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madsgotmadagain · 15 days ago

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Writing Love letters:Yandere! Marko x Reader

Summary: You, a hopeless romantic, start to receive anonymous love letters in your mailbox. How sweet!It becomes less sweet, however, when your secret admirer starts to admire you a little too closely. And creepily. And may or may not be human but hey whose to say-

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: Stalking, feeling watched/paranoia, yandere behavior, blood, forced blood drinking/forced vampire turning, death of nameless characters, being held/pinned down, Marko cuts himself to feed you blood, mean Marko (he loses his temper, sort of apologizes?), cops being useless and snarky

If you catch any i may have not mentioned or tagged properly, let me know and I'll add them! I think this is mostly it though

Other important tags: Yandere/obsessive Marko, Italian Marko (uses of Italian pet names), reader uses she/her pronouns but body is not mentioned, oneshot, 8.3k words, this work is cross published on Ao3!!

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You thought the first couple letters were sweet, really. If anything, the first few were just the tiniest bit. They showed up in your mailbox one day alongside the other bills and ads shoved in there by your mailman. You figured whoever was sending them wasn't using the postal service, however. The letters were anonymous, no name or return address or even a stamp on the back. Just “mi amore” written on the back of the envelope, and a wax seal keeping it shut.

You didn't see them all until you got home from work that night though. Waking up late left now time to collect your mail before you scrambled off to work. It was all too perfect for him, though.

"A wax seal. How fancy,” You thought when you saw it. Flipping the letter back and forth before you walked back into your home with the rest of your mail. Tossing it all except for the letter onto the coffee table, flopping down onto your sofa. Despite the exhaustion from work that day, this little envelope was sparking your interest. Thus, feeling the all consuming weight of curiosity, you carefully lift up the seal and take out the paper inside. Feeling the toothy grip of sketchbook paper on your fingertips as you pull it out, starting to read.

.……..……..……..……..……..……..……..……......................

“Mi Amore,”

“Seeing you working on the boardwalk has become the highlight of my nights. Passing by you fills me with emotions I haven't touched in a long time. Seeing your smile as you deal with whatever customer is talking to you, even when they don't deserve it- Dio mio, what I would give to get you to smile at me. A real, genuine smile in my direction. I would actually die right then and there.”

“I'm writing to tell you I love you. You have become my sun, the light of my life, my purpose - Mio Sole, I am helpless to my heart. Impossibly attracted to you, struggling to hold myself back from trying to sweep you off your feet and take you right then and there. I need an outlet. So I thought, hey, letters.”

“I need you to know how crazy I am about you. Even if you don't know me right away, or don't feel the same right now, you should know. I would kill for you. I would die for you. And right now, I live for you, my love.”

“Forever yours,

Tuo ammiratore”

..……………………………………………………………………….

“... Oh, wow,” is all you can think to say. Your face flushing red, a small smile on your lips. You couldn't believe what you were reading. Sure, you had gotten a love note or two in school, but it was always the typical, ‘Do you like me yes-no-box’ note. Never had you ever received anything like this. A confession of pure, unfiltered admiration. It was so fantastical, a plot plucked straight out of a cheesy rom-com, or some modern day period film. And for a single, hopeless romantic, it was an absolute dream come true.

You had no idea what this would bring. You had no idea that, as you sat on your sofa, giddily re-reading your letter, making sure you hadn't misread anything, someone was outside your windows. Smiling to himself as he watches you, greenish-grey eyes bore into you, past your body, staring at your soul.

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And so, as time went on, you got more letters. Each as romantic and lovingly crafted as the next. You even got to learn more about your secret admirer; for example, he was a bit of an artist. Small doodles scrawled into the margins of the pages, little hearts and doodles of whatever he was talking about scattered around the poetic lines of devotion. Once he even stuck in a whole separate paper in the envelope; a portrait of you.

“I tried to draw you last night,” He explained at the end of his writing. “It came out alright, I think - better than I thought it would. You can only do so much when your only references are memories. Still, one day, I'll get to see you up close, and I'll find a moment to sit you down and draw you as well as I know I could.”

He told you small stories about him and his friends, who you learned he lived with, though details beyond that were obscured from you. You had no clue where they all lived, just the assumption that it had to be here, somewhere in Santa Carla.

He admitted at one point that he started telling them all about you. “I want them to like you too,” he had written. “Not in the same way, of course, but I want them to like you. And for you to like them. I don't know what I'd do if I introduced you all and you wouldn't get along. You're all way too important for me to give any of you up.”

You also learned that he wasn't one of your coworkers. Given you only really went on the boardwalk for work, you thought maybe your secret admirer worked alongside you. But after asking around, nobody had any idea what you were talking about, not letting out even the tiniest slip that could hint they were lying.

For the time being, you decided to just let it be. Reveling in the affectionate lines and messages thrown your way. Basking in the possibility of a blooming romance, positively smitten for someone you hadn't even met before.

But then things started to get a bit… strange.

The letters kept coming, yes, with their wax seals and poetic declarations of love. But alongside them, other sorts of lines were written. Small phrases or comments that made you read again, their context causing slight confusion or concern.

“I saw you dealing with some creep last night,” He wrote once. The words starting to indent themselves into the paper, signs that the author was getting heavy handed. “It took everything in me to not go in there and deal with him myself right at that moment. Make sure he never looked at or talked to you like that ever again.”

You remembered the guy he was talking about. Just another punk from a gang prowling the boardwalk, looking to start up trouble. Trouble just so happened to mean bothering you at work, trying (and failing) to flirt, looking at your body like you were a slab of meat. It was definitely uncomfortable, but you managed to deal with him fine enough until he and his gang left the store. Praying he'd move on and you'd never have to see him again.

And that's just what happened, miraculously. The punk never came back into the store. Hell, none of them did. After that night, it was as if they never existed.

You couldn't help but think about the letter when you walked past his missing poster. A part of you suspected if your anonymous admirer had anything to do with it - but you quickly brushed it off, chuckling to yourself.

No, it couldn't be, you insisted to yourself. People went missing all the time in Santa Carla, it was nothing new. The guy probably just got into some stuff he shouldn't have and shit went bad. Still, the idea amused you whenever you'd think it at the time. Your secret letter writer, a guardian angel, batting away creepy boardwalk men so you didn't have to deal with them.

If only you knew your guardian angel had fists and fangs coated in blood that night. Laughing violently as the punk’s screams muffled into choking on his own blood, then started to stop. Watching with glee as the life faded from his eyes, while the rest of his gang picked off the others. Really, he would've kept him around longer if he had more time. Make him really scream, break a few extra bones, rip off just a bit more skin- But the rest of the boys were already finishing up, and this guy wasn't going to last much longer anyways. Thus, he sunk in his fangs, sucking the delinquent of every drop of blood.

Dinner had never tasted so sweet.

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Yeah, no, this was definitely getting weird. Like, really weird.

The letters frequency slowed a bit; you went from a letter a day to one every few days. You wouldn't really think about it too much if that was it. Unfortunately, it wasn't.You felt like you were being watched. Particularly, at night, though it didn't matter where. You'd feel eyes on you at work, walking to your car, driving back home - even your house wasn't free from the creeping feeling that you weren't as alone as you thought you were.

You tried to brush it off. Justify it as you just being too alert after that creepy conversation with the punk. But still, that was weeks ago, and you were still feeling eyes blasting into you everywhere you went. It felt like as soon as the sun went down, the eyes were back. Night was no longer just a time of day for you; it meant constantly being on edge, waiting for something - or someone, even - to take an opportunity to try something.

The letters weren't helping either. Small bits that made you tilt your head had evolved past just being peculiar. Now, the words on the page were just plain creepy, and definitely not helping your anxieties.

He talked about things you hadn't mentioned to anyone. Intimate details about yourself and your life you intentionally kept under wraps. Writing about your friends outside of work, about the places you drive past on your way home (you tried a new route the other day, the letters started mentioning the new shops and streets you drove past).

The letters you once saw as a comfort, a distraction from long nights at work, we're now furthering your fears. What started as a cute little way to work up the courage to talk to you morphed into what felt like stalking you.But it wasn't until this incident that you were positive that something was very, very wrong.

