why the only reason he packed his “lunch” like this is because he simply doesn’t have the time to properly prepare one. That once he’s out there, wherever the world demands him to be, he won’t even have the mind to take care of himself, let alone spare an hour for lunch. He wouldn’t have someone to take a break with. Everyone is already stretched too thin, and he’s going to be someplace else before you can reach him.
And the worst part is, the cupcake (singular) isn’t even freshly baked. It’s a leftover you brought home a few days ago.
It makes you want to cry.
And maybe you are being a bit dramatic. You’re not sure what’s gotten into you this morning. But you really can’t blame yourself for feeling an unimaginable amount of affection and love for the man you get to call your husband. Not when it’s during moments that really remind you that Satoru is human. That somewhere behind those walls, beneath that immeasurable power is a man who’s living life for the first time, too. A man who has a notebook filled with things he wants to learn later on, who still wears that outfit combo you once said he “looked really handsome in”, and one who plays with the digivice you got him in the middle of the night just as you’re falling into a dreamless sleep.
Your body moves before you can even think, and you’re already pulling out a pan and turning on the stove to cook him something more edible than a stale, half frozen cupcake.
By some miracle, you finished packing the food into a lunch box when Satoru comes out of your bedroom.
You can smell the remnants of fragrant steam from his shower, and the familiar scent of his cologne almost puts a smile on your face. But the second you really take a look at him, you’re back to aching inside again.
Satoru doesn’t have a single clue on the internal turmoil you’re going through.
He has a big grin plastered on, very happy to be greeted by the sight of you in his digimon shirt and a pair of sleep shorts that ride up just the perfect amount. He’s already dressed in his uniform, though his jacket is unbuttoned and he hasn’t put his blindfold on so there’s nothing to keep his white hair from springing up the way it usually does. It’s so soft, the way they frame his face and contrasts the bright blue of his eyes. It makes him look more gentle—boyish. Reminiscent of his jujutsu high days when everything seemed much easier.
He notices you straight away, of course. There is no world where he wouldn’t find you first.
There’s an evident eagerness in his steps as he approaches the kitchen, mussing his hair up from the front though it somehow falls back perfectly. Satoru grins widely, nose turned up at the smell of your cooking. But you have a suspicion that it’s you who makes him happier when he can’t keep his eyes off you the whole walk.
“Wifey~ I don’t think I’ll make it back by dinner,” Satoru starts, apologetic. “but promise I’ll text at least 10 times today!” He recovers from his solemn tone and beelines straight towards you, making grabby hands and pouting his lips to ask for a kiss.
He sounds so positive, humoring you so the thought of being left alone won’t make you feel sad. You really, really want to let him sink right into you and give him all the kisses of the world, but all you can think of is how lonely he must feel having lunch all by himself, somewhere halfway across the world.
And that damn cupcake in a jar.
He lets out a quiet “oomf” at the sheer force in which you barrel straight at him.
“Woah, slow down, honey.” He laughs, cushioning your fall before snaking his hands down to your hips and squeezing. “I know I’m prized commodity these days~”
You don’t even play around anymore. Being in his arms makes everything feel too real. And it reminds you of how important these mundane moments are—how fleeting they can be.
Does he even know how precious he is?
“Eh?”
You can feel the way he tenses immediately after hearing your first sniffle.
Satoru coos at you softly, right hand gently raking down the back of your head as his right holds you by the waist. He noses at your hair, planting kisses on the crown of your head while asking you every possible version of “what’s wrong?”.
You don’t relent for a while though, too busy drowning in your own emotions and trying to squeeze him against you—trying to merge your bodies into one.
You don’t want to face him just yet. You’re just a bit embarrassed, a whole lot sad, very much in love. Actually every single emotion at the same time.
He rests his palm on the back of your neck, patiently waiting on you to look up at him. Satoru shakes his head affectionately, murmuring against your hair to explain to him why you’re so sad. He doesn’t stop trying, even when you stubbornly shake your head on his chest. But it doesn’t take you long to relent,—because you always crave being spoiled by him—and once you do, he almost quivers at how sad you look. Snot faced and all.
You manage to push out the words through slow breaths, sniffing away the remnants of your outburst.
“You’re just so.. cute. My husband. My handsome boy.” Your thumb traces careful lines on his skin, starting from the corners of his eyes to his temple. “So cute and strong and good and takes care of me so well.”
Satoru feels his chest seize, and then release fully, a breath so big that it feels like every burden he’s ever carried has finally gone.
You're not praising him for his power, or for his position in this world. But for being good. A good husband, a good friend, a good lover. A good person.
You have the ability to dismantle and build him up again every single time.
“I guess I am pretty cool, huh?”
It hits you then, how soft he sounds. How small. Like he truly believes the words he’s saying, not just as an offhand rhetoric thrown out in lighthearted conversations.
This really shouldn’t make you sad. Brought to tears and ruin. But damn his stupid big blue eyes and the undying love in them every time he talks to you.
A sudden burst of shy clinginess has you latching back right into the crook of his neck, as your hands tighten impossible harder around his shoulders.
“What’s going on, pretty?” He whispers and coos at you still, running his fingers gently through your hair. He stops right at the back, holding your head closer.
“Isawyourcupcakeinajarandgotsad.” You mumble against his neck, and your husband chuckles at your childish actions.
“Can’t hear you from all the way up here,” Satoru definitely can hear you, but he won’t stop until you say it to his face.
He gently uses the hand on your neck to massage the area, wordlessly asking for you to look up at him. When you finally do, his hands stay right where they are. A small reminder that he’ll always be there for you.
“I saw your cupcake in a jar and got sad.”
The pout on your face can move mountains. Satoru has to physically hold back after his heart practically jumps out of his chest at the speed in which it starts to beat. Naturally, he’ll take this chance to tease you, even when you’re all mushy and sappy against him.
“You cryin’ over my 2 day old cupcake?”
And at that your lips wobble, immediately driven to tears again.
It takes a solid 10 minutes for Satoru to hold you through your tears. And every time you think you’re finished, you manage to burst into sobs again because he is so gentle with you. So soft in the way he holds you by the waist, and even how he caresses the back of your head—like he’s afraid one wrong tug will cause you even more hurt. It doesn’t help that you’re aware of just how silly you’re being right now. How you’re making him late to be the hero of this world. Yet despite all of that, he still listens, still answers your unintelligible mumbling and cries with words that make you feel entirely heard.
He even coos at you with that tone that soothes the deepest part of your heart, the one who loves so much and asks for it the same way.
Inside though, he’s completely torn between wanting to laugh at how cute you are or comforting you because you’re crying real life tears at his face. Full on sobbing and clawing at his shirt like your life depended on it.
