➳ CW: Loki is a yearner, I envisioned Loki from Thor 1 as I wrote this, no mention of y/n, Loki loves riddles/games, cheesy as hell, probably strong romcom vibes (couldn't help myself)
➳ A/N: First day of the Galentines collab yayyy! Also, yeah, the title is a play on the saying 'fool's gold'. Pls don't ask how I come up with the title, it's accidental 90% of the time loll. ps: thank you thank you thank you for 250+ followers! It may not be a lot for most, but this means so much :') I started out with barely any followers on here and it just so happens that in 2 days it will be my one year anniversary of starting to write/post more seriously on here, so to have achieved and received this much love in just a year means the world <3 thank you for being with me and for loving my silly posts, I love you all <3
➳ (~3k words)
➳ link to event masterlist!
➳ (prettiest brows of all time btw) (gif by @tomlokixarianastanx93 !)
The first had come a few weeks ago. You'd found it waiting for you on your writing desk upon returning from having tea with some of your cousins. An unassuming letter, with a wax seal you did not quite recognize, though it did bear a resemblance to the royal seal. A curious thought you'd put aside and to the back of your mind, your curiosity having taken over your good senses as you opened the letter.
"My dear,
I hope you know that I write to you only with good intentions in mind. I do not do this much often. However, my heart has threatened to stop if I do not allow it to speak its deepest secrets. And as I do not yet wish to die, I have decided that this, I shall do.
I cannot be certain if you recall our meeting. It would make my soul sing if you did. But I am certain you have attended many events packed full of nobles, and so I would not be deeply offended if your mind had focused instead on the myriad of mediocre people surrounding you at the time. Indeed, no matter how eye-catching I think I am at every event, I shall not blame you for this. I, however, remember seeing you for the first time perfectly clear, as if it was just yesterday. Your skin seemed to shine with the gentle warmth of the candles, and yet you, on your own, seemed to light up the feast hall with the beauty of your being. I had never seen such radiance so plainly in a person before seeing it in you, and I never will again. It was as if I’d seen the truest beauty, and yet also the key to my soul’s salvation all at once. I have not stopped thinking of you since. How I wish I could see you. Speak with you. I wonder, will you know who this is? If I was not so desperate to get closer with you, I would find this an enthralling game to play, one of many I have been a part of. A test of your mettle, as it were.
Yours.”
It had been an eye-opening read. Never before had a suitor been so bold, so open about their affections towards you. And yet, they had remained completely shrouded in mystery, lest for a few supposed clues in their letter. It felt like a game of intrigue had landed right into your lap. A simple game, perhaps, or yet, a person much too bashful to confess to being its author. Oh, you’d felt pleasantly lit up with curiosity. You wished to know what this was, game or not.
You’d kept the letter, and its contents, a secret, and reread it multiple times throughout the following days. You wished so badly to reply, but you could not figure out who had sent it. You’d even decided to subtly thank the servant that had brought it to you, hoping to ask them subtly where they had received the letter from, but they’d only shrugged and said that ‘it was like it had appeared on its own’. No help there, then.
With the letter’s arrival (and sender) remaining a mystery, you did not quite know what to do as the days passed. With no hope to answer or to decode who was wanting you to reply, you began to think of it as a mere trick from someone. And as your family’s visit to Asgard’s Palace loomed closer over you, it became easier to spend your time thinking of other matters. However, about a week after the first, you received a second letter, that same seal pressing you to remember whose it was. It had been a simple red the first time, perhaps for subtlety. But its sender seemed to have forgotten the definition of subtlety, as their seal came to you in a deep green this time, making the details of the design pop out at you. You opened the letter, your hands trembling slightly, eager to find out more. Eager to find out that this was not just a mere jest at your expense.
“My dear,
I must admit, and it pains me to say this to you, but I am disappointed. I have gotten no reply, and so I must assume that you have not guessed at who I am yet. I am quick to forgive when it is you, though, for it is quite likely that your beautiful mind is simply too full of things for you to spend every waking moment thinking about which noble out of them all could be writing to you now. I am certain that you’ve hundreds, if not thousands, of suitors knocking upon your doors every day and every night (no matter how improper that last one may be). I only pray that you can wait until I join them in their desperate ploy to speak to you in person for even a moment. To hear your laughter, to see your smile, to glimpse at a sparkle of your soul from the outside that keeps it protected and lets it shine through.
As I said earlier, it seems that I remain a mystery to you. The thought is fun to someone like me, but I have come to realize that it is not quite so fun when I am the one remaining a mystery. I wish for you to know me so desperately, but I wish the credit of my discovery to be completely and wholly yours. And so, I shall give you more hints as to who I am in the hopes that it shall set your thoughts onto me and only me for but a few seconds.
We have met, as previously established, and though I said you might have forgotten me, I do not actually think that to be possible. If I explained why that is, I would be revealing too much. Simply remember that I am memorable, and this time, this claim does not come from my ego. Moreover, I do not wish to give myself too much credit, but I am tall, and I am, by some, considered moderately attractive, though, I obviously cannot compare to my better. What’s more, and this you might have guessed by my seal, I am a lover of green. Not of gardens, pray, though I would gladly take you on a promenade through any gardens if you wished it of me, no matter how distant or how small they would happen to be. Finally, I shall claim boldly that I am seen by many as a fool, though, if they were all to see you, they would surely see why, for you are radiant enough to make anyone feel a fool, no matter how powerful they might be.
I feel like a meddlesome jester relaying riddles onto an attractive noble so that they might be entertained, and I, compensated, with their laughter. But the only compensation I seek here is for you to speak my name whilst I watch you, close enough for me to touch your hand if you so desire it.
I await your letter, but I warn you, I shall not be as slow this time to write a third, for I find your company, albeit indirect, liberating. I pray to the Norns that the next time, I shall receive a letter in return, and I will feel embraced by your words, just as I hope you feel by mine.
Yours, and yours alone,
Your meddlesome jester.”
You placed the letter down onto your desk with a trembling hand. My, but they’d gotten bolder. And these clues this time… your mind hastened you to guess as to their identity, and you wracked your brain, thinking back to all the hundreds of nobles you’d met and eliminating the ones that did not match. Then, as you sat there, your eyes landed onto the seal. Tall, handsome, green, a fool according to many… a knight, then? A knight who’d grown up in the palace? They were hard to forget, attending feasts with their crests proudly embroidered onto the front of their tunics, the details of them unmistakable. Already, you could feel your mind opening up as it remembered one knight in particular, one with a crest of green, and an easy charm to him. His face was surely handsome enough, but was often compared to another knight’s, just as the letter had said. Your heart sped up, enchanted by the daring of it all. These secret, mysterious letters. Any man capable of something so clever was surely a man worth knowing, worth a promenade in the gardens with, too. You hoped that most of the knights would be in attendance for when noble families from across the Realms joined together in Asgard in a few days’ time. You would see him with your own eyes. And, you thought, a visit to the royal libraries would do you good, too. In order to find his name, his family’s history, as they escaped you. You could not recall anything but his crest at the moment, for you’d never much been interested in the knights growing up in Asgard’s palace. Clearly, that was set to change. You suddenly found yourself daring enough to seek him out whilst your family was there.
It was with a thrill, for the first time in your life, that you arrived in Asgard a few short days later. Every other time you had visited, it had been with a nervous tug in your belly, the worry of making a good and lasting impression on everyone weighing on you. Not now, though.