..……………………………………………………………………….

"Mi Amore,”

“I really missed seeing you at work yesterday.”

(You had called off sick the last few nights. Your fears got the better of you, so you told your boss you couldn't make it. She was disgruntled, but she took it, so you had been keeping yourself at home for a bit.)

“Walking by the place and not seeing you just- felt wrong. Hopefully by the time you're reading this, you're back to work and I'm seeing you normally again. Not that you not going to work is stopping me much."

"Regardless, just rest up, amore. You're going to need it once you're back in the swing of things. In the meantime, I'll just settle for having to take the ride out. But I do have to admit, you look really cute like this - wearing those baggy shirts and pants, your hair all messy and tangled, all sleepy all the time. Eventually I'll get to wake up beside you and see you all disheveled like that. Everyday. Forever. It'll be perfect.”

“Get some rest, amore,”

“Forever yours,

Tuo ammiratore”

..……………………………………………………………………….

You reread the last paragraph about ten times, confused and a bit anxious. You hadn't gone out in your pajamas since elementary school. Especially not to the boardwalk of all places. Where you worked, where people you worked with or god forbid your boss could see you? Absolutely not.

He shouldn't be able to describe your pajamas.

You tried to calm down a bit, think through this logically. He probably just assumed, right? I mean, plenty of people wear baggy clothes to bed - you weren't special for doing that. Especially considering right now, everyone you knew thought you were sick.

Still, the feeling of being observed still hangs in the air, definitely not helping your nerves. Trying to calm down, you walk over to the window, figuring some fresh air would calm your nerves. Maybe you knew you really just wanted to check for something. To be positive everything was fine and you were thinking too hard about a few dumb lines in a somewhat strange letter.

But it wasn't. You open your curtains, then your windows. Taking a breath, tired, half lidded eyes look over your yard. Moving them across the land, into the woods that surrounded your home.

That's when you see it.

It's only there for a few moments. You saw it, blinked, and it was gone. But it was there. Even but for a fleeting second, it was there.

A figure stood in your yard. A human figure, a person was in your yard, standing in the trees. Despite being covered in shadows, the pale moonlight managed to barely illuminate their face. Just enough for you to catch the knowing smirk on their lips and the dangerous glint in their eyes, which almost seemed to glow a sickly yellow.

Your heart stops, your skin paling as you quickly slam your windows shut. Running around your house, doing the same to the rest of them. Then drawing all the curtains. Then checking your locks.

That was the nail in the coffin for you. You called your boss again, asked to switch off the night shift. Again, she was annoyed, but she said she'd look into it. You may not get your full paycheck, though, since you were running out of sick days. You told her that was fine, and you'd be there once you got your new hours. You hung up.

Once you checked to see whoever was there wasn't there anymore, you calmed down a little. Enough to realize all this started happening after you started getting the love letters. That everything was getting creepier and creepier alongside them.

Thus, you stopped picking them up. At first, you wouldn't even touch them, letting the papers all pile up in your mailbox. But then they increased in frequency again, and it turns out letting mail build up wasn't practical when you still had bills and other letters coming in. So instead, you just threw them out as soon as you got them. Got all your mail, leafed through to find the important stuff, then tossed everything else in your garbage bin.

If you weren't reciprocal, he'd lose interest. That was the thought running through your head as you tossed envelope after envelope in the trash. That's what you thought when after a few weeks, the letters stopped coming.

If only you knew what you were doing.

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Marko was fucking pissed.

That's all he could feel as he wrote yet another letter; anger coursing through his veins. His grip on the pen so strong it felt as though it could snap in half at any moment. Considering the residue of dried ink on his fingers, it wouldn't be the first time tonight.

When you first saw him, he wasn't that upset. Easing you into his stranger ways of showing love was definitely the hardest part of his plan to get you to be with him. It made sense that you were a little freaked out. He just never thought you'd be this reactive.

You weren't at the boardwalk anymore. He and the other boys would walk past it on their way to cause havoc, and you weren't there. At first, he assumed you were sick. He sent his condolences for that. Went to make sure you were alright from a distance.

But days turned to two weeks, and you still weren't back. Eventually, Marko got up the courage to go inside and ask for you. And the cashier at the front desk (your work friend, he recognized), told him you weren't doing night shifts anymore. That you asked to be switched to the normal 9 - 5. Much to his confusion and slight betrayal.

Weren't doing night shifts? You asked to be changed? Excuse me? He thought he made it clear he wanted to see you at work. To you, he only got to see you in person at work.

He wrote to you about it. Vented his frustrations in the decision. Basically demanded you write something back this time, an explanation. Stuck it in your mailbox, along with several other letters you hadn't gotten yet (still faking sick, he guessed. You little liar.). And he waited. He waited a while. He waited until he got bored, cracked, and wrote another letter. Chuckling to himself as he drove to your place. God, look at you; cracking open his stubbornness with your own, baiting him into apologizing. God, he was whipped.

Then, he decided to hang back a moment after delivering your new letter; poke around a bit, see if anything interesting was happening around your home. It was night anyways, you were probably asleep. You wouldn't catch him. He had taken ‘poking around’ to mean, that night at least, you mean opening up your trash bin to see if you had thrown out anything neat. His usual smirk disappeared right off his face when he saw dozens of unopened letters staring back at him from the top of the bin.

You weren't replying because you were playing sick. You didn't know he wanted a response. Because you hadn't been reading his recent letters. You were throwing them away.

To say Marko was mad would be an understatement. He was livid. Fuming when he came back to the cave, quickly making his way to find a pen and paper. These past few weeks, he assumed you were just playing sick, but no. You were intentionally tossing all of his efforts and affections into the trash. You weren't even bothering to read them! You saw who sent it, and didn't even give him the light of day. After everything he said, everything he did for you, this was the thanks he got? The nerve! The fucking nerve you had!

“God damn…” he muttered, scribbling out the last few words before rewriting them. Not noticing the presence behind him until a hand is on his shoulder.

"Whatcha up to bud?” Paul's voice rings out throughout the cave, snapping Marko out of his rage-filled writing. Groaning, still upset, he turns to look at the other vampire.

"Writing to her,”

“Again?” Paul asks. Sitting down next to the curly-haired blond, tilting his head a little. “Didn't you, like, just get back from sticking one in her mail?”

“Took it back,” He huffed, looking back down at the envelope beside him. Then to the paper in front of him, glaring down at the words. “Changed my mind about some stuff. Got something else to say to her now.”

“Oh,” Paul starts. Sensing the tension in the air, he pulls out a cigarette, an offering. Marko's gloved hand pushes it away, shaking his head. “... did something happen? Your kinda-”

“I'm fine,” The shorter blond huffs. Finally setting down the pen as he reads over his paragraph, once, then twice. Satisfied, he stands up.

"You wanna come help me out with something?” He asks, back to smirking. Sensing the slight improvement in Marko's mood at the thought of this ‘something’, Paul nods. Watching Marko's smirk grow.

“Great, I'll go get David and Dwayne. Start up your bike. It'll be fun.”

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You woke at the sound of rumbling in the distance, confused and a bit grumpy. Glancing at the alarm on your nightstand, you concluded it was about two in the morning, which only added to your annoyance. What the hell is making that noise at two am?

It was bikers, you concluded. The sounds of revving and engines and wheels on the ground hinting at what was happening. Probably just some drunk bikers, going for a joyride too close to your house. Groaning, you just turn on your side, shove your pillow over your ears, and try to go back to bed.

But then the noises got closer. Then closer. Until the screeching of wheels and bike engines were ringing in your ears, and behind all of it, you could make out the howls of laughter from whoever was driving.

Your heart starts to race as you listen. What was happening? Why were these random bikers right outside of your house? You locked the doors before you went to bed, right?

A crash interrupts your anxious thinking; The shattering of glass. Followed by more hollering. Your blood runs cold.

Panic racing in your bones, you freeze. Listening with slight relief as you hear the engines and laughter fade into the distance. Unsure of what exactly just happened to you.

Cautiously, you move again. Rushing out of your room, making your way to where you heard the crash; the living room. Stopping, shivering when you see what was in there.