In the end, both reactions come out simultaneously. Whenever you let out a particularly dramatic cry, you can feel his body shaking from holding back his laughter. When you pout up at him after he finishes consoling his baby, you can see the pure restraint in his expression, the way his tongue pokes the insides of his cheeks to stay still. Of course when little giggles do manage to burst out, you punch his chest weakly. And then he soothes you all over again when he brings your violent hands to his lips.
It’s silly, so silly in retrospect. He hadn't put much thought into the cupcake that morning, yet here you are, absolutely distraught over his poorly packed dessert. He can just brush it off as a passing thing—just you having a cuteness aggression that’s enough to drive you to tears.
But Satoru is a weak, weak man for you.
He is already prepared to give you the world if you look at him in any way, so the sight of you in tears is enough to bring him onto his knees. You don’t even have to ask, and he’d fulfill each and every one of your whims, regardless if they seem big or small. Silly or serious. Simply because you are worthy of being celebrated, chosen and loved in all the possible ways.
Satoru doesn’t even care that he’s late.
He would put the entire world on hold just for you.
He sways you against him, and the motion calms you enough for your sobs to die down. You’re left sniffling against his now-damp uniform, squished between his chin on top of your head and his arms around your body. Breathing in, heart to heart. As if you’re trying to make him understand all the love that will never be enough to express with words through the gesture alone. And he can understand, because he knows you in ways that nobody else does.
“I made you lunch. I know you’ll be really busy but I still want you to eat something nutritious.” You say against the column of his neck, grounding yourself as you feel the low hum of his voice through the skin.
You turn around quietly, and Satoru adjusts his arms so that they rest on your stomach. He watches your movements keenly, chin hooked over your right shoulder. His warm breaths tickle you, but you don’t shrug him off. You just huff in response, and Satoru replies by nuzzling his face further into the side of your neck.
Still caged in his arms, you open the lunch box to show him the express meal you cooked with the little time you had.
It’s a simple dish. Salmon fillet, vegetable salad on the side and a hearty serving of rice. You even put his lonely cupcake in the bag, knowing he’d still eat it regardless.
“It’s not a lot, but I just want the best for you.” You tell him quietly.
“You are the best for me.”
Satoru immediately spins your body around to face him. He hunches his shoulders down to make himself smaller—closer—holding you by your cheeks and bumping your noses together.
He doesn’t stop until he sees your smile through your tears, eyes crinkling as the happiness sparks its way back.
You are so pretty. Even with swollen eyes and furrowed brows—especially like that. There’s so much beauty in the quiet ways you take care of him. How your actions say “I’m here for you”, louder than any words.
“I love you.” Satoru reminds you once more.
He repeats the words, pressing a kiss to each part of your face.
“I love you,” your cheeks “I love you,” your forehead “I love you,” your nose “I love you,” and your lips.
He stays there for a little longer, pressing so hard that you have to hold onto his biceps when the force of his love bends you backwards.
“I love you sooo so much.” Satoru singsongs, finally detaching from your lips with a loud and exaggerated “mwah”.
“I can’t believe I get to call you mine.” He smiles at you, a little smug and undoubtedly sweet.
“I can’t believe I get to call you mine.” You retort, though your voice comes out slightly gibberish as he’s still squishing your cheeks together.
Instead of accepting, your husband decides to challenge you in your love. “Uh no, me even more.”
“Me, times like, a million.” You raise a brow, poking his cheek.
And like all your arguments, it continues as a one-upping competition, before you forget what you were squabbling about once he decides to be a sore loser and starts tickling you.
When he takes mercy and holds you tightly against him instead of violently assaulting you with tickles, you’re breathless and heavy, with a big grin decorating your face. “We should get married again, or something.”
“If this is your way of telling me you wanna recreate our honeymoon night, you can just ask~”
You reward him with a light slap against his butt. And Satoru shamelessly revels in it, because that wasn’t a no to his offer.
Your home is quiet for a few moments, and in between the silence is the occasional sound of your sniffles, and his gentle lips against your forehead following every time.
“Promise to call me when you eat?” A gentle tap of your nose against his.
“Pinky promise.”
And he does just that. Some time during the day, your phone rings and Satoru greets you with an up close look of his grin. He’s already taken off his blindfold, though you tell him to put it right back on because you know how sleep deprived and overwhelmed he is. Satoru whines and denies at first, but you push with a sealing argument, saying that “he’ll get to see your pretty face just fine with those six eyes of his”. He relents, because he can never say no to you.
It doesn’t shock you nearly as much as it used to when your husband flips the camera around, showing him sitting right on the edge of a very tall skyscraper. You chastise him, but he just laughs in your face and tells you to eat more sweets to make up for him being away.
This is how it is.
Just you and him against the world. Miles away, but under the same sky. Imperfectly perfect together.
Based on this lady’s tiktok where she gets sad seeing her husband set out a granola bar for work, and all the comments underneath. (+muffin pic creds)
🥹 in the end, he’s just a boy with love and dreams too 💔
masterlist @ pls don't repost or feed my works into ai thaaank you
My mind keeps going back to the little blurb I read where Qifrey and reader get caught making out by the girls and how they never get time to actually do anything fun(if YK what I mean) bc the girls always need him or Olruggio somehow catches them , I find it hilarious and I was wondering if you could do a fic like this bc the creator said that the blurb would probably never be continued
I would highkey give you my soul if you did this (but ofc if you don't wanna that's understandable!)
I seriously love your Qifrey fics tho 🤍🫶
hey, so i took way longer on this than i should have and i wrote far more than i needed to, so congratulations LMAO
We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Program
Summary: You would have to take a crowbar to Qifrey in order to pry him off of you. Hilariously, there are four children in the house who know the exact moment to interrupt you.
Pairing: Qifrey/Reader, Qifrey/Original Female Characters
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: T/M
Word count: 3239
Monday, 5:32pm
The kitchen is quiet, the children you just finished feeding are now off playing in the fields that surround the atelier. There’s a soft hum coming from one of Qifrey’s water spells as it rolls dishes within its sphere. You stand with your gaze towards the window, watching the birds catch the evening breeze. Every so often you hear laughter echo from the fields, the girls’ voices filled with nothing but amusement.
You’re drying plates over the sink but your hand stills when you feel an invisible weight bare down on your shoulders.
Hm, he’s staring again.
Qifrey sits behind you at the table, like he always does when a meal is finished, and watches. If he doesn’t need to start a lesson or have a pressing matter to attend to, he waits for you to finish. You adore it, truly. It gives you uninterrupted time with him and a moment to talk about the day. And, well, gossip a little.
But right now, he didn’t seem to have the energy to chat but he did have the energy for other things.
Qifrey very rarely shows intimate affection publicly, even within the home he keeps it limited. A kiss on the cheek here, a hug there. Things that would be done in passing. He is…passionate, yes, but he has an excellent way of communicating his needs without outwardly expressing them. He’s all looks and innuendos and when spoken in that smooth cadence of his you melt every time.
