Imagine the Exorcist who is living with you. Somehow there's a ghost who started haunting your dreams. You keep getting sleep paralysis and awful nightmares, and it's really getting to you.
When he first notices, his first instinct was to try and exorcise the ghost, but then you come up to him at night, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you quietly confessed the horrible sleep you've been getting. Sheepishly, you mention how you've read online that having someone next to you while you sleep can ground you and reduce the sleep paralysis.
Hes elated, but you wouldn't know with the way he sighs heavily and scoot over in the bed, grumbling about not hogging blankets. Once you fall asleep though, he's sneaking out of bed, ghost proofing the hell out of his room and his room only.
You sleep peacefully that night and it starts to become a regular thing. Whenever you decide to try sleeping alone, the ghost haunts you.
He's delighted. He's only been able to look over you while you sleep, occasionally brushing hair out of your face. Now he can cuddle you up all he wants!!! He'll never tell you he could stop the sleeping problems once and for all because you're just such a good cuddle buddy <333
I love this man sm omgggggg like he's so baby girl <3333 💖💖 Anyways yea that's my brain rot of him.
Curses are much more commonplace than you’ll think.
Denver knows this very well. You’ll think that cursed would be impossible to cast without some ghastly, complex ritual involving the entails of a virgin deer or something like that. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that most curses don’t require such a detailed set up.
Maybe it’ll be better if they did, really. At least, there’ll be lesser people suffering in this world.
The truth is, just the intention of malice is enough to have a curse flung straight at another person. Just the thought of hating a person sends a wisp of miasma towards its target, settling on the poor person’s shoulders.
This miasma tends to invite… unwanted guests. Denver’s not pretty sure why, but the fact remains. So when you come to him in the middle of the night, all teary eyed about how you keep seeing a ghostly figure out of the corner of your eyes, Denver figures that this miasma was the cause.
He’s about to swing his legs off his bed to exorcise whatever’s haunting you, when you crawl into his bed. Clinging onto his sleeve feebly, mumbling something about how it’s so cold, and you really, really just need some sleep for now. God, the way your lips quiver ever so slightly when you mutter, the slight rasp of your husky voice as you say:
Come under the covers, Des.
It’s enough to drive him insane.
So he does, but not without gently flicking you on the forehead, chuckling softly about how you’re so clingy. Man, if you just want to sleep with him, you could just have said so. But for as much as he teases, Denver’s still going to pull you gently onto his chest. Pressing your ear flush against his heart, he tries to make his heart-rate just a tinge little bit more… stable and normal. Something to ground you, even if it’s thumping away like a jackrabbit in heat.
Watching you sink into an uneasy slumber, Denver amuses himself by twisting a strand of your hair round and round his finger, humming to himself softly as he does. There’s just something so cute about you sleeping with him… maybe it’s the fact you seem ever so defenceless around him. Carefully, his hand slips down onto your neck, gently cradling it within his palm. You wince a little in protest, before sinking into his touch, your unconscious valuing warmth over all else.
Denver has to bite back a rather throaty groan. Heck, he could even strangle you right now, and you wouldn’t even wake up. Part of him was tempted to give your soft skin a little squeeze… just a little bit. Until it bruises, a lilac necklace for you to wear out and about.
Would you try to hide it? Would you show it proudly? Would you give him a matching one to boot? Denver would probably welcome the sensation of you straddling his hips, both of your hands tight around his neck, choking the living daylights out of him-
Oh fuck.
Just the thought had his eyes rolling back in pleasure.
God, what a way to go.
Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away from your neck, before intertwining his fingers with your hair, stroking it ever so tenderly. Technically, he should really help you clear the miasma, maybe even do a quick exorcism on the spirit haunting your room… but does he really have to?
You’re already safe, all nice and huddled up right next to him. Denver really doesn’t see the need to do any unpaid labour… you’ll agree with him, right? After all, you’re ever so cozy, curling right up next to him, snoring away.
Man, are you drooling? You really needed that sleep, huh? A part of Denver is tempted to slide his tongue right across that sparking trail flowing down your cheek, but he thinks the better of it.