One of the large, main windows had shattered. Millions of tiny glass pieces litter across your carpet, and in the middle of it all, was a brick.A brick with paper tied around it.

You can feel yourself shake as you grab the brick. Pulling the string loose, you set the brick down on your coffee table, holding the paper in your hands as you make your way to the couch. Starting to read.

..……………………………………………………………………….

“Ok, that's it. I'm getting sick of your shit, (Y/n).”

The mention of your real name makes your stomach churn. Before this, he had always called you by a nickname, some term of endearment; mi amore, mio Sole, the whole shebang. The sudden use of your name is startling. Alongside the change in tone from the last time you had read from him.

“It was kinda cute at first. Seeing you all nervous, all jumpy - I liked seeing you squirm.”

“What isn't cute is ignoring me. Don't even deny it. I saw your trash.”

… shit.

“After everything we went through - everything I do for you - you think you can toss all my letters away? Like they all meant nothing to you? Like I meant nothing to you? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You don't get to do that. You don't get to just walk away and pretend nothings been because I came on a little too strong and freaked you out a bit. I've been very clear about my intentions with you from the very start of all this; you're mine. I'm not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

“I'd do anything for you. You know that. I would die for you, I've lived my life every night for the last months thinking about you. Hell, I fucking killed for you! And you wanna back out now? No way in hell.”

“Obviously, we need to figure this out. Now. I'm done waiting for you to ‘be ready’. We tried playing this your way. Now, it's my turn.”“If you have plans tomorrow night, cancel them. You and I are going to have a nice, long talk about this.”

“ - Marko”

..……………………………………………………………………….

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. You're screwed. Your actually fucking screwed. You have a crazy stalker who knows where you live, he's pissed at you, and he ‘wants to talk’.You're dead. You're actually, legitimately dead. He's going to come find you at home tomorrow, and he's going to kill you.You stare at the floor once you're done. The glass is still scattered across it. It's a miracle you haven't gotten cut yet.

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"What do you mean there's nothing you can do?!” You say, glaring at the officer across from you. The man sighs, taking another sip of his coffee as he looks you over.

“ma'am, for the last time, we don't exactly have a lot of evidence to go off of-”

“What more evidence do you need?! My window got smashed in! With this brick! The guy's name is on the note attached to it, for fucks sake!”

The cop just scoffs again, watching you slowly inch closer and closer to snapping. You had come to the station once you got off work, the safety of the sun calming your nerves enough to leave home. Assuming you'd just have to tell them what happened, fill out some paperwork, and the cops would catch your stalker so you could sleep easy.

Unfortunately, you forgot that the Santa Carla police force is utterly incompetent. You've been here for hours, and literally nothing has changed.

“Ma'am, we already looked for Markos in your system, we looked the paper and the brick you brought in,” the cop starts, his own voice indicating he was also on his last nerve. “And we've got nothing. Nobody named Marko, and the only prints on anything of that stuff was yours. There is literally nothing we can do with any of this information except maybe question you.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I shattered my own windows right now?!” You hiss out. Regretting it when the officer starts to glare back at you. Picking up a pen from his desk.

"Of course not. But I am telling you that unless it happens again, or you have more evidence, we have nothing to go off of. And as you can see,” He grunts, gesturing to the mountain of papers next to him. “We're a bit busy right now. Dealing with missing persons. Real threats to people. So I think you should see your way out so we can get back to work, Ma'am.”

And that was that. You stormed out of the police station, cursing the justice system as you made your way to your car. Unsure what to do.It was ten o'clock at night. You were tired. But the idea of going home was absolutely the question. He would be waiting for you there. That was absolutely not safe. But neither was staying here, a sitting duck if he discovered where you went. If he was serious about seeing you (as you assumed by his writing), this was the one of the most obvious places to look. So, you drove out of the parking lot, unsure where exactly you would go.

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Finally clocking out of work, the officer made his way to his car, cursing the name of the woman he was forced to speak with earlier. Sighing with relief once he was inside. Goddamn, that took way too long.

"God, women..” he groaned, leaning back in his seat. If that damn girl could just take no for an answer, he could be at home right now. Eating his microwave dinner, watching TV, going to sleep. That's all he wanted, but no. Good lord, did he regret his career choices. He signed up to solve crimes, but instead he was stuck leafing through inevitable cold cases and listening to random people complain about pranks.

As freaked out as she seemed, he doubted it was a real emergency. Just some punks she pissed off screwing with her, he decided. It would all blow over, just like every other crime in Santa Carla did.

Unfortunately for him, the officer never made it home to his microwave dinner. He never even started his drive home. Just as he took his keys to the ignition, the roof of his car was ripped off. The cop himself was lifted into the air, the sounds of screaming rippling through the empty parking lot.

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You don't know why you came here. You just drove wherever your instincts told you, and they took you here, to where it technically all started. Maybe it was the fact that the boardwalk was always crowded, the proximity to people a strange comfort.

Regardless, you're still not calm. The boardwalk was practically an all-night funfair, and it would eventually close. You didn't really know where you'd go after that; maybe you'd drive to a friend's house and ask if you could spend the night. Finally admit what you've been dealing with, get some actual help.

Sighing, you walk around, gazing into the windows of the various shops. The wood underneath you creaking as it always has, as it always will, forever. Carnival music floats around you, followed by laughter and then screaming.

Looking up, you find your legs have carried you over to the roller coaster. Watching the carts speed across the tracks, some people throwing their hands up, howling with joy. Others grip the steel handlebars until their knuckles turn white, eyes shut tight, maybe even trembling a little. Eventually, after enough staring, you find yourself walking into the line. Deciding to try and get your mind off of the letters and stalkers. Trying to ignore the paranoia haunting you.

Only to find that, once you reach the front, you need another person to even get on the damn thing. Apparently, going on carnival rides required friends now. Sighing, you roll your eyes, deciding to just go drown your anxieties in five dollar hot dogs and cotton candy, when a hand lightly grabs your shoulder.

“I'll ride with her. I'm alone too, anyways,” a voice pipes up next to you. Turning your head, your breath hitches at the sight of him.

He had curly blond hair, a small ponytail on the back of his head, not really serving any functional purpose. Greyish-green eyes and a smirk that would have anyone swooning, his manner relaxed. Hell, even his jacket had your attention; patches and pins and buttons and even fishing lures adorned the coat, eye candy for anyone who looked.

By god, he was gorgeous. Practically a living statue, like he was sculpted by pygmalion himself. Your cheeks flush, and you can hear your heart in your ears as he tightens his grip, looking at you before he lightly pushes you ahead. Before you know it, you're sitting next to him. Buckling up and gripping the bar designed to keep you in place.

“So, you come here often?” He asks, looking at you. Still smirking, giving his full undivided attention.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” you manage to croak out. Trying to keep your cool, to not humiliate yourself in front of the hottest guy you've ever seen. “I work here.”

“You do?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks at you, still smirking. A voice rings over the speaker system, reminding people to fasten their belts and not be stupid on the ride as it starts to move.

Smiling, you nod. Brushing hair out of your face as you look ahead of yourself. Watching as the mechanics of the ride pull the carts up a hill.

“Yeah. At this little tourist shop by the carousel.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I think I've seen you in there a couple times,” He says. Still giving you that knowing smirk, sending a shiver up your spine. It was strange, almost familiar. Like you've seen that same face before. Before you can question things too much, he goes on. “Me and my friends are kinda over there a lot. Caught a couple glances at you in there sometimes.”

That lets you relax a little bit. He's familiar because you've probably subconsciously caught glimpses of him every now and again. Much less weird.

The ride keeps pushing up the hill. You can feel your cheeks burn as you listen, feeling a little silly. “Ah, that makes sense. You recognized me from just a couple quick looks?”

"How could I just forget the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen?” He asks, making you burst out in laughter. He seizes the opportunity to wrap his arm around your shoulder, making your face somehow turn more pink. God, this guy, what was he doing to you? You were almost hypnotized by his charms, every move you'd brush off as cheesy and cliché feeling perfect in the moment. Every touch you'd be weirded out by a stranger doing not feeling creepy or perverted. Rather, it felt right, like his arm belonged on your shoulder. Strange, but for once, a good strange. And after the night's you've been having, you needed a good strange.