He does have his moments, however, where his own desires become so overwhelming that they spill from him like a broken faucet. Running into a glass that can never be filled. And when that happens, he can’t help but act on them.
You never mind when he does, you quite like it when he loses a little control.
You feel Qifrey’s hand smooth over your hips and settle on your stomach. He presses into your back, his chest molding against you as he rests his head on your shoulders. He plants a kiss at the junction, his teeth skimming your flesh. You pull away, but only half heartedly, as you laugh, “Qifrey, enough. I need to finish this.” There is no bite in your tone.
Qifrey persists, his lips ghosting your ear as he chuckles. You feel a chill shoot up your spin. “You look beautiful.”
You snort, “I’m covered in cooking grease and smell like flour dough.”
“Still so very beautiful,” he mutters, trailing kisses down your neck and across your shoulder, pulling down your loose top so he can access it easier. You make no move to shove him off. You even lean into it, actually.
When you place your last dish in the clean pile beside you, you lay your towel down and turn to face your husband. Your hips rest against the stone counter, cool in comparison to the Qifrey’s heat.
The simple motion only fuels him more, and he pushes forward. You laugh and hold him back, “What has gotten into you!” He mutters something low and desperate and suddenly your lips are covered by his. You melt immediately, and curse your own weakness. His touch is hot and relentless and a soft moan leaves you when Qifrey’s hands float up and down your sides. Your hands rise to his face, cup his cheeks and you curl into him as he surges. You’re pressed so closely together that if you weren’t careful you would mold into one. Honestly, you wouldn’t complain if you did.
When he pulls away for a split second, you gasp, “Q-qifrey, what in the world—ah!” You gasp when he hikes up your right leg, leaving you unbalanced for a second before he wraps it around his waist. You rotate your hips to keep from falling, and he tucks his head into the crook of your neck again. You hear him groan as he adjusts and hooks the two of you together.
You feel his hand dance down the side of your curled leg. His fingers hovering before finding the end of her long skirts and slipping them beneath the layers. He pushes fabric up, inch by agonizing inch, revealing your embroidered stockings beneath. His hand searches and searches until he finds your warm thigh hidden beneath it all. His long lithe fingers wrap around your leg and squeeze. You jerk and scold him, “Qifrey!’ He does it again but this time it’s slow and tactile. You feel each pad of his fingers press gently into your skin before he caresses the side of your thigh. Outer, then inner, far too close to the heat of your body. You feel him smile when you whine.
Your head falls back and you let him do as he wishes, pushing and pulling against your body, biting steadily into your flesh. The one hand not supporting your weight against the counter finds purchase in his soft hair, you twirl the strands between your fingers, each light tug eliciting a sigh from him, his hands are creeping further up, tucking beneath your—
“Mama!”
The two of you scatter like there is a fire at your feet. Qifrey turns away from the door, covering his face as he hunches his shoulders. You can see the blush on his cheeks and the crazed daze in his eyes. His hands tremble and he cups them against his mouth.
You scramble to adjust your skirts, kicking out the bunched up layers and folding down your apron. You rush to pull your top back over your shoulder, just now realizing that the side of your chest was almost entirely out.
“Yes, Coco?” you smooth down your wild hair, and feign a calm demeanor. You hear feet pad against the wood and the small girl turns the corner.
She has dirt on her cheeks and leaves in her hair, a clear sign of her outdoor adventures. She’s a bit breathless but otherwise looks fine. She, unsurprisingly, has three brush buddies stacked on her person, two on her shoulders and one on the top of her capless head. That one’s eyes narrow as if it knows what you are up to. Perverts, it accuses. You ignore it.
“The brushbuddies got out again.” Her voice is light but clearly concerned.
You sigh, wiping your hands on your apron. Ever since Qifrey made a sanctuary for them they’ve managed to find every way to escape. Security spells be damned, nothing seemed to work. You glance at Qifrey and he’s suddenly found interest in one of the kitchen cupboards. He’s rearranging bowls that don’t need to be rearranged. The tips of his ears are red.
“Alright, I’m on my way. Make sure they don’t cause any trouble, okay?”
Coco smiles and nods, “we’re going to gather them all!” she goes to turn on her heel but pauses, “Oh, hello Master Qifrey!”
Qifrey turns to her, and you watch as he puts his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. “Hello, Coco,” he says gently, but there is a hitch in his voice. “Better hurry before our friends get lost.”
Coco gasps, “Right!” and she’s gone as quick as she arrived, taking her little companions with her.
You look at Qifrey and smile slyly, “Are you okay, Master Qifrey?” You tilt your head innocently. “You seem a bit…disheveled.” Qifrey looks at you from over his glasses, those bright blue eyes intense.
“Perfectly well, my dear.” His gaze roves over your figure and they linger on the marks he’s left along your neck, you subconsciously move to cover them better, “you best catch up to the girls, they’ll need your help.”
“Of course,” you leave, fighting the urge to look back.
You can still feel his gaze on you. You always do.
Thursday, 11:46pm
It’s dark out and the atelier is silent. The girls were sent to bed nearly two hours ago and the brushbuddies, surprisingly, stayed sheltered in their domicile.
You’re standing in front of your bedroom mirror, a hand carved piece that was made by a craftsman in town. There’s a seal on the back that makes the edges of the glass illuminate with just a tap.
You see Qifrey is already settled in bed through its reflection. The candle light beside him flickers languidly. He’s focused on a book in his hands, flipping through pages slowly. Your gaze falls to his fingers, nimble and precise as you remember how they felt on your legs. You shiver, and adjust your gown, pulling it off the shoulders casually. The cool night air raises your flesh.
You stalk towards him but he makes no indication that he’s noticed. His lips move silently as he echoes the words in his book, his eyes trail each line. Left to right, left to right, as he flips to another page. There is something ethereal about him in this light, the way it shadows his chin and highlights his cheeks. It brightens his eyes in an intoxicating way.
You prowl around to your side of the bed and he, intuitively, lifts the sheets for you. When you crawl under them but do not lay, he pauses. He suffers from regular bouts of insomnia, so you waiting up for him to rest was not frequent. There have been nights you have slept with him reading and woken to him doing the same. The book he started with finished and another already began.
He looks at you curiously, “is something the matter?”
You say nothing as you pluck the book from his hand and straddle his waist. He doesn’t protest and he doesn’t pull away, but his eyes darken. He looks up at you as you shuffle closer, knees bunching the fabric at his hips. His chin rests on your collar as you tilt his head back and you lean down for a very deep and very anticipated kiss.
The first thing you notice is that he smells like lavender, and he tastes like mint. He moans, low in his throat as his hands travel to cup the back of your thighs. You jolt at the coolness of his touch but settle when you feel his hands find purchase just below your bottom.