Your family were settled in by the servants, and then escorted to be greeted by the royal family. Your manners were as good as ever, but your mind was elsewhere as you thanked the royal family for their hospitality. It was to the point of you barely paying attention to the Allmother’s apologies for someone not being in attendance.
Once your family were excused and you all went your separate ways until the feast that was to be held that same night, you did not waste a moment, your feet taking you towards the royal libraries (one of the only places you could remember properly from past visits). As you got closer, your heart sped up, excited at the thought of being so close to the truth.
You slipped in through the big doors, hearing them shut slowly behind you. The sound was loud among the deep quiet of the unused bookshelves. The library seemed entirely deserted, probably because none of these new guests would be spending their time in Asgard among its books. Better for you, as you could search for your knight in peace. You walked quickly past many bookshelves, searching for the large section on history. It seemed to take up at least a third of the library, an impressive feat indeed, and happened to be near the desks where people could sit to pour over manuscripts or write their own. You slowed down here, searching for any and every book on knights and historic crests you could find. Once you had a good amount, about five books, you opted to place them on one of the desks, so you did not have to carry them. However, it was then that you noticed that the library was clearly not empty. The desk you had selected to place your books on already had papers strewn about it. They seemed new, however, and not belonging to the library. Your curiosity spurred you on, taking you closer, making you lean over to get a glimpse at the papers.
It all happened very quickly. Just as you leaned over and caught a glimpse of the handwriting, you heard a voice behind you.
“Can I help you?”
You could not tell if your heart seized at being caught, or at recognizing the handwriting.
You spun around slowly, your heart nearly stopping as everything seemed to click into place all at once. Your mind lurched in embarrassment. How could you have been so stupid? Of course. You caught up quickly, bowing your head, though it was not as dignified or calm as you’d wished.
“Prince Loki,” You said, lifting your head quickly so you could look at him again. Of course!
He’d seemed startled the moment you’d turned around, and even more so now that you were looking at one another, even though he seemed to try very hard to look composed. He bowed his head in return, spending the time he was looking at the floor to plaster a charming, easy smile onto his face.
“An honour.” He replied.
Did he know that you knew? He knew that it was you standing in front of him, clearly, but did he know that you knew it was him writing the letters?
“I… am sorry for daring to look at your things. I did not know I was not alone in the library, and was pleasantly surprised to see someone else here.” You found yourself saying, still dazed at the knowledge that it had been him.
All while berating yourself for not recognizing that damned seal earlier, with the snakes coiled into his symbol. It could not have been more obvious. And you suddenly realized what he’d meant by having a large ego. He had not been subtle, had not hid himself in the least. He’d been desperate for you to know him, you realized with a thrill.
“I cannot fault your curiosity, I suppose. ‘Tis only normal to want to know what a prince spends his time doing.” He replied easily, charm coating his words.
“And… what are you doing, your grace?” You mused cautiously, testing the ground you stood on.
“Ah… perfecting my poetry.”
“Whatever for, my grace?”
“A prince must be ready for anything life might throw at him.” He explained, seeming more relaxed now that you seemingly hadn’t put the pieces together.
Though, you could see that he looked at you with something akin to yearning, desperate to feel closer to you, for there to be little space between you.
“Even possibly posing as an entertainer?” You asked with a smile, arm gesturing towards his papers.
“An entertainer?” He mused, tilting his head.
“Yes… as they often recite poetry? Bards, or… sometimes even a most clever jester, no?” You spoke softly, watching his eyes and the way they sharpened in realization.
He seemed to flush ever so slightly, his feet urging him towards you.
“You… how long have you known?” He whispered.
“Your handwriting has just given you away, I am afraid, your grace.”
“Just Loki, from you. I beg of you. Only my name.” He breathed, watching your mouth.
“Is that not treason?”
“I shall decide what is and isn’t treason. Please.” He retorted stubbornly.
You smiled, feeling a tad coy now that a damned prince of Asgard seemed so eager to hear his mere name from you.
“As you say, Loki.” You murmured.
He took in a staggered breath, his pupils dilating.
“I knew… from the few times I had seen you speak and had spoken with you, I knew you would be so. Daring, witty, and coy…” He rasped, enraptured with your face and the way it moved and revealed your emotions plainly to him.
“You have watched me, prince Loki?” You teased, having the sudden urge to see him squirm slightly.
“Watched, admired, become enraptured…” He nodded dumbly, so different from the tales you’d spent your whole life hearing.
“Quite improper, but I suppose you are a prince…”
“Allow me to make it up to you, starting now. For you to forgive my indiscretion, I shall do anything you wish. Take you on a million walks, no matter how weary I become, gift you the rarest items that cannot be found but in the farthest reaches of our world, beg on my knees, anything. Anything for the honour of your gentle company.”
You smiled, despite yourself, offering him your hand (much to his boyish surprise).
“I only want for you to apologize-”
“-Forgive me most ardently for my improper behaviour.”
“-For lying in your letters.”
He paused, eyebrows furrowing.
“Lying? I often lie, yes, but I bared my soul in those letters, I swear to you. I did not lie, unless if you are referring to my anonymity.”
“No, I am referring to you lying, something which you did do.” You scolded gently, softening as his thumb rubbed over your knuckles with a ghost’s touch. He seemed afraid of your closeness being something he would experience only once, something he could very well ruin for himself in the next few moments.
“Whatever you are referring to, I beg you, explain, and I shall apologise.” He swore, bowing his head slightly.
“You wrote in your second letter that you cannot be compared to your better. I now know who you meant.” You tilted your head, meeting his befuddled gaze. “Your brother, Prince Thor, yes?” He nodded subtly, eyes darkening slightly in shame, as if a sudden shadow had come over him. “He does not compare to you, you are right.” He seemed to shrink in on himself. “For you are more handsome than he is.” You murmured, feeling his hold on your hand tighten.
“Most would not agree.” He whispered.
“We are lucky then, that you did not write that letter for all to read.”
He nodded dumbly again, struck by your words and your opinion, as he leant down to kiss your knuckles.
“I would not be opposed to a walk through the royal gardens, either. To see them through the eyes of a royal prince is not an opportunity to be missed.”
“Anything you wish for, I shall give you most gladly.” He vowed, bringing your knuckles up to his mouth again, keeping your hand there.
synopsis: After Loki tries to take over Earth, he stumbles upon a person who doesn't judge nor call him a monster. On the flip side, Loki hates lying to you, a human who unfortunately lost their sight.
You can always tell when someone steps into the bookstore. The bells above the door chime and the floorboards creak. The bookstore is your little sanctuary, dusty shelves lined with tales you might never see, but whose words you know and love by heart. And that’s where you first meet him.
He walked in quietly, the shuffle of his shoes muffled yet strangely elegant. Still, you heard the soft crack of the old wood, felt the subtle shift in the air currents, and caught the faint trace of sandalwood and morning frost.
“Hello.” you had greeted, smiling in his direction even though you couldn’t see the details of his face.
When he had introduced himself as Luke, your heart fluttered at the soft lilt of his voice, but then, he excused himself and left. You could sense he would return and he did.
Over the following weeks, Luke, though you began to suspect that wasn’t his real name, arrived like clockwork. Every Friday afternoon, he would step in, greet you politely, and linger among the shelves. Sometimes he would sit with you behind the counter, flipping through the pages of an old volume while you ran your fingers along your Braille copy of a classic.