“Seriously, though,” he keeps going. Rubbing your shoulder a little, his other hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know this seems sudden, but I feel like I just have to get to know such a pretty face. Let me get you a hot dog or something after this, yeah?”

Again, you're chuckling. God, this man was turning you into a giggling schoolgirl. It was so unlike you. “Already? I don't even know your name.”

He scoffs a little, looking into your eyes. “Sure you do, (Y/n). You just gotta think a little, don't you?”

His words make you pause, looking at him. Still smiling, though a bit confused now. Did you give him your name? You can't remember, your memory under the high of a hot boy flirting with you. “What?”

You watch as he throws his head back and chuckles, the noise coming out a bit more wild than the last few times. He looks back at you, but this time, it's different. The way he looks at you sends an all too familiar shudder down your spine. One you've gotten used to feeling when the sun went down; the feeling of being watched from the shadows. Except it's not hidden in the darkness anymore.

"God, you're really gonna be stupid tonight? Or are you just that Oblivious? It's Marko.”

“What?” The words slip past your lips again. The air grows more tense as your eyes go wide. Realization hitting you like a freight truck.

The ride stalls its movement as it reaches the peak of the tracks. You're high above the rest of the boardwalk, dangling on the edge of the drop. Marko just laughs again, each time he does it becoming more and more unhinged as he just smiles at you. Pulling you in a little closer.

“Hi Amore.”

The cart dives over the hill. You scream.

Marko just cackles, joining you with all too familiar cackling as the ride speeds on. You keep screaming in terror, watching him as you try to get as far from him as possible. Leaning onto your side of the cart, only for the speeding, winding turns to whip you both around into each other. As the wind blows against your face, your eyes water. You're not sure if it's from the ride or the fear in your body.

By the time it's over, your entire body is trembling. Marko just chuckles, re-wrapping his arm around you as he practically drags you out of the cart. “Aw, what's the problem, babe? Not a fan of roller coasters? You're shaking like a leaf…”

You don't reply, both because you already screamed your voice horse, and you're terrified of what he'll do to you if you do. He just keeps smirking as he helps you off. Ten minutes ago, his smirk was making you giggle and blush like a madman. Now, it was tainted. A brutal reminder that you just flirted with and rode next to your stalker, the guy who had been tormenting you for months before all this.

Before you can truly process what's happening, he re-wraps his arm around you, walking you away from the coaster. Rubbing your tense flesh, he keeps talking, almost as if he was taunting you.

“You're such a quiet thing, aren't you, Amore? Well, that's fine, I guess. Better for the moment, I think, anyways. Don't scream, don't try anything. I'm not gonna hurt you, you're fine. I'm just gonna take you home now, alright? We're just going home.”

His voice rings in your ear, whispering. You think he's trying to imitate comfort, but it just fills you with more dread. Holding you tight against him as you walk across the boardwalk. Back over to the carousel, across from your store, to the bike racks. He lets go for a moment, and you debate running. But he's already revving the bike, looking at you expectantly. “Get on, babe.”

It's not a request, and it's not an order. It feels closer to a threat. ‘Get on my bike or so help me god, i will hunt your ass down’. The expectant look in his eyes exemplifies this. Thus, slightly intimidated, you get on the bike. Begrudgingly bringing shaky hands to wrap around his bare waist, not wanting to touch him, but almost not wanting to fall off.

"I drove my car here,” you finally mumble. The only protest you've let out at this point, and you're starting to question why you've only just started. Was he somehow fucking with your brain? Maybe you were just too scared, too complacent. Marko just chuckles again. Taking a moment to rev his bike up loader, the motors screaming in your ears before he replies.

“You won't need a car where you're going, babe. Now hold on tight, don't fall off. I don't want to see your pretty little brains splattered on the ground.”

And as he starts to speed off into the night, you take his advice. Not wanting to have reckless driving on the fault of your stalker be the cause of your death.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

All things considered, this place was nice. The cave served as a much needed break after racing around the boardwalk. And the woods. And almost over a cliff. A part of you thinks he did that last bit on purpose, scaring you into grabbing onto him tighter as he cackled. Made you feel even more helpless as he took your hand and led you into what looked like, and what Marko mentioned to be, an abandoned hotel lobby.

You ended up on this stuffed couch in the middle of it all. Old and worn, yet simultaneously one of the comfiest surfaces you've ever sat on. Under different circumstances, this would've been the most comfortable you've felt in a while.

Unfortunately, you're only here because of him. And he's right there, next to you, staring at you with those piercing green eyes. You managed to keep some distance, leaning over the right arm of the couch while he leaned back on the left. After a moment, you feel a tapping on your shoulder, and glancing over, he's behind you. That damn smirk still plastered on his face.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asks, breaking the silence that had fallen over you both once you were in the cave. A Chinese takeout box in his hands, holding it out to you.

Cautiously, you peer into the box, half expecting another cheap scare tactic, like for the thing to be full of worms and maggots. But no, it's just rice. Plain, unseasoned, white rice and a spoon. He chuckles as he watches you, like he's finding your apprehension to take food from your stalker amusing. “Aw, don't gimme that face. It's not like its poison or anything, babe. Just some rice. Here, look,”

When he speaks, he lifts the spoon and brings it to his mouth. Eating a bite before holding the box back out to you, sticking the spoon back in. “Only rice, amore. Leftovers from the other night, it's perfectly fine. C'mon, eat. Have some dinner. You know you should.”

Slowly, you wrap your hands around the box, taking it. Sticking the spoon deeper into the box before getting some rice on it, putting it in your mouth. A small wave of relief washes over you when it doesn't taste like anything was wrong with it. It doesn't last long, still feeling his eyes on you, and then he starts talking again. To your pleasure, he stands up.

"Thirsty?” He asks, walking off somewhere. His voice continues, a subtle reminder he's still too close for you to make a run for it. Sounds of things clinking together intertwining with his words. “I'd imagine if you're hungry, you're probably thirsty. Luckily for us, we never seem to have a shortage of drinks around here.”

He comes back a minute later, two glasses in hand. Handing one to you as he sits back down next to you.

Once again, you into your cup. The liquid was red and thick, almost syrupy. The longer you looked at it, the more uneasy you felt. Something about this all was just… so wrong. You got taken to an unfamiliar location, alone, with the guy who's been stalking you for probably months now, and you're sitting around having dinner with him. Like some sort of fucked up date night.

"Um, I'm fine…” You mumble. Thinking about every opportunity he had to do something to your glass.

Again, he just chuckles as he looks at you. “Geez, you're somehow both the most and least trusting person on the planet, babe.”

“Considering your current track record, I think I have a good reason to not exactly trust you right now.” You say, scoffing a little. Staring at your reflection in the cup, cringing a little. God, you looked more stressed than you had first thought. One look at your face and somebody could instantly tell something was amiss.

Too bad there was nobody around to look at you. Nobody but him.

“Okay, I guess,” he shrugs, sighing a little, leaning back into the plushness of the couch. “But seriously, it's fine. I have no reason to hurt you now. Trust me, if I wanted to, I would have already. You're here, and you're mine. So stop stressing and just take a sip already.” Once he speaks, he drinks, shutting his eyes as he swallows. A satisfied smile on his lips as he does so.

Looking between your cup and him, you sigh. Cautiously, you lift the cup to your lips, taking a sip of the mystery liquid.

The realization and regret sinks in almost instantly when the drink hits your taste buds.

Your eyes shoot open as you cough the drink back into your cup. Choking and sputtering as you drop the glass, watching the dense red liquid sink into the carpet. Marko's hands move to your shoulders, rubbing, looking at you. “Woah! Hey, hey, you good? What's wrong? Does it not taste good?”

“... what is this?” You ask, looking back at him. He blinks, staring at you, then shrugs.

“Uh, wine? Some random bottle I found back there with the others. Why?”

You shake your head, leaning out of his touch. He's pretty good, for a liar. There's no way he didn't know. The taste of it is too distinct, that tangy metallic taste on your lips- you shudder at the thought. “I know what blood tastes like, you freak.”