You both rock into one another, it’s a steady rhythm. Slow, patient and practiced. Qifrey was never one to rush things in the bedroom. He said it wasn’t right, and that he always needed time to take you in. Savior you. He wanted you both to melt into each other before dissolving into the sheets.
You lean in, as close as your body will allow, lips pulling away just slightly to rotate your head and repeat it all over again. Tongue and teeth and nothing but heat are exchanged between the two of you. He’s louder than you are, and you smirk when he whimpers.
Your hands are glued to his face keeping him there but he doesn’t protest. He never does. You pull back for a split second to catch your breath and just as you push forward again—
“Master Qifrey? Mama?”
You hold back a groan of frustration as Tetia’s voice is heard on the other side of your door. Qifrey’s hands slide to your waist and you rock back to rest on his lap as you pull away. “Yes, Tetia?” Qifrey calls, “what’s the matter?”
“I-I can’t sleep—“ she sounds defeated and despite your clearly unsatisfied state your children’s needs always come first. Tetia has been having nightmares for the better half of the month. After a particularly nasty accident with a new spell falling asleep, and staying asleep, have been far more challenging than any new lesson.
You throw back the sheets and roll onto your side of the bed before leaning against the headboard. There’s a part of you that is irritated, you’ve been interrupted enough this week but the other part of you can’t be mad about it. The girls come to you and Qifrey with most of their troubles and you wouldn’t want to ruin that by turning them away.
You’d just have to act like a wild teenager on a different day of the week.
Qifrey sighs and stands, slipping his feet into a pair of slippers Agott made before shuffling towards the door. In one swift movement he opens it and Tetia barrels into his waist white knuckling his shirt.
“Tetia…” he tries to pry her hands off to get a look at her but she only buries herself deeper into his stomach.
“I keep seeing it,” her voice is muffled, “and I hate-e it but it won’t go a-away.”
“There, there,” Qifrey pats the top of her head as he closes the door. He leans down and picks her up, supporting her under her legs. She wraps them around his waist and her arms circle his neck before he waddles back to bed. She’s certainly too big to carry, but until Qifrey is physically incapable of doing so he will always hold them.
You lift your arms in invitation, and Qifrey gently places her in your embrace. You hum as you bring her close, moving aside her braided hair and adjusting her pajamas to lay comfortably. She clings to you like a kitten.
Qifrey settles on the other side, pulling the blanket over the three of you. You smile gently as Tetia nuzzles in closer and Qifrey offers an apologetic smile. You shake your head, the chimes outside of your window only emphasizing the movement. It’s okay, you say silently, she needs us more.
He turns and removes his glasses before delicately blowing out the rest of the candles, the room dips into a familiar comforting darkness and you further situate Tetia against the pillows. She curls into you instantly.
“Good night, girls.”
“Goodnight Master Qifrey,” Tetia whispers sleepily, you’re surprised she’s still awake. She’s usually out as soon as her head hits the pillows.
“Goodnight, my love.” You press your lips lightly to Tetia’s forehead, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Friday, 6:21pm
Qifrey rattles the table. Pushing every non-vital tool to the ground. Pens and paper scatter as he lifts you up and lays you across his work station. Your legs dangle, just barely brushing the floor as he shadows you. He’s moving so quickly you’re struggling to keep up.
“Don’t move,” he mutters against your lips. You hum and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in. You’re hidden beneath him but can still feel the warmth of the sun poking through the wooden window panes. Jars of ink slosh beside your head and you worry for a second that they will spill on you. Qifrey moves them away with one hand while his other cups your cheek, keeping your focus on him.
When every inanimate object is no longer in the line of fire, his hand tucks underneath the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing your navel. You gasp and squirm, laughter following when he bites your bottom lip. You try and sit up to push into him but he keeps you secured to the table, you opt to deepen the kiss from below.
You don’t know how it escalated to this. Really, it was all very quick. Okay, well maybe you do. But, what can you say? It’s been a long long week.
You’d both been sitting casually in his study only a few moments ago. You read quietly, happy to just be in his presence, while he sketched out new sigils on the large circular table. Qifrey was working diligently and you had found your way to his side. You’d needed a break, the chair was making your back ache after just a few hours of lounging.
You watched him over his shoulder, admiring the way his muscles moved with each steady stroke of his hand. When you stepped closer, hands held innocent behind your back, breath just ghosting over his ear, he snapped. The pen in his hand splintered in half and he pulled you under him.
Now you’re here. Flat against the table, hands exploring him with no thought other than his mouth molded to yours.
He’s got you so tied up in his affection that you don’t have the opportunity to do anything but cling to him. You know your lips will be swollen by morning and there'll be plenty more marks across your person to match the already fading ones.
“All week,” Qifrey mutters against your lips, “all week and this is the only time we have been able to—”
There’s a shuffle from the other side of the door, before you hear a placid, “What’s for dinner?”
Qifrey curses and buries his head in the crook of your neck. You hold back a laugh as you thread your fingers through his hair. Neither of you move, you don’t need to, the door is locked.
“Richeh, honey, I’ll be down to cook in a minute.” You’re a little breathless but manage to keep a steady tone.
“But we are—”
“Girls, how about we go out to eat. Your teacher is busy and needs your mother’s help.” You feel Qifrey’s shoulders relax as Olruggio’s voice floats under the door. He must’ve come by early, he usually joins the family for dinner this time of the week.
There’s a series of cheers and the sound of padding feet as the girls run to get their things. You’ll have to pay him back, those girls can eat their weight and then some when they’re hungry. Dinner won’t be cheap.
You hear a thud as Olruggio leans against the door, “You two owe me. We’ll be back in a few hours. Take advantage of that.”
“Thank you, Olly,” You say. Qifrey has already started kissing up the side of your neck. Biting every few paces. You grit your teeth to keep from making any sounds and tug at his hair to stop him. “J-just—Qifrey wait a second—hey! I said wait!” You yank his head back and snort at his expression. His pupils are blown out and there is a glaze over his eyes, but they’re honed in on you. He looks drunk and predatory at the same time. His eyes track every shift of your body. How your lips move when you speak, how your chest raises and lowers with each breath and how you glance at the door. Qifrey grumbles, fighting against your grip, desperate to get back to you. “Just let me know how much it is.” you finish, ignoring the ravenous man above you.
You’re impressed that he’s not moving without a command. He’s far stronger than you are and could easily break free. He’s simply not doing so out of respect, and well, obedience.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Olruggio mutters, “just get it out before we get back.” His footsteps fade but you can hear the pointed instructions he gives the children.
When the main door chimes its closure in the distance Qifrey takes it as a release and pounces.