You discovered that Luke had a wit as sharp as the letter opener you kept on your counter. He teased you kindly, drawing an easy laugh from your lips. He debated and challenged you, but never in a way that made you feel small.
Yet beneath the warmth, you sensed that he kept a secret.
Luke evaded questions about his life with practiced ease. At first, you told yourself it was fine. Not everyone wants to share everything right away. But as the weeks turned into months, you felt the strain in his voice when he spoke about his past in vague statements.
However, you never pressed him to open up. You already felt privilege enough that he chose to spend so much time with you, that he read your favorite passages out loud and with so much glee. And, at some point, your gentle friendship transformed into something more.
A hand on your shoulder lingered a beat too long. His voice softened when he said your name. When you admitted you were feeling overwhelmed by the day’s chores, Luke was suddenly there, offering assistance. For a moment, you imagined him as a knight from a dusty fairytale, appearing to whisk you away from your burdens.
The first time he kissed you, it was a tentative brush of lips, loaded with so much affection you couldn’t help but shiver. One kiss became two, turned into three, and then you both lost count. You had never been so grateful to be shrouded in the darkness because there, in the hush of your bookshop, it felt like you were the only two souls in the universe.
TIME SKIP
It was evening, long after the bookstore had closed when the door chime rang. “Is that you, Luke?”
A deep voice, more resonant and powerful than Luke’s, answered, “Not quite. I am Thor.”
He explained, in the gentlest way he could, that Luke had a past. One that involved Asgard, a shattered family, and near-cataclysmic deeds on Earth. Thor never once said the name Loki, but you realized, in that instant, that Luke was just a mask.
“My brother is no monster. He's flawed, yes, but he deserves to be seen for who he really is. You—” he paused, as if carefully choosing his words, “—you deserved the truth.”
When Loki returned, you were sitting on the shop’s old sofa, hands trembling in your lap. You heard the jingle of the door, slow footsteps, then silence as he sensed something was amiss.
“Thor was here,” you said quietly, turning your face toward him even though your eyes could not meet. “He told me everything.” It was the first time you heard Loki’s breath catch so audibly. “Why didn't you tell me the truth?"
“Because I’ve done many terrible things,” Loki replied, and for once, he sounded heartbreakingly earnest. “People view me as a monster and perhaps I am. The illusions, the betrayal, the attempt to take over your world…” His voice broke. “I was so tired of being alone, of being judged. You were the first person who never judged me at all.”
Your heart twisted at his words. It wasn’t pity, it was the realization that so much of Loki’s life had been rooted in isolation. You reached out a trembling hand and felt his fingers entwine with yours.
“If you want me to leave,” he said brokenly, “I’ll go. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No. Stay. I wish you’d told me sooner, but I…I’m not going to pretend this isn’t shocking or complicated. Still, everything we shared, everything I felt, it wasn’t an illusion, was it?”
He tightened his hold on your hand, “It was the only real thing I’ve ever had.”
Carefully, you lifted your free hand, and began tracing the lines of his face. The trembling of his jaw, the softness of his skin, the slight dampness on his lashes.
“I believe you, Loki, but please let there be no more secrets between us.”
why is there an upgrade button on gmail. why does twitter want me to scan my palm to get into my account. why is google a chatbot. why does the transit app make a transit app wrapped for me. why does youtube keep shoving its infinitely scrollable shortform content down my throat. why do my doctor and psychiatrist and therapist want to use an ai notetaker during our appointments. why do free trials want my credit card number. why are most scholarship websites just data brokers. how do i make capitalone stop sending me mail. why is my school making its own special chat gpt powered chatbot. why is every third video on instagram an undisclosed ad. why is nothing online real anymore. why is everything so FUCKING STUPID
The room was quiet, dimly lit by the orange glow of the streetlamp leaking through the curtains. Rain tapped softly against the windows while the TV played some movie neither of you were actually paying attention to anymore.
Iwaizumi laid back against the couch with you curled against his side, your head tucked beneath his chin while one of his hands lazily rubbed up and down your arm.
You’d fallen asleep maybe twenty minutes ago.
He knew because your grip on his hoodie had loosened, your breathing evening out into something soft and steady. He smiled to himself, glancing down at you for a second.
Cute. Way too cute.
He looked back toward the TV, completely relaxed until he suddenly felt something soft press against his jaw.
Iwaizumi froze.
His eyes immediately darted downward.
You were still asleep against him.
“…What?”
Before he could even process it, your lips brushed against his cheek this time. A tiny sleepy kiss, absentminded and gentle, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.
His entire body locked up.
Slowly, he looked around the empty living room like someone else had seen that.
Then he looked back down at you with wide eyes.
“Did you just—”
Another kiss.
This one landed near the corner of his mouth.
His face immediately started heating up.
You didn’t react afterward, just snuggled closer into his chest with a quiet sigh, still fully asleep.
Iwaizumi stared at you in complete disbelief.
You kissed him all the time when you were awake—walking past him in the kitchen, sitting next to him on campus, literally whenever you felt affectionate—but this?
This was new, and somehow worse.
Because you weren’t even conscious.
A few seconds passed before you shifted again, pressing one more sleepy kiss directly onto his lips.
Iwaizumi’s brain completely short-circuited.
His breath caught so suddenly he almost choked on it.
“…No way,” he whispered, staring at you like you’d just done something illegal.
Meanwhile you only frowned slightly in your sleep, mumbling something incoherent before burying your face into his chest again.
Like nothing happened.
His heart was pounding embarrassingly hard now, ears burning red while he sat there stiff as a board, one hand hovering awkwardly over your back because he genuinely didn’t know what to do with himself.
You kissed him again.
Tiny. Quick. Sleepy.
And that was what finally broke him.
A helpless grin spread across his face as he dropped his head back against the couch with a quiet groan. “You’re seriously doing this unconsciously?”
You only cuddled closer in response.
Iwaizumi looked down at you again, expression softening almost immediately despite the violent beating of his heart.
the youtube notification of ''ooohh your video isn't starting up smoothly???? turn off your ad blocker you cunt <3'' is so pathetic to me bc it takes five seconds max. you think i can't wait five seconds? you think i need to give you money because five seconds is too long? i pity your wife.
the youtube notification of ''ooohh your video isn't starting up smoothly???? turn off your ad blocker you cunt <3'' is so pathetic to me bc it takes five seconds max. you think i can't wait five seconds? you think i need to give you money because five seconds is too long? i pity your wife.
SYNOPSIS: Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
MASTERLIST
"Someone pinch me." Tim whispers in disbelief, peering into the living room from the doorway leading to the hall.
The glare Damian fixes him with from his spot on the couch is withering, and if Tim wasn't a bat that was practically immune to his little brother's moods he would've ran for the hills.
Instead, he grins, slow and shit-eating. "Dick!" He calls over his shoulder. "Dick, come here!"
"Quiet!" Damian hisses, voice pitched low. The scowl on his face is fierce, and completely at odds with the entire scene.
He's laying on the couch, his girlfriend nestles onto his chest, fast asleep. There's a movie nobody's paying attention to anymore droning on in the background, his arms around her securely making sure she stays put and comfortable. She is warm against him, soft and soothing. The weight of her makes the thing that's always coiled tense and tight in his chest unwind, the scent of her coaxes his muscles to relax.