The words hiss their way out of your mouth before you can think. And by the way his confusion falls into dark realization, you're right. A deep chuckle rings through the room, and he grips your shoulders a little tighter. “Well, guess you can be smart when you actually think, huh? Damn, guess we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way-”

He's interrupted by your elbow shoving into his guts. As he groans, his hands loosening, you take the opportunity to stand up. Running back, away from him, towards the entrance of the cave. Your brain on auto-pilot, only thinking about easy ways to get away from him, from this total creep who just tried to get you to drink blood.

However, just as you get to the stop of the steep entrance out, a pair of hands grab onto your waist. Making you slip, pulling you back down into the fray. Ending up with you on the ground, and Marko overtop of you, sitting on your hips to keep you there. He's different now, though.

The grey-green eyes are replaced with yellowing orange ones, with dark circles around them. His nails grew longer, now closer to claws than normal, human hands. And when he smirks, seeing you below him, you notice something in his mouth. Fangs. Among his teeth are now sharp, pointed fangs.

The very same eyes and teeth you saw all those nights ago, staring at you from the trees.

“Oh, you must be feeling real fucking clever now, huh?” He asks, head tilting before he laughs. His voice is more gravely, almost like he's hissing out each word, and his laughter sounds closer to howling, like a wild animal. “Too bad you're too slow. But don't worry, amore. I'll fix all of that right here, right now…”

You try to get up. You really do. Yelling and flailing around your limbs. He just grabs your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head, laughing harder. Your kicking is rendered useless with how he sits on top of you. The same terrified, helpless feeling from the roller coaster returning.

You watch as he shrugs his free arm out of his jacket. The fabric falling off his shoulder, laying against his back as he raises his free arm. “C'mon, quit moving. I'm doing this for you, babe. For us.” He says, staring into your eyes, that damn smirk coming back. It's terrifying how quickly he can switch up, from being livid one moment and all cocky and smug the next. “I love you. I've loved you since the moment I first saw you. And unfortunately, my patience for your shit has run very, very thin.”

As he speaks, he brings his wrist to his teeth. And you're left to watch in horror as he sinks his fangs into his own flesh, ripping a gash into his flesh. Licking his lips as he pulls away, the red liquid already beading at the opening.

“I need you, Amore. I need you like I need the air I breathe. The night I live in,” Looking at you, he tightens his grip. The smirk widening into something more sinister. “The blood I drink. And soon, the blood you'll drink, too. Now open up.”

The moment you process those words, the fight all comes rushing back. You scream, thrashing your head around, desperately trying to buck him off and wiggle away. He just groans and curses under his breath, gripping you harder, shifting his weight on you to get closer to your face. Before anything else, it's clear this interaction is just annoying to him. Like your refusal and protests to him trying to shove blood down your throat is nothing but a minor inconvenience, a bug he has to squish, a chore he has to finish before he can leave the house.

“Goddammit, (Y/n), don't- Stop fucking squirming and just let me-” He says, his voice laced with venom as he continues to try, shoving his open wound towards your face. You keep avoiding it, eyes shut tightly as tears well in them. Scorning yourself for ever leaving the house tonight, for not burning the letters, for even opening the first one he ever sent you-

“- Gotcha!” Marko smiles wickedly as he thrusts his wrist into your open, screaming mouth. The blood is coming out faster, thanks to the gravity of your head on the floor. For a second, you think of bite him. Only to end up with a steadier stream hitting the back of your throat due to the pressure, making you gag. Tears flow down your cheeks as the warm, metallic taste flows into your mouth. A sick feeling forms in your stomach. You want to throw up. Needing to get this syrupy shit out of your mouth, out of your body.

He stays like that for a few minutes, mumbling and smiling to himself. “Yeah, there you go, there's my girl… It's much better from the source, right? You don't want that nasty bottled stuff, sitting out for weeks… Don't worry, from now on, if you want a drink, you can just come to me and we'll get you some…”

Eventually, he pulls his wrist from your mouth. A few moments later, he gets off of you, instantly pulling you to his side. Hugging you, holding you as you both sat on the floor. Tears run down your face, the screaming having turned to soft sobs. He wipes your face, much softer than before. It somehow is just as scary, but you think you'd grow used to that.

“Aw, c'mon, babe, don't cry, you're alright. Look, I'm sorry I got a little mean back there, I just - I got frustrated,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Like that will make any of what just happened any better. “...This is just something I had to do. I had to make sure you can really be all mine forever, okay? Can't have mio sole getting old and dying on me, right?” He chuckles, rubbing your shoulder while he hugs you.

You don't respond. He sighs, moving to stand. Picking you up with him, cradling you in his arms as walks deeper into the cave. “... You're just tired, you need to get some rest. Your poor body's gonna be put through the ringer pretty soon… Don't worry too much, babe. You'll like being a vampire.”

“Vampire?” You mumble, staring ahead as he brings you to a curtain. Pulling it away to reveal a mattress coated in blankets and pillows. Setting you down in one corner of it, chuckling a little.

“Yeah, babe, vampires. Wasn't kidding around drinking blood. And soon, you'll be, too,” he says, pulling a blanket overtop of you. You shiver at his words. Again, he just laughs a little. “Don't think about it too much right now. We can deal with it tomorrow. Just get some rest, love. You're gonna need it.”

And with that, he presses a final kiss to your head. Watching as your eyes grow heavy, your body tired and loopy. The rush of everything catching up to you, all you can think to do is pass out on the cushiness of the bed. Sure, whatever. You'll deal with all this in the morning.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

And Woo! There it is! Its done!

Thank you everyone who waited patiently after I announced this fic and read to the end! Sorry it took kind of long, i kept getting stuck and getting busy and overestimated how fast I could work 😭

Overall im pretty happy with this! Somehow dispite being a oneshot its the longest thing I ever wrote? Ive spent so long on it, I cant help but to not hate it. Sorta just happy I didnt give up halfway through lol

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!! have a good day/night! :3

157 notes · View notes

shelovesosa · 29 days ago

Text

ONLY THREW THIS PARTY 4 U.

Art credits to ndsoda and _3aem on X!

INSPIRED BY “THE GREAT GATSBY”

modern Tokyo Bay, two distinct areas: East aoyama(old money) and West aoyama (new wealth).

CONTAINS: MDNI. Drama, romance, Desire, yearning, cheating, unhappy marriage,eventual SMUT, oral ( f + m receiving), switch satoru, whimpering, fingering, sex during a party,p in v , intercourse, explicit sex, backshots of DOOM, cowgirl style, agnst, party, mentions of alcohol, possessing, controlling behavior,

C/W : 10.7k omg

SUMMARY! You, a wealthy socialite trapped in a cold, strategic marriage to Ryomen Sukuna, return to your coastal hometown for the summer. There, you reconnect with Satoru Gojo, your rich and reckless childhood flame who never got over you. Now a man of influence and mystery, Satoru begins pursuing you again with quiet intensity—pulling you back into a romance that was never finished.

You arrived in East Aoyama beneath a sky so blue it looked painted on. The heat pressed heavy against the windows of Shoko’s estate, warping the view of the bay, where sailboats drifted like idle thoughts. The mansion she owned wasn’t large by local standards—three floors, not five—but it had white columns, trimmed hedges, and a garden that smelled like old money and afternoon wine.

You weren’t supposed to stay long. A few weeks, maybe. Just enough time to escape the scandal of Tokyo proper, to let the tabloids grow bored of your name. You were tired of the whispering, of the dinner parties that turned into interrogations.

They always wanted to know the same thing. Were you really leaving Sukuna? And worse: was it for him?

You didn’t answer. You never did. There were some names too dangerous to say aloud. Even now, as you unpacked your designer luggage in Shoko’s sunlit guest room, you refused to let yourself think about him too clearly.

Satoru Gojo.

You knew him long before the parties. Before the mystery. Before the white suits and the silence. He was born into the Gojo line—old, blinding wealth. His mother and yours had been close once, thrown together in boarding schools and country clubs, raised by nannies and bloodlines. You and Satoru had spent summers together as children, bored out of your minds on your families’ overlapping estates in the Kyoto countryside.