After all, there’ll be tomorrow, and the day after to act on his little… fantasies.
Hm? You expected him to solve your problem? He’s solved it, hasn’t he? Just stay with him.
Jean Descole/Desmond Sycamore x Reader.
Oneshot. Established relationship. 2132 words.
Repost of an old work of mine from 2023.
Summary: You miss Des when he's gone. So... You decide to snuggle up with his cape.
Content warnings: Written in absolute delirium. None otherwise.
You miss him terribly when he's gone.
The hours feel like an eternity when you're waiting for your love to return. Whether he's giving a seminar to the esteemed individuals in the archaeology community under his professor persona or working in the shadows as Jean Descole, you miss your brilliant and artful lover. Today, however, is the former of those two scenarios: Professor Desmond Sycamore is holding a meeting in London to discuss some business with his peers in the field. You knew before you'd even started a relationship with him that he is a busy man and of course you understood; you'd never held it against him. However, it didn't change the loneliness that gnawed at your heart in his absence.
Thus, you found an alternative means of providing yourself some comfort...
It was late in the evening when Professor Sycamore began climbing up the stairs of the airship. He was heavy laden with books, paperwork, and exhaustion. The meeting had taken far longer than he'd intended, and then of course those imbeciles simply insisted on dragging him out to some miserable luncheon. The food was sub-par, the company was insufferable, and the weather was grim. Naïvely, he'd thought to escape once he'd partaken in the wretchedly mediocre meal, but then they'd wanted his expert opinion (of course he's an expert, which meant that it should be obvious that he was far too busy for their foolish nonsense!) on some “revolutionary” (“Hardly!” he scoffed inwardly) “new” (he'd heard of it weeks ago) unearthing of an ancient art piece that had recently been transferred to the London Museum of Historical Peoples.
“Ah, master! I was wondering when you'd return. I fear your midday, afternoon, and evening tea has long since gone cold. I will put a fresh pot on at once.” Raymond greeted him as soon as he'd entered the Bostonius. Heaving a long-suffering sigh of exhaustion, Sycamore shook his head.
“No need, Raymond. This day has been a near-complete and tremendously fiendish waste of my time. I have had a long and wretched experience with those bougie nitwits, though I was at the very least able to convince them to invest in my work. Unfortunately it gave them the impression that I would be interested in mingling; their hunger for gossip is almost as severe as their appetite for below-average fast food. There are only so many rounds of soggy chips and half-frozen fish fingers I can take,” He growled out with pain, “In any case, I am most certainly not about to allow them any room for shoving their big buffoon noses into my personal business! No matter, though... The day is done, and soon we'll be off elsewhere, far far away from these imbeciles. I have much more important business to attend to than entertaining their small minds. For the moment, however, I only wish to lie down for at least an ounce of peace. I'm utterly spent,” The archaeologist haphazardly abandoned his burdens onto a nearby table, too tired for further ranting, “If you would sort these for me, it would be much appreciated.”
Raymond nodded, uttering a quick, “Right away master,” as he immediately moved to engage the task.
Desmond massaged his face, exasperatedly looking around the room. His expression was strained, his gaze searching. Something very important was missing from this scene. Something he'd been looking forward to seeing all day.
“Where has my dearest gone off to then?”
“They retired to your room several hours ago, master. They've been rather mournful for your company all day.” Answered the butler honestly.
Desmond clicked his tongue, “This won't do at all. I shan't keep them waiting any longer. Thank you, Raymond. Goodnight.”
“Peaceful rest to you, master.” The older gentleman turned to him and bowed respectfully, bidding the professor adieu as he scurried off to your shared bedroom.
Quietly, Desmond pushed the door open, peering into the darkened room. Opening the door further, the light from the hallway spilled in, bathing your sleeping form in a warm glow. The man in the doorway stared for a moment. He could feel his irritated expression melting almost immediately as a long, slow exhale left him. The tension also began slipping away from his chest and muscles as he took in the sight of you, gaze softening with love. You were curled up on the bed, hair all a mess, your face buried in the blanket-
Wait...