Nights like this are his favourite, back at their abode. Soft music playing in the background, the lights dimmed low and those candles she loves lit on the coffee table. It's moments like those where everything slows down and Damian feels, if but for a while, that he can be still and not suffer the consequences.
His first mistake was agreeing to stay over at the manor. It's the middle of the night, and it was a mistake on his part to oversee the fact that half of his idiotic family is practically nocturnal.
It was just so easy to fall back into habits, he'd been cocooned with the familiarity of her body against his before Damian had realised that perhaps this was not the best place to settle down without the intention of being seen.
It's not that he wishes to avoid being seen with her; that would be a lie severe enough to warrant cutting his tongue out in punishment. No, if Damian had his way, they'd never be apart. He'd have her with him always. It's more that...he's naturally a private person. It had taken an entire year for him to bring her over to the manor itself. These little things, the little pockets of contentedness, Damian finds himself protective over them. He wants every shred of her kindness, wants to keep it close to his chest where it'll be safe.
By the time his oldest brother enters the room curiously, Damian's ears are a little red, but he refuses to let anything but disdain show on his face.
He does not understand why they are treating this like such a monumental sight. He loves her. They live together. They have been each other's for two years now and yet the sight of them together like this is still enough for Dick to laugh in glee and pull his phone out.
"Grayson, I will eviscerate you." He threatens as the flash goes off. "Put that away, this is childish." Automatically, his hand covers her eyes to shield it from the burst of light, and Grayson at least has the decency to look apologetic.
"You're gonna have to move out from under there first, Dami." Dick snickers, looking through the photos, barely holding back a coo. "This is adorable." He grins. "I'm getting this printed; it's going up on a wall here somewhere."
"You will do no such thing!" His face prickles with heat. "As if I-"
He cuts himself off when she stirs against his chest with a soft sound, eyes fluttering open, half lidded. "Hmm?"
Tim and Dick watch in amazement as their brother, regal and cut from stone, softens into something quieter. The hard lines smooth over, the determined glint in his eye ebbs away.
Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
The trust between them is obvious, because all she does is answer with a sleepy hum, and push herself a little higher on his body so she can tip her face into the crook of his neck. Damian's arms tighten around her, and he adjusts to make them more comfortable.
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
"We can go to our room." Damian is not startled when she whispers against his neck. Perhaps if he was younger, more brash and easily riled up he would have agreed. Maybe he would have even pushed her off, or been vigilant enough to never let himself be caught in this position to begin with.
But he's grown older, and being here with his family has chiselled down his sharper edges into ones that are still rough, but don't cut as easily. He wouldn't call it 'going soft', because at the end of the day Damian is still inherently the same person. But he understands more now, he knows that beneath their teasing, their intentions are innocent. Their eyes are warm with something like pride and happiness for him. Grayson exudes it as the telltale ping on his phone on the coffee table tells him those pictures have just been sent to him.
"We have no obligation to move." He answers, taking her nuzzling into him as agreement. He's tuned his brother's out, but eventually Tim steps out when his phone rings, and Grayson takes his leave shortly after with a wink and a grin.
And it's peaceful.
They lay there for a moment until he notices fondly that their breathing is in sync.
Carefully, he feels around the back of the couch with one hand and grabs the decorative throw Alfred introduced to the rotation last month. Damian shakes it out and adjusts it to cover them, knowing by the soft exhale against his skin that it was the right choice.
"Wake me up if we do need to move." She says sleepily, lips brushing against his jaw chastely. "Love you, Dami."
Fondness seeps through him, cements itself in the cracks of something he had always felt was missing before she came into his life. A balm, cool to the touch, healing to his soul.
"Ya Rouhi." is lips press against her forehead, sweet and intense as he always is. "Rest."
He watches her muscles relax, watches the way she trusts him so openly, notes exactly when she falls back asleep with the way her breathing deepens. Damian always sleeps better with her there, holding onto her like this, keeping her against him reassures that part of him that is used to his joy being torn away for a lesson that might have been beat into him regardless.
He feels better knowing she's safe, protected, even if he knows she's the last person that would need it.
Eventually sleep calls to him too, the crackling fireplace ambient noise enough for Damian to let his eyes shut as well. He'd probably resolve to get up after a while, to carry her to the room they're staying in because although it's cozy here, he would much prefer to rest on an actual mattress.
But for now, the moment is his. Theirs.
"What the fuck am I seeing?"
Nevermind.
Annoyance flaring, he holds back a sigh and takes the blanket off of them, manoeuvring to slide an arm under her knees and pick her up.
Jason looks stunned as Damian pushes past him towards the stairs wordlessly.
"Told you so." She smiles against his chest when he grumbles.
nasa is using a 3D world graphic for the solar eclipse thingy today where germany is still devided in east and west adjfglkafdhgadfg. buddies, it's been almost 40 years.
So I showed this to a physicist and they were like "Oh! Yes! It's a figure from Fred Espenak's very old paper where he did a bunch of eclipse graphics! I've been looking at these my entire internet life, basically, for every solar eclipse! They called him Mr. Eclipse. He just passed away recently 🥺"
Anyway apparently Mr. Eclipse made 5000 years' worth of solar eclipse graphics, which you can find the simpler versions of here
So now instead of laughing at NASA for their outdated graphics I'm emotional about Mr. Eclipse and his hard work
For being so kind and letting me choose the character for this scenario, I decided to write the whole class for you!💞
Henry
The water is hot, almost too hot, the kind that turns your skin pink and scalded, but you don’t move. You sit still with your knees pulled to your chest, head resting back against the rim of the porcelain tub. There is something primal about the way the heat slips into your bones, like it’s unlocking something. You think, dimly, that maybe if you stay long enough, you'll dissolve.
Henry is quiet in the other room. You can hear the soft rustling of papers being folded and organized with precision, then the sizzling of a burning match. The biting scent of his cigarettes threads through the crack under the door. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. Everything about Henry is wrong in theory, and yet—there is nothing safer.
Eventually, the door opens. He doesn’t ask permission. He never does. You don’t want him to.
He steps into the bathroom like a ghost, pale and composed, all angular grace and shadowed eyes. His gaze moves over you once, unhurried, and then down to the water. “It’s too hot,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, and kneels beside the tub.
“You’ll get wet,” you say, though your voice is barely audible.
“I don’t mind.”
He rolls his sleeves up, methodical, revealing forearms you know too well—lined with faint veins, pale skin dotted with barely-there freckles. He dips his hand into the water, winces slightly. “Are you trying to boil yourself?”
You close your eyes. “Maybe.”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches for the faucet, cools the water with careful adjustments, and then turns it off again. The silence stretches long, but never empty. Not with him.
When he speaks next, it’s soft. “Do you want me to wash your hair?”
The question hangs in the air like incense, delicate and reverent. You nod, once.
There’s movement—his steps light against the tile—and then the sound of the small wooden stool being dragged to the side of the tub. He sits behind you, his knees brushing your back.
He lifts the silver pitcher. You remember the first time he used it—how out of place it had seemed in his spartan, monastic home, and yet now it feels like ritual. He tilts it with surgeon’s precision, and the water pours gently over your crown.
The moment it hits you, something inside you unspools.
Your throat tightens.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Henry never asks. He waits. He observes. He studies the world like it’s written in Greek and he’s the only one who knows the language.