You remembered swimming in lakes and stealing your father’s cigars. You remembered dares, arguments, and a secret kiss behind the linen-draped veranda at seventeen. But then things changed. He left for Europe. You stayed. You married Ryomen Sukuna, a match approved by your family’s advisors. Love had little to do with it.

And Satoru? He reappeared two years ago with wealth that made even old families nervous. No one knew how he doubled his estate. No one asked. He bought the mansion across the bay and began throwing parties so elaborate they broke the rules of decency and physics.

You hadn’t seen him since your engagement party. He’d shown up late, dressed in mourning black, and kissed your cheek with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He hadn’t said a word since.

“Don’t mope,” Shoko said from her lounge chair by the pool. “You’ll get lines. Or worse, pity.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not moping.”

“You’re absolutely moping. The first sign is that you haven’t posted since Monday.”

“I’m in exile, Shoko.”

“You’re in a mansion with custom furniture and an unlimited credit account. Try harder.”

You sighed and stretched out on the chaise beside her, watching the way the light danced across the water. From here, you could see the Gojo estate. Across the bay, past the curve of palm trees and imported marble statues, his mansion stood like a dream someone had once dared to build. It had balconies stacked like a wedding cake, crystal windows that caught the sunset like fire, and a dock that shimmered in the twilight.

He’d never invited you.

Not once.

But tonight, a letter arrived.

Hand-delivered by a man in a dark suit. No stamp, no return address. Just your name, written in silver ink on bone-white paper. And a seal on the back—an ornate G pressed into wax. You opened it slowly, like it might burn.

Y/N,

Saturday evening. Eight o’clock.

Come as you are.

—S

Shoko raised a brow when you told her.

“He hasn’t invited a single woman directly in months,” she said. “He lets the parties pull them in like gravity. You’re different.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat had gone dry. Because you understood what this was. It wasn’t a party invitation. It was a challenge.

Shoko dressed you like she was sending you into battle. “No pastels,” she declared, pulling open your travel wardrobe. “No bows. No florals. This isn’t a tea party. This is Gojo’s house.”

You let her choose. You always did. It was easier that way, to be sculpted into someone else's vision of you. Tonight, you wore midnight blue, cut low along your back, your neck bare except for the sapphire choker you hadn’t worn since your wedding night. A single diamond ring on your right hand—not your wedding band. That had been left in a drawer somewhere back in Tokyo. You told yourself it didn’t matter.You weren’t going to see him.You were going to a party.

The car ride across the bay was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the sound of the ocean beyond the cliffs. From a distance, the Gojo estate looked like a dream in motion—music already spilling into the air, lights flickering like stars across its many terraces. Fireworks bloomed above it in bursts of gold and violet, and still, the house seemed calm at its core, unmoved by its own gravity.

Your driver stopped at the front steps, where a valet in a white uniform opened the door before you could reach the handle. No names were asked. No guest list checked. Your presence was expected.

Inside, the world shifted.

The foyer alone was cathedral-high, with mirrored walls and chandeliers so heavy they must’ve been flown in by crane. Music spilled through hidden speakers—something classical, cut with jazz. People danced in every room, masks slipping, champagne overflowing. Men in velvet suits laughed with women draped in diamonds. Models lounged on the grand piano. An ice sculpture of a phoenix melted slowly into a silver basin.

You moved like you belonged—because you did. You were born into this. Sculpted by it. But still, you felt watched. Hunted, even. He was here somewhere.You could feel it.

And then, a voice at your back.

Smooth. Soft. Too casual for its own power.

“Still like blue, huh?”

You turned.

He looked exactly as you remembered—and nothing like you remembered at all.

Satoru Gojo stood there, all white linen and smug danger. His hair had gone silver-blond, no longer hidden under the baseball caps of your youth. His glasses were tinted, though it was long past sunset. You wondered if he wore them just to keep people guessing.

But his smile—God, that smile.It hadn’t changed at all.

“Still like lurking in doorways?” you asked, trying to stay even.

“I was waiting for you.” He offered his arm.

“Come on. The party’s boring without you.”

You didn’t know why you took it. Maybe it was the way the room shifted when he looked at you. Maybe it was the echo of seventeen, of that one drunken kiss behind your father’s rose garden. Maybe it was the thrill of finally being seen—truly seen—after years of becoming invisible in your own life.

He led you through the maze of people and rooms, past the laughter and the chaos, until you found yourselves on the west balcony, away from the noise. The sea stretched out before you, glittering under the moonlight.Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then he said, “Do you remember the lake?”

You did. Of course you did. But you lied.

“No.”

“Liar.”

He smiled again, but this one was gentler. Fonder. As if he could still see the girl you used to be—barefoot on the dock, daring him to jump first.

“I remember everything,” he said. “And I remember you said you’d never come back here. Not to this world.”

You looked out over the edge of the balcony.

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing at my party, Y/N?”

You turned to him slowly. “I don’t know.”

It was the truth.

You stayed longer than you meant to.

He didn’t ask questions. He told stories instead—some funny, some surreal. About racing yachts with politicians, about spending a summer in Sicily with a priest who quoted poetry. You laughed, despite yourself. But under the charm, you could feel the current.He hadn’t invited you to make you laugh.He’d invited you because he wanted something.

And just before you left, as he walked you to the car, he said it.

“Don’t go back to him.”

The words weren’t dramatic. There was no beg, no plea. Just a statement. Quiet. Terrible.

You looked away. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” he said. “But it could be.”

The car door closed behind you with a sound like finality.But as the driver pulled away, you glanced back.

Satoru stood on the steps in the golden light, his hands in his pockets, his tie slightly loosened. He wasn’t smiling now.

And you knew, without question—

The game had begun.

You didn’t tell Shoko what he said.

She asked, of course. She always did. Curled up on the balcony with a cigarette in one hand and her wine glass in the other, she had that knowing look—the one she used to dissect other people’s love lives like case studies. But you just smiled and said, “It was a party. That’s all.”

She didn’t press. Not yet. But you knew she would. And when she did, you’d have to lie again. You weren’t ready to explain how it felt to stand beside Satoru Gojo again. How wrong and right it had felt in equal measure.You weren’t ready to admit you hadn’t slept at all.

His name started showing up everywhere after that. Or maybe you just started seeing it again. A charity gala was hosted “courtesy of S. Gojo.” A new gallery in Minato—he was on the board. Your favorite café started serving a cocktail called Sky Blue, made with rare French gin and smoked sugar. Even your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number one afternoon.

Tell Shoko to stop overwatering the orchids. They're dying.

You stared at it for five minutes before responding:

How did you get this number?

Money.

Try again.

You gave it to me when we were sixteen. You carved it into my wristwatch.

Your stomach dropped.

You remembered the watch. A cheap thing you stole from your father’s study one summer, etched with a nail file and teenage arrogance. You hadn’t thought of it in years.And now he was sending you memories like weapons.

That weekend, you received a second invitation. This time, it wasn’t to a party.

It was to lunch. Private. Tuesday. His estate. No guests. You shouldn’t have gone.You told yourself you weren’t going.

You told Shoko you were getting your hair done.But at noon, you stood outside his towering front doors again, half-mad at yourself for wearing the soft pink dress he once said made you look

“like a cherry blossom ready to ruin someone’s life.”

The door opened before you could knock.

“Punctual,” he said. “I expected drama.”

You stepped inside without answering.

This time, there was no orchestra. No flashing lights. No guests twirling in silk.

Just silence—and him.

Satoru in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, barefoot on polished wood floors like the crown prince of a ruined temple. He poured two glasses of wine without asking and handed one to you.

“You look good,” he said, too easily.

You stared at him. “Why did you invite me here?”

He smirked. “You don’t want lunch?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then come eat.”

He led you to the back patio where a table was set for two, overlooking the water. The view from his estate made the rest of the bay look like an afterthought—green stretching endlessly into blue, the occasional yacht slicing white lines through the surface.You sat.You didn’t talk much at first.There was grilled fish, garden vegetables, lemon tarts. The food was perfect. Everything was perfect. That’s what made it so unbearable.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally.

“I’m trying to decide what this is.”