Desmond squinted, eyes narrowed in suspicion. That... wasn't a blanket...
You were wrapped in his cape.
How had you found that??
Not only that, but the fur scarf too, now that he looked harder. You were using it as a pillow, a small smile on your face as you nuzzled into the fluff of it. Leaving the door open for the light to see by, he approached your side of the bed, looking you over with his hands on his hips. You'd abandoned the Jean Descole persona's hat and mask on the nearby dresser, evidently pilfering only what you could comfortably sleep with. Desmond couldn't find it in himself to be cross with you. After all, Raymond had mentioned that you'd been missing him particularly badly... The longer he looked you over, the more his heart melted. He felt almost sick with adoration for you, like butterflies in his stomach. Ever so gently, he leaned down, reaching his fingers toward your face. With a featherlight touch, he lovingly brushed aside the strands of hair from your features, tucking them tenderly behind your ear. You let out a breathy hum at his touch, the sweet lilt of your sleeping voice buzzing in his brain.
“Oh, my dear, my love...” He whispered, devotion seeping from his words like a lovestruck poet. He could feel his face heating up from his neck as he looked upon you. From now on, he'd be certain to terminate any future attempts at waylaying him from returning home to you in a timely manner. Nothing was going to get between him and moments like these... certainly not wastes of space like his coworkers.
Desmond shook his head. No need for such things to consume his thoughts any longer. Not when he had you right there in front of him. A dreamy sigh escaped him as his lips curled up in a warm smile, unable to pry his gaze from you. His sweetest delight, his perfect partner. Oh, how he loved you. He looked you over, his gaze trailing across the cape that was wrapped so snuggly around you, gracefully outlining the form of your body. Even the darkest parts of him weren't able to resist your enchanting light, he let out a small huff of a laugh as his fingers traced the article where it met your form. You'd foregone the warmth of the bedclothes, the sheets and blankets still made up neatly beneath you. The only thing keeping you warm was that blasted cape.
What that cape stood for never seemed to bother you. You accepted both sides of him equally, happy to love every square inch of his being, his identity. At first he'd wondered if it was naïvety, sheer innocence, or perhaps even ignorance, but no. As time went on, he slowly began to realise that it was nothing of the sort.
You understood him.
Understood the depths, the pain, the darkness that swirled and crashed and raged within him. You listened, you observed, you thought. You cared. The two of you were different kinds of people, there was no denying this, this much was a mutual understanding. Even so, you found it within yourself to trace every jagged edge of his being and memorise it, understand it, figure out what it was and why it was there. Despite the monumental amount of hideous history behind him, you stood before it with an unabashed determination, even when he kicked against your efforts.
Desmond couldn't even begin to grasp why you stayed, why you persisted in your endeavour. He felt that you were wasting your time. He fought, wrestled, warred against himself in regards to your affections. He wanted it so badly, wanted your love, wanted to feel your arms around him – but it was a blow in the face to everything he'd worked for, wasn't it? A distraction. An obstacle between him and his goals. He'd resigned himself to living for one purpose for so long. Ultimately, it was Raymond who'd actually convinced him, evidently sick of watching him tear himself in half over his - at that point utterly undeniable - affections for you.
“It's like I can't breathe. I feel as though I'm drowning,”
“It's called falling in love, master. I'm afraid there's no cure, but it will get better with time, I assure you. You need only to let it in and stop trying to kill it. The more you try, the harder it fights back.”
He felt he'd never be able to thank him enough. How close he'd come to losing you. To losing this.
His hand curved around your cheek, hovering there as he sat next to you on the edge of the bed. You looked so peaceful... He didn't want to wake you up, but alas, his selfish side won out on this decision; surely you could spare just a few minutes of sleep in order to direct that breathtaking expression at him? To just let him hold you in his arms...