His fingers find your scalp, and he begins to rub—slow, sure, unrelenting. His touch is precise, not indulgent. Clinical, almost. But there's tenderness underneath it, the kind he pretends not to possess. You’ve seen it in the way he makes you tea and a sandwich when you forget to eat, the way he sets your books aside when you fall asleep reading, the way he waits for you to come undone but never forces it.
He works the shampoo into your hair, and you lean back into him without realizing it. His chest is solid, unmoving, the warm cotton of his shirt brushing your spine. It anchors you. The pressure of his hands never falters.
“I could start crying,” you whisper, almost surprised by your own voice.
“I know.”
You blink against the water on your lashes, not sure if it's from the pitcher or from you. “Is that... normal?”
He pauses, then resumes washing. “No. I don’t think so.”
You laugh, short and broken, and then you do cry. Not loud. No sobbing. Just quiet tears that spill over and down your cheeks, unremarkable in the wet. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop his hands either—just keeps moving with the same gentleness, the same unshaken rhythm.
“I did things,” you murmur, voice barely held together. “Bad things.”
“I know,” he says again, simply, like it changes nothing.
“And things were done to me.”
He rinses your hair in silence.
“I know,” he says.
His hands move to your temples, thumbs smoothing over your scalp as if he could ease the memory right out of your bones. You know he can’t. But still, you let yourself pretend.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“Neither do I,” he replies, and something in your chest twists. You tilt your head back, and he catches you, his hand cupping the base of your skull. His eyes meet yours, sharp and tired and ancient.
There’s no pity in them. No apology. Just understanding. A quiet sort of solidarity, like two people who’ve both walked through fire and never expected to come out clean.
“I love you,” you say, and you don’t know if it’s the heat or the water or the way he touched your hair like it was sacred, but it feels true in a way not much does.
“I know,” he answers, voice low, reverent, like he's speaking in a cathedral.
He runs the last of the water through your hair, combs it out with his fingers until the tangles disappear. When he’s finished, he wraps you in a towel like a shrine being covered, careful not to startle whatever has just been released.
He helps you up. Holds you steady when your knees wobble. And in that moment—naked, shivering, clean—you feel more held than you have in years.
Charles
The bathwater is tepid by the time you hear his knock.
Not a sharp rap, but the soft knock he uses when he doesn’t want to interrupt your silence, only announce himself. You don’t say anything. You don't need to. Charles lets himself in.
He kicks the door shut behind him and leans against it, as if he's afraid the outside world might follow him in. His sweater is worn and soft, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and the scent that follows him is familiar—bourbon, cedar smoke, and something subtler, like the pages of an old book.
He looks at you with that slow, unreadable expression, the one he wears when he's not sure if you're drowning or just floating. “You’ve been in there a while.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. That’s never been how he works. His concern comes in the form of a gesture, an offering, something small and quiet and unspoken. And now, it comes as a question, half under his breath:
“Want me to wash your hair?”
You nod, not because you need it, but because you want the weight of his hands on your skull. You want to feel something that isn’t ache.
He doesn’t speak again. He kneels next to the tub with the deliberate grace he always seems to carry, like he’s moving through some ancient ritual. His hands are steady as he pours warm water over your head, brushing your hair back from your forehead with his fingers before it clings to your scalp.
It’s tender. So terribly tender it makes something inside you start to crack.
You breathe out, long and thin. “Every time you do this,” you say, voice shaking, “I feel like I’m going to cry.”
Charles’s voice is low, rough around the edges, like it’s been left out in the cold too long. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
His fingers move through your hair, gentle but not hesitant. He rubs the shampoo in slowly, thoroughly, like he's memorizing the shape of your skull. You think of how Charles is with people — easy with a smile, impossible to know, positively angelic. Always half a step removed, a boy who looks like he was born with poetry in his blood and rot beneath his fingernails.
And yet here he is, on the floor of a cramped bathroom, kneeling beside the tub like he’s come to worship. And it’s not a performance. Not with you.
You try to keep it in — the heat behind your eyes, the knot in your chest. But it leaks out anyway. A quiet sniff. A shallow breath. And then it unravels.
You cry.
Not sobbing — just a slow, quiet weeping that slips from your throat like water down a drain. He says nothing, but his hand stills on your head for a second, just enough to let you know he hears it. Then he resumes, fingers gentler now, as if he’s worried he might break you.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper.
He lets the water run again, cupping it in his hand and pouring it down your neck. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I’ve done terrible things,” you say, like confession might save you.
Charles rinses the suds from your hair with agonizing care. “So have I.”
“And terrible things have been done to me.”
At that, his hand stops completely. You feel the stillness in him. Like he’s holding his breath. His fingers graze your temple once, thumb smoothing over your hairline in a gesture so delicate it makes you shiver.
“I know,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”
You don’t ask how. You suspect he sees it in you — the same way you see it in him. There’s something in both of you that’s broken, but not dead. A bruised thing with a pulse. Something that keeps coming back to life even when it shouldn’t.
He finishes rinsing your hair and reaches for a towel, wrapping it around your shoulders like a blanket. You’re trembling, though you hadn’t realized it. He notices.
“Come here,” he says, almost inaudible.
You shift in the water, and he holds out his hand. When you take it, he pulls you forward with quiet strength, cradling your wet form against his chest. You cling to him — cold, soaked, sobbing now into the softness of his sweater.
He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Not tightly. Not possessively. Just — completely.
He rests his chin on your head. Breathes in your hair like it’s a prayer.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs.
“But I’m not clean,” you say, like a child. “No matter how long I stay in this bath.”
Charles is quiet for a long time.
Then: “Neither am I.”
Your breath catches.
He brushes your wet hair back again and kisses your temple — a kiss that isn’t romantic, not really. It's something older, sadder. A benediction. A wish.
“I don’t want you clean,” he says. “I want you here.”
And you believe him. Maybe for the first time, you believe someone when they say they love you not in spite of what you’ve done, but with it.
He helps you out of the tub, dries you off without a word. You dress slowly, mechanically, as he drains the water. It gurgles as it leaves — like something dying, or something finally released.
When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on you. Not soft, but steady.
“Come to bed,” he says. “You don’t have to talk.”
And when you do, curling into the space beside him that always seems to be waiting, he wraps an arm around your waist, breathes in deep like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you.
You don’t cry again.
Not tonight.
But if you did, you know — Charles would not look away.
Bunny
The bath is lukewarm now, but you don’t care. You’ve been in it too long — skin pruned, water cloudy. You're slouched low, chin on your knees, arms around your shins like a child trying to make herself small. You can’t tell if the ache behind your eyes is from the heat or from everything else.
There’s a knock.
Sharp, rapid — three times, then the handle rattles.
“Hey—hey, you in there?” Bunny’s voice. Loud, as always. “I need to brush my teeth or whatever. Unless you’re dead. In which case, I definitely need to come in.”
You manage, barely: “Occupied.”
A pause. You hear the creak of him leaning against the door.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
You don’t answer.
Which, apparently, is enough permission. The door opens with a squeal. He peeks his head in — a mess of blond hair, slightly damp, shirt wrinkled from being slept in, tie askew as if he hasn’t realized he’s still wearing it.
He catches sight of you in the tub and goes silent for a second — rare for him.