“Now,” he pants, looking down at you, arms on either side of your head. All you see is him. Your chest heaves and he smiles slyly as you push yourself up on your elbows, tilting your chin towards him, so close your breath mingles, “where were we?”
word count: 3.4k || warnings: hurt/comfort, suggestive (making out)
summary: It's for his eye, he swears. Nothing else. Even if he loves you.
Every full moon, Qifrey is visited by someone who should be locked up and jailed for their crimes against magic.
Yet, Qifrey is selfish to let you leave untouched.
It's quiet, none of the girls catching him, only knowing that the gate in the basement of their home is turned to a specific dial, and a pretty witch is on the other side of the gate for a brief moment for a conversation with Professor Qifrey.
Qifrey knows he's not allowed to do this, but comfort in a shared experience and a softened heart over the years overcomes any self-preservation he has. Besides, he was your equal for the longest time.
Engendale's beloved pupil.
"Qifrey."
"Brimhat."
A brimhat.
Your name had lost itself in his mind forever ago. Your name no longer meant anything to him once you had chosen to stay with the Brimhats, but he'd kept you close because you'd promised you'd be a link. You'd be his sole hope of restoring his eye, because you too had an eye missing on the same side. You returned to fix your eye, and in turn, you'd promised him his eye back if he kept your two-timing a secret.
He doesn't know which side you stand on, but quite frankly, it doesn't matter to the three wise. You've violated the rules you swore to as a witch. You'll be tried and killed for it. He'd find you stripped of all capability of using magic. Who knows. Still, he keeps you because he understands better than everyone else that losing you means losing his only line into the brimhats directly. Sure, Coco was being watched by the brimhats, but you were part of them, and you were part of their strongest members. Every time you visited, you updated him about the research.
Forbidden magic. Medical magic.
Magic that would get you beheaded and amputated for even daring to do something so illegal.
You, however. Do not care for such trivalties.
Just like Qifrey, you just want your eye back.
and maybe hack the mainframe of healing magic, but alas.
Qifrey will know when you fix up your eye. For the time being, you wear a magic circle on top of it to repress the pain. You feel much more hope than he does, and sometimes he's bitter and wonders if he should have begged you for something similar on his own glasses, but he'd get captured at first chance if he did. He is not above using forbidden magic. His goal is for the annihilation of the brimhats, but he is not above using one to fix his eye.
It's a fat lie for anyone with eyes, though. He's probably more in love with you than he is with Olruggio, and that is already an impossible to cross bar.
"I should be able to fix you up next time we bump into each other." You hum. "I had pleasant results with experimenting on my own eye, and the seed should be removed with my new spell."
Qifrey stares at you, and you tilt your head back at him.
"Qifrey."
He forgets how to breathe.
"You're beautiful."
You forget to breathe too.
Qifrey knows deep down that even if you were lying to him and ended up killing him for a fixed eye, he'd forgive you in a heartbeat. He'd loved you for as long as he could remember being awake after being put in that coffin all those years ago. Two shared souls in the coffin. Both of you were meant to make up one large silverwood tree. He'd been soul-bound to you since that moment in the dirt.
However, you'd chosen a path you can never come back from for the both of you because your master had let you. Your master was not above it, therefore you did not care for the rules of the three wise. You simply did what you needed to in order to get closer to your goal. You don't care for rules you swore to adhere to when you became a witch. You lied through your teeth, and it makes you laugh in retrospect whenever Qifrey brings it up.
You don't want power or recognition. You want your eye back.
Qifrey knows that well, so it's why he keeps you close.
//
Engendale's tried for treason and considered guilty, and you show up at the top of the courtroom, waving sweetly as Qifrey holds his breath at the sight of you.
Your skin is glowing with glyphs.
The Knights Moralis lunge for you as you wave them all off with a brush of your hands, and Qifrey meets eyes with you.
Two eyes. Your covering is gone.
He chooses to fight you himself, aware that you'd never hurt him, but his spells are all deflected as you get closer to him.
No one else in the room can move. You must've drawn a spell around the outside of the Great Hall.
Qifrey notices the sigil on your left eye when you finally get close enough to him for him to see anything, and he drops the spell that was in his hand when your hand manages to grab his collar.
"You're giving up?"
"It's fine." Qifrey smiles, pen broken in half under your grip as you have a fistfull of his robe in your hand. "You would never hurt me."
"It's going to get you killed."
"I love you."
He accepts his fate as the blunt end of the staff stabs right into his missing eye, magic emitting out from his body as the girls scream for him, Olruggio holding them and wondering just how it got to this whole situation. It should have been foolproof. You shouldn't have been able to touch Qifrey, and the worst part is that he doesn't know why Qifrey has a missing eye because the only thing he knows is that he has to forget every time he does. What a curse to have to meet eyes with you as the light forces you both from view.
The radius of the magic blast swallows the entirety of the hall, and once the magic dissipates and the girls can open their eyes, the brimhat is missing and Qifrey is unharmed on the field.
Everyone makes a run for him at the same time.
He's unharmed. Untouched, and his glasses have shattered in the impact of the stab, but he's alive and breathing. They haul him into a room, keeping an eye on him and making sure that he's well. The waters outside still with Qifrey's absence. When Qifrey furrows his brow in his dream, the weather storms as well. It's a scary eeriness. Yet, the fields continue to grow and prosper, as though Qifrey's unconsciousness were growth instead of death. It would have been absurd to assume that the universe would still or stop for someone who should hold no significance over it.
They bring him home when he isn't awake in a month, and he's left to be monitored. At one point, Qifrey's old master comes in to visit personally, hand brushing over Qifrey's forehead, staring quietly.
You had been Engendale's pupil. Not corrupt like your master, but a bender of morality and someone who did not care for the rules established. As far as you were concerned, you cared more to learn everything about magic regardless of morality than any money you could gain from people. Corrupt, yet so different from your master. You had not been someone bad. You'd been a child who always wanted more. Moderation was a trait they valued, as curiosity got most everyone's memories taken away, but you had escaped. Weaved and snaked your way out of everything. By the time that you had been seen again, there was a brim around your hat and an all-knowing smile that Beldaruit knew all too well.
You'd learned what you wanted to.
"Corruption breeds corruption." The man mumbles, and Qifrey furrows his brows.
Deep down, he knew that Qifrey wanted to believe that you only joined the brimmed hats to find a way to cure his eye. However, the multiple offenses you had taken against the witches made it increasingly harder and harder to believe that your true goal was to heal him. Though it seems the seed is now missing from the boy, but you are still nowhere to be seen. He might forgive you if you hand yourself in out of respect for Qifrey, but he finds it hard to believe that you'll end up resigning to a fate where you don't know anything.
Qifrey stirs in bed, and Beldaruit brushes a hand over his head to smooth out the furrow.
"You must wake up and find them."
It's impossible to deny your importance.
Maybe if he begs the other two wise, you'll be spared severe punishment and only forced to erase your memory.