He leaned back in his chair. “It’s lunch.”

“It’s not.”

His gaze met yours. Clear. Sharp. “Then what is it, Y/N?”

You hated that he said your name like that—like it belonged to him.You wanted to say it was nothing. That it was history. That it was a mistake. But the silence between you already said what you couldn’t.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

He stood suddenly. Walked toward the edge of the patio, where the sea breeze tugged at his shirt.

“You know, when we were kids,” he said, not looking back, “I used to think the world would just… give us everything. Because of who we were. Because of our names.”

You said nothing.

“But then it didn’t. Not the things that mattered.”

He turned to face you, and you saw it—the truth behind the sunglasses. Not arrogance. Not vanity. But hunger. Desperation. The quiet, consuming ache of someone who had everything but the one thing he wanted.

“You left,” he said, and his voice dropped. “You married him. You didn’t even tell me goodbye.”

“You were in Paris,” you said quietly.

“I would’ve come back.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

That broke something. You saw it in his jaw. The way his shoulders tensed, just slightly. The way he nodded once, slow.

“I know,” he said. “That’s what killed me.”

You didn’t finish your wine. You stood. Walked toward the house. He didn’t stop you. But just before you left, you paused in the doorway and said, without turning around:“I didn’t think you’d wait.”

His answer came after a beat.

“I didn’t either.”

You returned to Shoko’s estate just before dusk, your heels echoing down the marble hallway like accusations. She was waiting for you in the lounge with a magazine draped lazily over her knees and a knowing expression that could’ve pierced steel.

“Well?” she asked without looking up.

“Well, what?”

She flipped a page. “Did he feed you? Or just your delusions?”

You exhaled, dropped your bag, and poured yourself a drink. “Both.”

Shoko didn’t press. Not yet. But that’s what made her dangerous—she didn’t need to. She just watched, waited, and collected your tells like cards in a stacked deck. You hated how transparent you’d become.

It didn’t end with the lunch.

The next day, a car arrived. No note, no chauffeur—just keys and a name engraved on a silver plaque: For Y/N. Inside was a vintage roadster, the kind of car no one drove anymore except to make a point.You ignored it.

The next day, he sent orchids. White and rare. Each petal dipped in gold dust.

You returned them.

But on the third day, he showed up himself.No announcement. No security. Just Satoru Gojo at your front gate, leaning on the stone pillar like he was born there.You were in your robe. Of course you were.

“You’re insane,” you said through the intercom.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Great.” He pushed open the gate.

You didn’t stop him. You should have. But when he walked in, hands in his pockets, smirking like the devil in linen, you couldn’t remember why you were supposed to resist.

“I thought you didn’t do afternoon visits,” you said.

“I don’t,” he replied, stepping into your

sunroom. “But I make exceptions for people I’m still in love with.”

You froze.

He said it so simply. So casually. As if it were just a fact—like the weather or his bank balance.

“I don’t have time for this,” you said.

“Of course you do,” he replied, walking past you toward the terrace. “You’re in hiding. The only thing you’re busy doing is pretending this doesn’t mean anything.”

You joined him outside because you had nothing better to do. That’s what you told yourself. You drank tea. He drank scotch.

And slowly, you began to talk. Not about the big things. Not about the years apart, or the marriage, or the last letter you never sent. But about the in-betweens—the socialites who tried too hard, the friends who were already on their third divorces.

You told him about your time in Rome last spring, the gallery opening in Seoul, the time Sukuna forgot your birthday and tried to make up for it with a yacht. He listened. God, he listened.

He leaned forward when you spoke. Smiled at your sarcasm. Remembered the names you dropped and the ones you didn't. And when you paused too long between stories, he would fill the silence—not with noise, but with presence. A gaze that never drifted. A steadiness you hadn't felt in years.

It terrified you.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone was looking at you—not your name, not your family, not your scandal—but you.

“I wanted to hate you, you know,” you said as the sun dipped lower. “When I got married. I told myself it had to be your fault.”

Satoru sipped his drink. “Was it?”

You looked away. “Maybe.”

A quiet pause.

“I hated myself more.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“For not saying something sooner,” he clarified. “For thinking I had time.”

His tone was light, but the edge was there—sharp and hidden beneath silk. And you knew, without asking, that he hadn’t moved on. Not even close.

You swallowed hard. “What are we doing, Satoru?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m waiting for you to remember who you are.”

“And who’s that?”

His voice dropped.

“Mine.”

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t run.

You just sat there, on the terrace, the tea cold and forgotten, as the sky bled itself into a purple bruise. You didn’t know what you were to him anymore. A fantasy? A challenge? A memory he refused to let rot?

But when he finally stood and said he had to leave, you almost asked him to stay.

Almost. Instead, you nodded. “Don’t come tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” he said. “You’ll come to me.”

And damn him.

He was right.

The first thing you noticed when you returned to Tokyo was the silence.

Not the absence of noise—no, the city was always alive, pulsing under its concrete skin. But the silence—the deliberate kind, the kind that lived inside penthouses and private cars and people who knew how to weaponize it.

Sukuna didn’t greet you when you walked through the front door. He didn’t ask about your stay with Shoko, didn’t mention the Gojo estate, didn’t even glance at the bag you hadn’t bothered to unpack.

But his silence was an answer all the same. You were being watched.

Ryomen Sukuna was a man who made people nervous in rooms he hadn’t even entered yet. He wore power like a second skin, his sharp smile more unsettling than any threat could ever be. You married him because your families said it was time. Because it made sense. Because if you didn’t say yes, someone else would’ve—and you weren’t ready to be forgotten.

He hadn’t always been cruel.

Just… careful. Cold.

Too precise to leave room for love.

At dinner, he didn’t touch his food. He rarely did. Instead, he watched you. Elbows on the table. Fingers steepled. His rings catching the chandelier light like little knives.

“You’ve been gone two weeks,” he said finally.

“Shoko needed company.”

“I heard Shoko was barely home.”

You sipped your wine. “I made do.”

A long pause.

“And Satoru Gojo?” he asked.

You didn’t flinch. That was the trick—you never flinched. “What about him?”

“He throws parties like he’s paying penance. Gathers ghosts like trophies. And now suddenly, you’re the only name on his list?”

He tilted his head, smiling faintly.

“Darling,” he said, “don’t insult me.”

You looked at your plate. “Is that what this is now? Interrogation over steak tartare?”

“No,” he said, his voice dropping. “This is a warning.”

Your gaze snapped to his.

“I don’t mind if you play with your past,” he continued, smooth as silk. “We all do. But I won’t be made a fool.”

“You mean publicly.”

“I mean at all.”

There it was. The line. Not jealousy. Possession. You had always known what Sukuna was. He didn’t love you. He kept you. Like art behind glass. And now someone was trying to break it open.

That night, you didn’t sleep beside him.

You stayed in your own room—one of many in your shared palace, filled with designer silence and mirrored regrets. You poured yourself a drink and stared at your reflection until your eyes blurred.

Gojo had been reckless with his affections. But Sukuna? He was careful with his cruelty.And that was worse.

Because it meant everything he did was intentional.

The next morning, a package arrived at your suite. No return address. But the moment you saw the seal, you knew.

A white envelope, wax-stamped with a

single letter: G

Inside was a note, handwritten in that impossible script of his.

You looked tired. I’d suggest better company. Dinner. My place. Midnight. Wear black. —S

You folded it quietly. Then, without hesitation, you reached for the black silk gown in your closet—the one Sukuna hated. The one he once said made you look like “trouble.” He wasn’t wrong.

The clock struck midnight when your car pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the Gojo estate.The windows were lit like a stage, glowing with soft amber light. No music. No guests. No champagne towers or glittering crowds. Just quiet. Like he’d cleared the world for you.

You stepped out wearing black—just as he’d asked. A long silk gown, simple but impossible to ignore, like moonlight stitched into skin. Your heels clicked softly on the marble as the door opened before you could knock.

Satoru was waiting in the foyer.

No tie. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Hands in his pockets like he wasn’t nervous—like this wasn’t a risk.

“You came,” he said.

“I always do.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes this time.

Dinner was untouched on the long table. Silver lids gleamed, candles burned low. But neither of you reached for the food.