“Jesus. You look like something out of a tragic painting. You’re not gonna drown yourself, are you? Because listen, I just ate an entire Reuben and I really cannot handle a dramatic rescue right now.”
You almost laugh. Almost.
“Come on,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. “You’re doing that thing again. The sad hermit thing.”
“I just wanted to be alone.”
“Well, bad news.” He claps his hands together once, then rubs them like he’s about to sell you something. “You’ve got company. Certified excellent company. Bunny Corcoran, bather of maidens, bestower of clean scalps. How’s that for timing?”
You blink up at him. “Did you just offer to wash my hair?”
He gives you a lopsided grin and shrugs off his coat. “Why not? I’ve got excellent technique. Did a semester of barbering in Boy Scouts. Badge and everything.”
“That’s not real.”
“Everything I say is real,” he says indignantly. “You just don’t believe me because I have the face of a cherub and the manners of a lunatic. Now. Scooch forward, make room for Bunny the Magnificent.”
You raise an eyebrow but move forward in the tub.
He perches behind you, ungracefully, socks getting wet as he splashes one foot in. “Damn it,” he mutters, as his clothes get soaked. “I swear, every time I do something nice I end up soaking wet or morally compromised.”
You feel the water shift as he leans forward, one hand cupping your forehead.
“All right, brace yourself.”
He pours water gently over your hair — surprisingly gently. It trickles down your scalp, warm and slow. His free hand catches the strands as they fall forward.
“See?” he says. “Better than a spa. And I don’t even charge. Though if you want to tip in kisses or baked goods, I’m open.”
You close your eyes.
Then his fingers are in your hair — a bit clumsy, more enthusiasm than skill — but careful. He hums while he works, some old march, off-key and under his breath. You can feel his knee bumping your back now and then, the occasional splash as he reaches for more water.
After a while, you go quiet again. He notices.
“Hey,” he says softly, still running his fingers through your hair. “What’s with the silence? That usually means you’re thinking sad thoughts. Which I strictly forbid in my presence.”
“I feel like crying,” you whisper.
He freezes for a moment.
Then: “Oh.”
Water drips off your nose. You sniff. You don’t mean to. You really, really didn’t want to cry in front of Bunny, of all people. You expect a joke — some dumb crack about tears and bathwater and feminine hysteria.
But instead, he says:
“Well, go ahead. It’s not like you are going to get me all wet.”
His voice wobbles between teasing and awkward concern. You laugh, which turns into a half-sob. He doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t tell you to stop.
“You’re really doing it,” he says quietly, and you can’t tell if he’s proud or afraid. “You’re really crying.”
“I’m sorry,” you choke.
“Why? You think I haven’t cried before? Hell, I cried during Old Yeller. And once because I dropped a hoagie.”
You laugh again, tears falling faster.
“I’ve done terrible things,” you say.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, starting to rinse your hair again. “Join the club. There’s punch and cookies.”
You shake your head. “No, I mean—really. Bad things. I don’t know if I deserve—”
“You deserve a damn shampoo, that’s what you deserve,” he says, pouring more water. “You think I’d be in here soaking my clothes and serenading you with my excellent singing voice if you didn’t?”
You go quiet again. His voice drops a little, softer now:
“You’ve had bad things happen. I know. I can tell. Even when you smile, it looks like it hurts.”
Your chest clenches.
“I’m not good,” you whisper.
Bunny exhales, rests his chin lightly on your shoulder. “I know.” he says. “But I like you. Maybe that counts for something.”
His hands are still in your hair. Your back against his chest now, his cheek pressing to the top of your head. He’s warm and real and solid, if a bit damp and ridiculous.
You let out one last breath.
“I love you, you know,” you say, quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away.
“I do.” He says with a voice not quite steady.
And then, more Bunny-like, with a laugh that sounds too much like a plea:
“And I love you too, so you better not die in this bathtub, or I’m gonna have to write a really awkward poem about it.”
Francis
Francis insists on bath oil.
He unscrews the bottle with a flourish, as if he’s about to anoint a saint, not fill the air with lavender and bergamot. “Honestly, if we’re going to be tragic, we may as well be fragrant,” he says, tone dry as vermouth. You’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes, so you do both.
The tub is enormous — claw-footed, porcelain, deep enough to drown in, which you’ve thought about more than once. The whole thing feels like a painting you’ve wandered into: antique tiles, melting candles, the soft clink of the glass he brought in with him. Scotch, of course. Always scotch.
You slide into the water first. It stings a little, hotter than you’d normally dare. But Francis likes extremes, even in temperature. He watches you settle, then steps in behind you with a sigh that seems too old for someone his age. But then, everything about him feels inherited — like he was born already weary.
The water rises around him, and you shift so your back rests against his chest. He hums something — Mahler, maybe — and you can feel it reverberate through your spine.
You’ve been quiet too long. He notices.
“Is this a brooding silence,” he murmurs, “or a poetic one?”
You don’t answer. You’re too tired.
“Ah. Brooding, then.”
He rests his chin on your shoulder. His fingers trail along your arm, absently, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your bones. Francis is always touching, but never by accident. He’s affectionate in the way some people collect art — carefully, with practiced appreciation and a certain fear of permanence.
“You want me to do your hair?”
The question startles you. Not because it’s strange, but because it’s so simple.
“...Yes,” you say, and your voice cracks on it.
He doesn’t comment. Just reaches for the crystal bottle of shampoo, the one with a French name and a pretentious label, like most things he owns.
The first touch of his fingers in your hair makes something loosen in your chest.
He works the shampoo in gently, precisely, the way he does everything. You can feel the rings on his fingers slide over your scalp, cool and delicate, and you wonder — not for the first time — how someone like Francis ended up surrounded by blood and guilt.
His voice breaks the silence, half-sarcastic but soft. “You know, you have the kind of hair Botticelli would paint. Assuming, of course, you weren’t weeping into your own lap like some Renaissance Ophelia.”
You let out a breath. “I’m not crying.”
“You’re always nearly crying. I find it rather romantic.”
“I find it exhausting.”
“Well, we can’t all be charmingly aloof.”
“I’m not trying to be—”
“I know,” he says, and the edge in his voice disappears. His hands move slower now, massaging behind your ears, through the nape of your neck. “I know.”
Your throat tightens. You grip the side of the tub to steady yourself.
“I feel like I’m falling apart,” you whisper. “Like there’s nothing solid left.”
He says nothing for a moment. Then, in a voice so low you barely catch it:
“Same.”
The admission sits between you like a second body in the bath. You tilt your head back, feel the warmth of him behind you, the way his fingers pause — just for a second — in your hair.
“You hide it better,” you say.
He exhales a laugh. “Darling, I’ve been hiding things since before I had things to hide.”
You press your lips together, try not to break. “I don’t think I’m good,” you admit.
“Oh, well. None of us are. We just pretend we’re interesting instead.”
His hand brushes your jaw as he tilts your head to rinse your hair. You close your eyes and let it happen — the water falling in sheets down your back, the clean smell of lavender and soap and Francis. He never rushes, never fumbles. His touch is maddeningly careful, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he isn’t precise enough.
“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly. You don’t even know what you mean. For being sad, maybe. For dragging him down with you. For not being someone easier to hold.
Francis rinses your hair without another word, then leans forward until you can feel his breath on your shoulder.
“I don’t need you to be sorry,” he says. “I need you to still be here.”