Or, maybe he won't need to at all. Maybe Qifrey would find you and hide you. That boy's always been the type to do as he wills anyway. He'd begged him to let Coco live since she was tied to the brimhats, so perhaps with your repentance he'd beg for the same. Or who knows. He's seen how the boy looks after visited by you. Well, he'd help if the boy ever came to him for help, but he'd also keep his mouth shut if he'd ever sense traces of you around him after all of this is over.
Who knows. Maybe you love Qifrey as much as he loves you.
You might just disappear from his life forever.
Either or, he hopes Qifrey wakes up safe and alive.
Qifrey wakes up to a sigil on his eye, but both of his eyes.
He can see.
It's almost like he's dreaming.
Both eyes work, and his perception of depth scares him a little. He'd gotten so used to being bad at it that it feels different now that he can truly assess things. He, unfortunately, has no memory of how he got his eye back. It's concerning how much of an absence there is in his life right now. It's like he's forgotten Olruggio or something, but he's still here, and the girls are all here. They'd tell him if he forgot anything, right? Surely.
Unless they forgot too.
It's a whole fiasco when he wakes up, and everyone checks him thrice to make sure he's in one piece. He'd been asleep for over a month, but all of his girls are crying about how he has his eye back. It's a strange feeling. When he asks how he got it back, no one can find the words to describe it. It's like they're tongue tied or spellbound. He has a feeling he might know why, but the absence of someone he only saw once a full moon. His body remembers it, and sometimes he itches to move.
He's sent home after a month of observation from the doctors.
Some nights, when the moon is round, he finds himself downstairs where the gate is out of habit, staring at the dial that he closes his eyes and lets his body turn. The dial he usually moves out of muscle memory on the full moon leads to vast emptiness. It is gone, but Qifrey feels like there should have been something there at some point. Maybe the other end of the gate was no longer turned to that coordinate. For the most part, it does not plague his life, but he does not enjoy not remembering after he'd been the one to erase everyone else's memory for so long.
The void that stares back at him every full moon is a cycle for a long, long time.
It isn't until his students are all proper witches that he wonders if he should give up his ritual on every full moon to forget who is supposed to be waiting for him on the other side of the void. The girls are older now, and he's getting to that point too. The brimhats are mostly taken care of, and Coco's got her mother back from the magic. Yet, Qifrey feels like there's still something missing in his life.
How awful of him when he has Olruggio with him.
On the night of his birthday, it's a full moon. The girls come over and celebrate with him, a cake made, and Olruggio lights the candles as Qifrey makes his wish. It's just another night, and he's made up his resolve to stop turning the dial like some drunkard at midnight every full moon. He wonders where his habit even comes from considering he'd woken up to turning the dial some nights while asleep.
Talk about muscle memory.
The girls are all settled into their old rooms that Qifrey had left untouched, and Qifrey finds himself back at the gate again, turning the dials, expecting the same void to greet him so he can close it.
Except it doesn't.
Someone's standing on the other end of the gate.
You.
You're standing on the other end of the gate.
Qifrey draws a spell of water before he can react properly, and you jab the bottom of your staff in front of Qifrey's eye as he freezes in place, memories flashing back to him.
Sealed. You'd placed a sealing spell on his eye that blocked out his memories of you.
You duck the magic that threatens to drown you under, hat knocked off in the process, face exposed as you cast a protective barrier, meeting eyes with Qifrey.
It feels strange to see both his eyes.
At least it worked.
You let down the spell once you think you're safe.
Qifrey yanks you right out of the gate, forcing you to land in his chest with a thud as you groan in pain.
You look up.
Qifrey visibly flinches at the sight of your face.
One sigil on your left eye.
It's painfully visible when he's so close to you like this.
Magic doesn't require the exchange of something equal, so it must be for some other reason. The transfer of something, maybe. He's not entirely sure, but now that you've carved ink into your own body, there is no return for you. In a way, he wonders if you had to run the experiment on yourself before you could run it on him. A curse and awful of you. He has the same sigil in his new eye, though. What a strange experience. To match an eye with you.
"You—"
"If you don't have anything nice to say, you better shut up whitehead." You hiss, shaking off your clothes, and Qifrey stops. "What?"
"I feel like I should hand you over right now."
"Your savior? Ouch. Talk about ratting on old friends. I just gave you your memories back for your birthday, old man."
"Or I can hide you."
"You'd do that? For stupid ol' me? Your girls would beg to learn forbidden magic from me."
"Then we lie and say that it's regular medicine. You can heal without drawing." He pauses. "They've also all moved out."
"I forgot you're old now."
"Oh, yes." He mumbles. "I'm nowhere near as young as we used to be."
"Man, I'm old now." You groan.
"It was bound to happen." Qifrey sighs. "Aren't you—"
"Alright, now that my mission was accomplished, I should head back so you don't get nuked by the three wise. I doubt being a nepo baby would save you right now anyway—"
"Yes, but." Qifrey breathes, stilling as he remembers you're in his lap right now.
You'd shown up all on your own because you'd wanted to check to see how he was doing.
It's making his head spin. He forgot how much he liked you before you'd gone and erased his memories.
"I should punish you." Qifrey mumbles, hand moving to brush a thumb over your cheek.
Maybe turn you in to the three wise and then be promised permanent retirement and no longer take any more students the same way Beldaruit had stopped after him. He'd be promised it anyway, but he missed you. It makes him feel kind of stupid with how much he missed you anyway. He'd prefer you close to him anyway. He'd never see this version of you again if he really did turn you in like he threatened you.
Punishment would entail something lighter.
Something he'd like.
"Since when do you do that anyway?" You lean in slightly, and Qifrey sighs as he presses his lips to yours.
Maybe he's desperate for touch again. He knew well when the two of you were technical enemies but collaborators that this would have sent you both down a spiral that would kill you both. Your lips feel good against his, intoxicating and enthralling and he can't believe he'd resisted doing this for so long. Well, maybe now that he isn't afraid of anything, he can actually do what he's wanted to. Starting with kissing you breathless, maybe.
He parts his lips to get a breath in before he's back to kissing you, the hand originally supporting him against the floor clenching around the fabric of your chest, desperate to breathe you in so hard that the air in his lungs exhale like yours forever. It's his first taste of eternity that he'd craved so hard. You'd make it your life's mission to remind him that neither of you were allowed to even think twice about courting, so to get you like this under him without worrying that his tree would entangle itself with yours is a ray of light he soaks in.
You gasp from his kissing, and he whispers to have you breathe through your nose as he nips once at your bottom lip, and he licks at the indent his teeth left as you pant to breathe, and when you just barely catch your breath, he presses his lips to yours again. It's a cycle he plans on forcing you both to stay in, and heaven knows when you'll be free from his grip as he rests a hand on your waist as you adjust to get a better angle to kiss him properly. He groans into your mouth when your hips roll over his, and your brain fuzzes right up when you can't breathe again.