“My love...” He whispered, stroking your cheek, “I'm home now.” Leaning all the way down, he placed a kiss on your forehead. As he pulled back, he hovered just a few inches from your face, whispering your name as he rubbed his thumb across your cheekbone. With a small hum, your eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily.
“Mmm... Hmm... Desmond...?” You muttered, half-awake.
“It's me, my darling. I'm here. I see you've made yourself rather comfortable with my cape while I was away, hmm?" He purred. He couldn't help himself but to lightly tease you. It must be a testament to his villainous nature, he figured, to be able to do that to a sweet thing like you. Was he Desmond or was he Descole right now? He truly couldn't tell anymore. You blurred the lines for him, but it was in such an intoxicating way, he found that he no longer minded.
“Desmond,” You repeated his name, relief heavy in the sound of it, sending shivers up and down his spine and a new wave of butterflies into his gut. You moved to sit up, and he leaned back to give you room. “I'm so happy you're home, I've missed you so much,” With that, you peeled the cape off of your upper half, freeing your arms in order to throw them around him. He welcomed your tight embrace, your face buried in the curve of his neck as he engulfed your form into his own arms. He couldn't restrain the happy, breathy laugh that left him as he caught you into his hold, pulling you up into his lap, as close to him as possible. He removed his glasses, tossing them onto the nightstand before his hand quickly found its place on the back of your head, fingers entwining with your hair as he gently moved you to look at him. Pressing his forehead against your own, he looked into your eyes - into your beautiful, gorgeous, hypnotic eyes - before pressing a desperate, needy kiss to your lips. You felt him kick out, hearing both of his shoes hit the ground and roll across it haphazardly, as he drew his legs up onto the bed.
He pressed forward, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming up and down your back, in your hair, seemingly everywhere at once. He finally simply grabbed onto you, pulling you with him in his surprisingly strong arms as he changed positions, his back against the pillows and the headrest of the bed, legs stretched out. Desmond broke the kiss for a moment, taking a breath. Looking at you, his eyes were glossy, hazy with the heat of the moment, an adorably wobbly smile on his face. His hand came up to cup your cheek as he pressed another kiss to your lips, this time much slower, sweeter, more methodical. A perfect fit, a perfect feeling. His lips were soft like the touch of his hands, though strong and loving. Full of want that he wouldn't usually let himself verbalise. Chest-to-chest, face-to-face, one of your legs wrapped around his, you could live in this moment forever. How lucky you felt, how on top of the world. He finally pulled away, needing air again.
He watched you for a moment more before whispering back a belated but wholly honest reply, “I missed you too.”
I just wanna start calling Des ridiculous pet names just to fuck with him.
First they start normal: Honey, babe, dear
Then it gets a little goofier: Honeybuns, snookems, pooksters
Eventually it just becomes brain rot: Girlypop, queen, my little gyatt, baby girl, twunk
If he gets used to that? Start calling him random things: my little stapler, my door handle, my galvanized steel bar
Honestly he'd probably just be happy to be called so affectionately, even if he doesn't understand all the lingo or can't even fathom what goes on in your silly lil brain
@rabioa darling, Des is a full on 21st century guy. He absolutely knows whatever you throw at him, although some might throw him for a loop. Yes, he’s middle aged. Yes, he’s hip with the kids. It might have come during his days on the street, where he’ll look out for the youngsters.
He’s a shit guy, but what he lacks in morals he has in standards. Des is less of a father figure and more of that brother that lets you take a puff on his cigarette, laughs at you as you choke, but will beat up anyone else who laughs at you. He’s a decent guy, really.
So he’s well up to date with the modern lingo, thanks to the young ‘uns he helps. They’ll call him gramps, but y’know, they’re friendly.
Honey and babe would get him a little pink, as he ruffled your hair in an attempt to play it off as a joke. Snookems… he’ll start calling you pookie bearie in the most vomit-inducing high pitched tone ever. Denver will match your freak, unfortunately/fortunately.
Call him a steel bar? You’re the rust coating it, because he can’t be anywhere without you <3 you can be his little sink tap handle, or his silly little window ledge~