You shut your eyes. The tears start, hot and fast. Francis doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He lets your sobs fall quietly into the bathwater while he strokes your hair with long, sure fingers — the way you imagine he used to soothe his mother when she was drunk and furious.
Eventually, the shaking stops.
Your voice is barely there: “Why are you being nice to me?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I didn’t think you liked… emotional things.”
He exhales. “I don’t.”
“Then why?”
There’s a long pause. Then, softly:
“Because I know what it feels like to want to disappear and not be brave enough to do it.”
Your heart lurches.
Francis lifts a towel from the nearby rack — warm, monogrammed, absurdly soft — and wraps it around your shoulders. He dries your hair with painstaking care, combing it with his fingers like he’s brushing the mane of some mythical creature.
He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t pull you into his lap or whisper dramatic vows.
But he does meet your eyes when he speaks.
“I love you, you know,” he says.
Your breath catches.
And he, of course, ruins it: “Which is tragic. For both of us.”
You laugh through your tears. It's shaky, but it’s real. “I love you too.”
Francis stands and offers you his hand, already smirking like he’s regaining his usual armor. “Well, thank God. I was afraid you might make me say it twice. I don't repeat myself unless under duress.”
He helps you out of the tub. Your towel slips slightly. His eyes flicker — not away, but upward, with exaggerated propriety.
“Oh, do let’s find you something to wear,” he says, ushering you toward the bedroom. “You’re going to catch pneumonia, and I refuse to have that sort of scandal in my bathroom.”
Camilla
The bath is still. The water has cooled, your skin shriveled and pale, your breath soft enough to disappear into the steam that’s long since faded. You’re not crying. Not anymore. But you’re also not moving.
There’s a knock, gentle and tentative. Two soft taps. A feminine rhythm. You don’t answer.
The door opens anyway, just slightly, and then her voice comes, like a whisper through cotton.
“May I come in?”
You swallow.
“Yes.”
Camilla slips through the door like the air you breathe — pale sweater hanging from her shoulders, bare feet quiet on the tile. Her hair is loose. There’s something unearthly about the way she moves, the way she carries silence with her like a shawl.
She doesn’t speak for a moment. She just watches you — curled up in the center of the old clawfoot tub, arms wrapped around your knees. She looks at you the way one looks at something fragile but not broken yet.
Then: “You’ve been in here a long time.”
You nod.
“I was worried.”
You don’t respond. Don’t know how to.
She comes closer, kneels beside the tub, rests her arms on the porcelain edge. Her eyes are soft, the gray of cold mornings and salt.
“Can I wash your hair?”
The question is quiet, but not shy. Not uncertain. Just... kind.
You don’t speak. You nod again, barely.
Camilla rises with easy grace, sleeves already pushed up, rings removed and placed neatly by the sink. She moves like someone who’s cared for others before. And maybe she has — maybe Charles, maybe Francis, maybe Henry, maybe all of them. But this feels different.
She picks up the pitcher and dips it into the water, careful not to splash. Then, slowly, she pours it over your head.
The warmth runs down your back, and for the first time in hours, your shoulders loosen.
Her fingers find your scalp — delicate, practiced, slow. She rubs the shampoo in with care, never rushing, never rough. You close your eyes and let her touch settle into you.
“I used to do this for my grandmother,” she murmurs. “When she got too tired to lift her arms. She said it made her feel like a child again. Safe.”
You exhale through your nose. “I don’t feel safe.”
“I know.”
Her fingers move gently behind your ears, at your temples, soothing in quiet circles.
“I feel like I’m full of things I can’t name,” you say, voice cracking.
Camilla doesn’t flinch. “You don’t have to name them,” she says. “Not with me.”
The lather clings to your hair like snow. She pours more water, rinsing it away, her other hand shielding your forehead.
“I did something awful,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I’m not a good person.”
Camilla doesn’t argue.
She reaches for the conditioner and begins again — slower this time, more deliberate.
“I think goodness is overrated,” she says. “People love to talk about morality as if it’s tidy. I’ve never seen it look like anything but ruin.”
You glance at her.
She’s smiling, faintly. But there’s pain behind it.
“I’ve done awful things too,” she says. “We all have.”
Your voice breaks. “But you’re still... good.”
She meets your gaze. “I’m not. I’m just good at looking calm.”
You turn away.
“I want to be clean,” you murmur. “But I don’t think I can be.”
She leans forward and presses her lips — barely, softly — to the crown of your head. Not like a kiss between lovers. More like a sacrament.
“Then I’ll love you dirty.”
It shatters you.
You start crying. Not dramatically. Not the gasping kind. Just tears — steady, warm, falling into the water that clings to your cheeks.
Camilla doesn’t hush you. Doesn’t tell you to stop. She runs her fingers through your wet hair, brushing it back, over and over. The room is quiet except for your breath and the occasional drip from the faucet.
When your crying slows, she wraps a towel around your shoulders, tugging gently.
“Come on,” she says, soft but sure. “Let me take care of you.”
She helps you up, careful not to rush you. She holds your hand while you step out of the tub. Wraps you in another towel. Tucks your hair behind your ear. You let her.
In the mirror, you look like someone reborn. Still worn, still aching. But loved.
You sit on the edge of the bed while she brushes your hair, long strokes, rhythmic and slow. Her fingers find every tangle, and she undoes them all.
“I love you,” you whisper.
Camilla doesn’t pause.
She sets the brush down, rests her chin on your shoulder, her arms around your waist from behind.
“I know,” she murmurs. “I’ve always known.”
You turn slightly, just enough to see her.
“I love you too,” she says. “Even when you try to disappear.”
You bury your face in her collarbone and let yourself be loved.
Quietly. Softly. As you are.
Richard
The water has gone tepid. You haven’t noticed. You’ve been lying in it too long — arms floating at your sides, hair fanned out in lazy ribbons. The ceiling blurs when you blink, and the corners of your vision have softened into nothing. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you feel invisible. Almost holy.
You don’t hear Richard at first.
You only register him when he clears his throat — that quiet, embarrassed sound he makes when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
You tilt your head slightly. He’s standing in the doorway, uncertain. His hands are in his pockets, like they always are when he’s not sure what to do with them.
“You didn’t come down for dinner,” he says, softly.
You don’t answer. He doesn’t ask again.
He lingers by the door a moment longer, then steps in, shutting it behind him. It’s the soft click of someone trying not to disturb you — or himself.
“Are you alright?” he asks. Not like he expects you to say yes. More like he needs to ask, even if it doesn’t matter.
You shake your head, slow.
He looks at you for a while, as though trying to decipher the shape of your grief by how it sits on your body. Then, after a breath: “Do you… want company?”
You blink, and he takes that as a yes.
He sits on the edge of the tub — not close enough to touch you, but close enough to be there.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. He’s too careful with his kindness. Too watchful. And it makes your throat tight.
“Should I — would it help if I washed your hair?” he asks, in a voice so hesitant you almost miss it. “I know that’s… I don’t know. Something people do, I think. When—”
You nod. A small, almost imperceptible nod. But he sees it.
Richard rolls up his sleeves, methodical. There’s something almost shy about the way he dips his hand into the water, testing the temperature. His touch is tentative at first — he’s not sure what’s allowed.
Then he cups water in his palm and pours it gently over your hair.
“I’m not very good at this,” he says, low. “So… you’ll have to forgive me.”
You close your eyes.