You whimper against him, biting his bottom lip particularly hard as he finally lets go, panting slightly as his eyes stay stuck on the way you breathe with parted lips, catching your breath as you hold your hands against his chest weakly. His gaze doesn't tear. He's waiting for you to catch your breath again so he can kiss you again.
"You—" You heave. "you edacious man."
"I've been waiting forever." Qifrey mumbles, and he's halfway leaned in for another kiss when Olruggio stares at the two of you from the stairs.
"First, you take in a human who accidentally used forbidden magic, then you start making out with a brimhat? Qifrey, what's next, you become one yourself?"
"Long time no see, Olruggio." You hum, hand pressed over Qifrey's mouth as the witch goes red to his ears. "Miss me?"
"I didn't know you were still alive."
"How about a thank you for saving your boyfriend?"
"Your boyfriend." He tosses you a bag, and you blink at the contents. "Get your old hat back on."
"You're gonna hide me too?"
"The home owes you for saving Qifrey."
"No, no. It was nothing much in the grand scheme of things."
"It was, but whatever you want to believe."
"There was never a favor to pay back." You start stripping, and Olruggio's eyes widen before he's heading back up the stairs.
You stand up and turn around, pulling your robes over your head as Qifrey looks at the giant glyph on your back.
Qifrey stares at the marks on your skin instead as you put your robes back on, brimhat set to the side as he runs a finger down the dip of your back.
"What spell is this?"
"Wings. For flight. I only need to stretch my arms back to activate, and then my wings back once I no longer need them." You hum. "I should take you on a flight sometime."
"As long as we're not caught."
"Not if it's in my cabin." You hum, securing your pointed hat. "Your girls still with you?"
"They've all moved out, but it was my birthday so they're back for the night."
"Maybe we can all go flying tomorrow at mine."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
And, well. If the girls wake up to a witch with enormous wings in the field they used to run around in, then it's not anyone's situation to explain except for Qifrey.
Not that he would anyway.
One look at the matching eyes and it's enough for anyone.
if there's one routine that is stuck with kashiel since he was one day old, it's the compulsory good night kisses he receives and gives before closing his eyes every night.
the only kind of kiss he knows all his life is warm, safe and sweet. so imagine his utter shock and betrayal to find out there's an unlikeable kind of kiss he'd actually received from mummy?
"daddy eugh, my mouf yucky! mouf hot, why mummy skin hot?!" kashiel shrieks frantically in your shared bed, tossing the thick blanket to reach his daddy at the other side of your bed.
rafayel catches his son with a hushed oof. kashiel practically lunges onto him. his little frown printed all over his face as he slumps into daddy's crossed legs. the said hot mouf is jutted, resembling the silicone yellow duckies in the bathroom rafayel thinks. then kashiel grabs daddy's hand, turning the palm against his lips and begins using it to wipe his burning lips like it's a napkin.
stifling a laugh, rafayel glances at your peaceful, sleeping figure. he understands what kashiel means by 'hot' sensation from kissing your forehead. you have been sick all day. complaining about how your brain was splitting open your skull earlier. between your drowsy griping with your head in his lap, he had rubbed your favourite medicated oil all over your throbbing temple.
imagine how pouty kashiel got when daddy told him mummy can't give goodnight kisses tonight. so in all stubbornness a toddler's body can yield, he tailed after rafayel into your shared bedroom, insisting that the last thing he must see before sleeping is mummy.
but your baby failed to understand yet why no good night kisses? sure mummy is asleep already but he can give mummy forehead kiss like you always do to him. soooo he had to just smooch your very cool temple of course before rafayel could warn him
"shh," rafayel pokes the exposed tummy with his other hand. "is it still burning?" he gently swipes his thumb over his son's lips, removing excess of deposited peppermint infused medicated oil there.
the pout is still there, still in disbelief. kashiel shakes his head. his lips feel better now.
"i forgot mummy put some oil on her head before she slept. that's why it burns a bit when you kissed mummy."
"oi'? like oi' daddy use when i sick? you put here." kashiel gestures to his chest, remembering back when daddy would rub something on his chest during his fever. as the memory flashes in his mind, it clicks that the burning sensation feels familiar.
"yes, that oil."
"mummy sick.." it's a miserable feeling blooming in his tiny heart. he remembers just how painful it was being sick. he's more dejected now imagining you're suffering in the same pain that daddy had to use the same medication on you too.
"it's okay. mummy promised she'll get better when she slept earlier. and daddy knows she feels so much better when you kissed her just now." standing up, rafayel picks up his son to head back to kashiel's bedroom and put him to sleep.
a small, defeated hum leaves the tiny boy as he's tucked in his bed. basking in the silence and the gentlest crashing waves outside as he watches daddy's routine adjusting the night lamp, checking the window and the baby monitor. finally, rafayel returns to kashiel's side and bends down to kiss him good night.
"good night, baby fishie."
"night, night daddy. care mummy, kay?"
"okay. of course." with a last peck to his son's fluttering eyelids, rafayel smiles, for the luckiest man he is.
Over - Sydney Rose/Norwegian Wood - Haruki Murakami/“Drama Queen"- ROAR /unknown/The Truth About Grief - Fortesa Latifi/ Sidewalk - Richard Silken/Over - Sydney Rose
Can be read as a standalone or as a part two to Fools - for @teabeexo
Everything’s fine. You’re fine.
The train is perfectly on time. So far. You’ll have enough time to catch the bus. If everything goes like planned.
You take a deep breath and pull out your phone, checking the time. And the state of your battery. Then the power bank. It still sits where you packed it, next to a package of your favorite protein bars. Maybe you should put them separately. The bars are packaged well, but they could break and crumbs could damage your power bank or stain the spare shirt you packed.
You take another breath. It doesn’t feel like the oxygen is going where it’s supposed to go but you continue taking one breath after the other. Smell the flower, blow out the candle, like you’ve practiced before.
Your phone rings and you scramble to pick up the call, too aware of all the people around you.
“Yes?” You gasp.
Atsumu laughs. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no bad time at all,” you swallow. “I’ve still got twenty-eight minutes before I’ll reach the train station and there should be a bus every twenty minutes to the stadium.”
“See?” There’s noise on Atsumu’s end of the line, and you can hear him talk to someone. “Can that wait? I’m talking to my girl. I know, it’s so sad, get your own.”
“Who was that?”
“Suna,” he quips. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Like I said, I’ve still got plenty of time and the train is still on time.”
“Yeah, but how are you doing?”
He doesn’t put emphasis on anything in particular, but you can still hear it, the understanding coating his words your favorite shade. You take a breath and this time, it reaches right to the tips of your toes.
“I’m nervous.”