His fingers find your scalp. They’re warm, calloused from books and pens and clumsy things, but he’s gentle. As gentle as he knows how to be. His movements are unsure at first — hesitant strokes and too much water — but soon he settles into a rhythm.
There’s a pause, then a quiet voice: “I used to sit like this when I was a kid. In the bath. Let the water go cold. Pretend I wasn’t anywhere.”
You swallow.
“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” he adds, quieter now. “But now I believe my mother did. She never said anything, though.”
He rinses your hair again, carefully. His fingers comb through the tangles without pulling.
“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he admits. “But… I’ve been somewhere near it, I think.”
You blink back the stinging behind your eyes.
“I feel disgusting,” you whisper.
He stills. Then: “You’re not.”
“I did things I shouldn’t have. I didn’t stop them.”
“I know.” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just fact. “So did I.”
You breathe, and something comes loose in your chest. A sob — small and sudden — catches in your throat. You press your hands to your face.
Richard moves closer, kneeling now, and places one hand on the side of the tub. Not touching you — just there.
“You’re allowed to fall apart,” he says. “I won’t — I’m not going anywhere.”
You cry. Quietly. Into your hands, into the water, into the spaces between your ribs. He stays kneeling beside you, not asking, not fixing, just existing in the silence with you.
And eventually, when the tears taper off, he reaches for a towel. Dries your hair like it’s something sacred. Wraps you in softness. Helps you out of the tub without a word.
You stand there, wrapped in terrycloth, shivering slightly.
He hesitates again, then speaks, quietly:
“I know I’m not always the best at… this.” A pause. “But I love you.”
You look at him, finally. His face is open — uncertain but true. Richard doesn’t say things like that often. Not because he doesn’t feel them. But because he feels them too much.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
His shoulders relax like he’s been holding something up for hours.
He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t reach for your hand. But he stands close, enough for your arms to brush as you move toward the bedroom.
And when you crawl under the covers, hair damp, body trembling, Richard sits beside you and reads aloud from the book on his nightstand — his voice quiet, steady, not quite performative. Just something to hold onto while the night gets softer.
He doesn’t say another word about the bath.
But he’ll remember every second of it.
And when you need him again, you won’t have to ask.
tired of toji always being the top, so you decide to finally take charge
⟢
he was a top. every. damn. time.
no matter how many times you’ve begged to get on him even once, he’d refuse and end up beating you to it. you didn’t know why he resented the idea of getting dominated.
well you decided to find that out tonight.
per usual, he thought it was gonna be a normal night—clothes off, a heated makeout session, then a slow shift to the sex you both craved... with him on top.
the lights were dimmed down, the sheets were mixed with the scent of musky skin, and you sat on his lap with your knees placed on either side of his hips. the world was narrowed down to only the two of you in the heat of the moment.
both of your lips crashed against each other in a frantic, almost brutal pace like he was trying to consume you whole instead of kiss you. a string of groans and tiny, accidental whimpers slipped from his throat as he reveled the feeling of your lips against his. but your mind was only stuck to one thing—stay in this position and dont screw it up.
your mind had grown familiar to the way his large hands tightened on your hips before flipping you beneath him. as your lips attacked his in equal fervor, your mind stayed alert to his grip, tracking the way his calloused fingers dug into your hips. it was hard to tell if he was tightening them or not from his brutal grip.
just as he deepened his hold on you, you added extra pressure on his hips to keep him pinned down in the position you wanted. a tiny grunt escaped his throat as confusion clashed with the arousal in his eyes. he frowned like he didn't understand.
"hey, what are you.." but before he could register what was going on, you were already sinking down on his above-average cock. not only was it long, it was thick enough to stretch you out to your full limit with veins trailing down the sides. it was something he was fully aware of, but he knew how to keep quiet about it. watching the expressions on girls' faces was priceless when they get face to face with his cock, but you? you've sort of grown accustomed to it..since you got it almost every night.
you could admit it was easier to be on the bottom when it was time to put it in.
his hands remained on your hips, hesitating whether to push you off or pull you closer. "wait, wait, wait-", the change on his face was noticeable. something uneasy..maybe frightened? though it was masked by the horniness that seemed to spread all over him.
"shh, just..fuck..just trust me.", you muttered out as you struggled to get halfway down. he looked as if he didn't know whether to tease you about your struggling or panic that you're currently on top of him. it was beautiful, truly.
once you finally sat down fully on his cock, a deep, guttural groan tore from his throat. but it lacked the fire and presented slight vulnerability. you paused for a moment as you took in the unfamiliar expression written all over him, but you couldn't help the way your walls begged to be rubbed by him.
those groans slowly morphed into whimpers and incoherent whines when your hips started to move a steady pace—not punishing, but enough to make his head spin. suddenly the straight lines on the wall began to wiggle and swim across his peripheral vision because you were all he could see right now. he couldn't afford to waste this sight of you despite how blurry you looked in his eyes.
your red, velvety walls squelched loud—loud enough that it echoed and bounced off the walls till it was all he heard. he wished he could record all of the noises that came out of you and play it on repeat over and over til no music could hit his ears the right way anymore.
but god, the feeling of you. it was like his cock was made exactly for you, wrapping around him in the right and worst way possible.
the sounds, the sensation, the sight of you—its was too much for him, fuckkk, too much too much-
you were just as far gone as he was. you didn't realize it until you felt his muscular arms pull you flush against him his chest. it was as if you were the only solid thing he could cling onto. you didnt realize the sobs he let out—the tears that were soaking the crook of your neck for however long youve been pounding on him.
he wanted to push you away so bad. every bone in his body begged him to stop this. to hide the tears that were considered weak and submissive. but at the same time, he was so lost in the feeling of you. he wanted you closer and closer..
he clung onto you impossibly tighter, nails digging into the soft skin of your torso that will definitely leave dark bruises the next day. the heat of it all was completely ruining..or maybe amplifying your senses. because you didnt notice that the slurred, sloppy whines that he's been letting out were desperate pleas.
"please! just..mghh fuck- wait, wait, wait! please listen to-," his entire body went rigid when his climax hit him like a tidal wave. a choked gasp escaped his lips, hips bucking up violently as the thick, white ropes of his cum painted your walls. the warm liquid spilled uncontrollably, the absurdity fading in a noticeable, crimson color up his face. even he didn't know he could cum that much.
the arms that had been holding onto you so tight finally went limp on his sides. the relief felt like heavy chains freeing you after being held captive. but were you the one being held captive? when you got the chance to pull away, he looked wrecked. extremely, utterly wrecked. it was the most beautiful sight youve ever seen—his dark hair clinging onto his forehead, his chest rising and falling with every heavy heave, his sweat acting as a second skin...and the tears that were spilling out of his eyes.
his bottom lip was popped out too.
"wait. shit, toji, i didn't mean to-," you couldn't even finish your sentence before he was already anchoring himself back onto you. he replied with a soft, tiny whimper that he would kill if anyone else heard. he kept his face pinned in the crook of your neck, hiding the pure embarrassment and acknowledgement about how you successfully turned him into a complete mess. every piece of armor was torn away from him just by the your determination and curiosity.
once his breathing finally started to steady, he looked up at you with those glossy eyes that made your chest ache.
"again...lets do it again.."
.
.
.
i finally started reading on ao3🙂↕️..recs..?
and ughh i've been writing about toji too much..
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