“Mhm, thought so. I got permission from Coach to keep my phone on me until we have to go in. So I’m basically by your side until you get here.”
“What if-”
“I’ll hand my phone to Samu and he’ll take over. Though I think you’ll be here before that. You left pretty early.”
“Next time I’ll come with you right away.”
“Yeah, no,” he laughs. “You’re not going to give up your days off just to wait for my training to end. Besides, you’re doing so good. Next time you’ll know that you can rock this and it will be fine.”
“I doubt it.”
“That’s what you have me for. By the way… what are you wearing?”
“Clothes.”
“Yeah? Ow!” He curses and his voice is gone for a second before he’s back. “Can you please tell my friends to stop hitting me?”
You laugh, surprised how easy it comes. “I would, but I don’t think they would listen to me.”
“I wasn’t even saying anything stupid,” Atsumu grumbles. “I was just wondering if you’re wearing my jersey.”
“Sure you were,” you tease. “And of course I’m wearing your jersey.”
-
Rough hands play with yours. You watch, mesmerized by the gentle way Atsumu handles you.
“Are you bored?” You whisper, trying not to disturb the others, though you don’t think they can hear you over the volume of the TV.
“No,” Atsumu whispers back. “Well, maybe a little.”
“Is that why you’re playing with my hands?”
“Ah,” he smiles. “No. And yes.”
You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder. His warm, always, and smells like a home you’d never known before. “Tell me more.”
“You were tugging at your cuticles,” he mumbles into your ear. “I don’t like it when your fingers bleed.”
“You should paint them, then,” you offer, a little choked up. He’s still able to surprise you, even after all this time. “Maybe that would stop me.”
“Nah,” he chuckles. “I’d be awful at that. But I like playing with them instead. They’re so soft.”
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ bruce wayne ✘ bat-mom! reader + platonic!bat-kids x bat-mom! reader⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ʟɪꜱᴛ ! ৎׅ ׄ"Lets make one thing clear—Bruce gave birth not me." ⊹܀˙
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who always knows. You never ask outright. You just know. A sniffle hidden behind bravado, a limp disguised as swagger, a bad mood wrapped in sarcasm. It unnerves everyone to no end. The more they try to hide it, the more obvious they become—Jason gets louder, Tim goes silent, Dick overcompensates, Damian sharpens. You only say their name, softly, and they crumble. Even Bruce fails every time.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who sleeps armed. You sleep with a knife under your pillow—the one Damian gave you for your birthday, offered with solemn sincerity. You adore it and much to Bruce's dismay you gift him a sword maintenance kit for his.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader the “chill” parent. You cover for them in front of Bruce with practiced ease, redirecting conversations and smoothing over sins before they can land. Officially, you’re the reasonable one. Unofficially, you’re an accomplice. Alfred watches with fond exasperation, ready with a dry remark whenever you get too bold.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and Jason’s bedtime stories
You read Jason classics from the time he was nine, voice steady even through the violent parts. One night Bruce tried to swap a book for something more age-appropriate. Jason looked betrayed. You didn’t even pause—just turned the page and kept reading. Bruce sighed and laid across your lap until Jason complained he was taking up too much room and promptly kicked him out.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader at Wayne Enterprises
You take over the daytime schedule when Bruce can’t, running Wayne Enterprises with a smile that brooks no nonsense and somehow still leniency. The employees are always polite—always—but noticeably happier when you are in charge. When Bruce returns, the mood sours but they know to behave. He gives out six-figure bonuses when he’s feeling generous. You know the name of every single one of them and their kids.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader darling of the press
Every reporter loves you. You attend galas in designer gowns with a mission—form alliances, charm donors, and subtly ensure no stray batarang ends up embedded in a wall. Especially if the kids are with you.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader powerless and terrifyingYou have no powers. You can’t work the Batcomputer without swearing at it. You don't know the first thing about hand to hand combat. And yet, somehow, you’re the scariest person in the room. The reason they think twice about before speaking. Out of love instead of fear.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader with the Justice League on speed dial
Every member of the League is in your contacts. You’ve used it. They answer in two seconds flat.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who babysit's Jon Kent
When missions ran long and the world was ending (again), Jon Kent stayed with you. You treated it like the most normal thing in the world and somehow envy how Lois was able to give him a somewhat normal life.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader with no favorite
You don’t have a favorite. And somehow very single kid is still convinced it’s them.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and Bruce’s credit card
You spend Bruce’s money whenever you feel like it. The shame wore off after he brought home the third kid—if he's not asking before putting your name on the adoption papers then your not asking before signing off on a new necklace.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who banters with Alfred
You take every chance to trade words with Alfred, dry wit meeting dry wit. It’s tradition at this point.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who Cass can’t sneak up on
You’re the only one who can feel Cass coming, the only one she can’t surprise. You sense her like a shift in the air. You still couldn't do a damn thing if she decided to attack though, so she lets it slides and decides to just classify you as an anomaly.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who sneaks up on Bruce
You, however, sneak up on Bruce with terrifying ease. He still startles every time. Still tries to figure out how you do it.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader who baby-proofed Wayne Manor
After Dick arrived swinging on chandeliers, you baby-proofed the manor. If someone looked hard enough, they’d still find a safety stopper hidden somewhere absurdly expensive.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader vs. the press
You slut-shame your husband with a serene smile.
“Are you aware of the tennis player Mr. Wayne dated?”
“Are you aware of the track star from Rome?”
“The—the what?"
"Shes lying!" - a very mortified Bruce Wayne who had a meeting with Barry Allen in Rome during the middle of the night. You were very offended when you woke up to a empty bed.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and the kidnappings
You’ve been kidnapped and held for ransom more times than you can count. After the second time, Bruce installed trackers on everything. You tease him. He remains grim and adds an extra in a new set of earrings. You jokingly asked him one day if he wanted you to eat one. He went quiet and actually considered it only to get hit with your purse on the back of his head.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and Barbara Gordan
You babysat Barbara, too—back before Dick came along to give Jim and his wife some time alone. She was your first experience with children so there was always a soft spot there.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and Tim’s long nights
You sit up with Tim near the computer, keeping him company even when he insists he doesn’t need it. You can’t make yourself tell him to sleep when you know all he wants is to be useful. So instead, you don't make him be useful alone.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and Duke Thomas
Your the only one he goes to for homework help, if hes hungry, if he needs a ride etc. Your the most comfortable thing in this Manor. Whoever you re-direct him to he trusts immediately aswell. "Ah- I need to finish these papers, Im sure Bruce could give you a ride?" and suddenly Duke does not feel bad asking him.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader and the Batman affair rumors
The press accused you of having an affair with Batman so often that Bruce finally joked it was a polyamorous relationship.
⋆˚࿔ ⋮ bat-mom!reader twenty years later
You still haven’t shaken that rumor. It’s been twenty years.
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