You walked past it all, straight through the hall, until you reached the terrace. The wind curled around your shoulders like a warning.

“I didn’t come for dinner,” you said.

“I know.”

You turned to face him.

“So what are we doing, Satoru?”

He looked at you like you were something holy and haunted all at once. “We’re telling the truth. For once.”

He took a step closer.

“I loved you before I even knew what love was,” he said, voice low. “Back when it was just a word we weren’t allowed to say out loud. You used to sit in the back of your father’s car and make faces at me through the glass like a brat. And I used to pray for red lights.”

You looked away, blinking too hard.

“You were the only real thing I ever had,” he continued. “Everything else was bought or promised. But you—you—you chose me. At least for a little while.”

“And then I didn’t,” you said quietly.

“No,” he said. “Then you disappeared. Married Sukuna and never looked back.”

You turned sharply. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know why. You were never going to fight for me.”

“I would’ve,” he said. “But by the time I knew how, you were already gone.”

A silence fell between you—one that said everything neither of you wanted to name.

He stepped forward again. This time closer. Slowly.

“I’m not asking you to ruin your life,” he said.

You laughed bitterly. “That’s exactly what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to remember what it felt like,” he said. “Before the headlines. When it was just you and me in that half-dead summer house, planning our escape like fools.”

You blinked hard.

“I remember,” you whispered.

Then he touched your face. Soft. Reverent. Like something he’d been forbidden from holding for too long.

“Then let’s run,” he said.

You looked up at him—Satoru, the boy who loved you too much and the man who never let go. You thought of Sukuna’s silence, his threats hidden beneath silk. You thought of your name in headlines and the way the world would burn if you let it.

But all you said was:

“Where?”

His answer was a breath:

“Anywhere.”

You didn’t kiss him. Not yet.But your hands found his. And this time, you didn’t let go.

You didn’t go home that night. Instead, you stayed at the Gojo estate—just until morning, just long enough for the city to forget how to whisper about someone else. Nothing happened. Not yet.

 You slept in a guest room with sheets that smelled like rosemary and regret. The sunrise poured through the curtains like a confession. And still, you felt it—danger humming beneath the stillness. Satoru didn’t knock. He let you have your silence. But when you finally wandered downstairs, barefoot, in one of his shirts, he was already on the terrace drinking coffee.

He didn’t say anything. Just held out a cup for you. Like you’d always belonged there.

Back in Tokyo, Sukuna noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t ask where you’d been. He didn’t need to. He just looked at you for a second too long during breakfast, stirred his coffee once, and said, “You seem excited.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because the silence that followed was louder than anything you could’ve said.

It started slowly.A comment in a gossip column.A photo—blurry but unmistakable—of you stepping into Gojo’s car at midnight.

 The headline read: “Old Flames or New Scandal?”

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Let them talk. Let them speculate. This world was built on speculation, wasn’t it? The rich didn’t live in truths. They lived in impressions. But still… you checked the paper every morning.

 Still… you flinched when Shoko texted you:

Are you insane? Or just in love again?

You didn’t answer.

Because what could you say?

Maybe it was both.

Then came the storm. Not metaphorical.

A real one. A coastal thunderstorm with black skies and wind that tore through town like it had a vendetta. The kind of storm that canceled yachts, blacked out towers, and reminded the rich that nature, too, could be cruel. You were supposed to attend a gala that night—one hosted by Sukuna’s family, a public show of unity. Appearances. Status. Legacy.

But instead, you went to Satoru’s. You didn’t wear a gown. You didn’t wear heels. You wore black jeans, no makeup, and a trench coat you hadn’t touched in years.

He opened the door before you knocked.

The rain poured behind you like applause.

He looked at you like a man about to walk off the edge of everything.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said softly.

You stepped inside. “Neither are you.”

The power flickered. The chandelier swayed. And for once, the Gojo estate looked human—imperfect, cracked open, real.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said. Your voice trembled. Not from fear. From knowing.

Satoru looked at you with those winter-glass eyes, the ones that always saw too much.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Stay.”

You closed your eyes.

And whispered, “Okay.”

You took one breath.

Then another.

And then you reached for him.

The kiss was slow at first. Delicately.

Like you were both afraid to shatter it.

But it didn’t stay that way.Your hands tangled in his shirt, dragging him closer. He backed you against the wall with a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a growl. His lips found your neck, your collarbone, every place that still remembered him.

He touched you like he was trying to memorize you. Like he was afraid he’d wake up and find you gone again.

He lifted you like you weighed nothing and carried you through the hall, laughing when you tried to catch your breath, kissing you again before you could speak.

And when he laid you down—on his bed, in his home, in a world built entirely around the memory of you—it didn’t feel like betrayal.

It felt like coming home.

You could feel every hard contour of his physique through the the thin fabric of your blouse, his arousal pressing insistently against your stomach. Satoru's fingers tangled in your hair, tugging your head back as he captured your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you thoroughly. You moaned into the kiss, your body melting against his as liquid heat pooled between your thighs.

"Touch me, Y/n," Satoru commanded, his voice a low, urgent rasp against your lips. "I want to feel your hands all over me." His own hands slid down to grope your ass, kneading the supple flesh as he ground his hips against yours, letting you feel the thick, hard length of him straining against his pants.

You obeyed, your fingers raking down Satoru's back, leaving red welts in their wake as you mapped out the hard planes of his chest. Satoru groaned, his hips bucking forward as you traced the lines of his muscles.

Satoru's fingers found the zipper of your jeans, tugging it down with a swift, sharp motion. Cool air kissed your heated skin as the fabric fell. "Let's get this off you," Satoru muttered, pulling the blouse over your head, to let it fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

His eyes raking over your near-naked form, taking in the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist. "Beautiful," he breathed, before surging forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss.

Your fingers worked feverishly at the buttons of Satoru's shirt, popping them open one by one until you could push the garment off his shoulders. Satoru's chest was a work of art.

"Such perfect tits,"

he breathed, cupping the rounded globe and squeezing gently. Your nipple pebbled beneath his touch, straining against the thin lace of your bra. Satoru's thumb circled the hardened bud, applying a maddening pressure that had you arching into his hand.

Satoru's other hand slid down your stomach, his fingers skimming over your navel before dipping, hand hovering over your panties.

"And this," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he pressed his fingers against your clothed sex, "this is fucking soaked."

He rubbed your slit through the damp fabric, feeling the heat radiating from your core. "Tell me, Y/n," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, "are you this wet for me?"

He continued his teasing touches, his fingers circling your breast and rubbing your mound, never quite giving you the pressure and friction you craved. You could feel the damp patch on your panties growing, your arousal seeping through the lace. Satoru's fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance before pulling away, leaving you aching and empty.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips writhing against his hand, seeking more of his touch. "Satoru, please..." You didn't even know what you were begging for, only that you needed more. More of him, more of his touch, more of everything.

Satoru chuckled darkly, amused by your desperation. "So needy," he teased, his fingers still circling your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. "So hungry for my cock."

He pressed a finger against your clothed clit, rubbing the sensitive nub. Satoru settled between your thighs, pushing your legs apart to expose your glistening sex to his hungry gaze. He leaned in, inhaling deeply, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, before diving in and running his tongue along your slit.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as Satoru's tongue explored your most intimate places. He licked and suckled at your folds, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place as he devoured you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him against you as you ground your hips against his face, desperate for more of his skilled ministrations.

Satoru focused his attention on your clit, his tongue circling the sensitive nub before he suckled it hard. At the same time, he slid two fingers knuckle-deep inside your tight heat, pumping them in and out, curling them to hit that special spot deep within you. You were drowning in sensation, your body writhing and shaking as Satoru worked you towards your peak.

"Satoru!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls as your orgasm crashed over you. Your sex clenched and fluttered around his fingers, your juices flowing freely as he continued to lap at you, helping you ride out the waves of your intense climax. Finally, as the last aftershocks faded, Satoru lifted his head, his chin glistening with your essence.

He crawled up your body, a smug grin on his face as he brushed sweat-damped hair from your forehead. "You taste even better than I imagined," he said, his voice rough and satisfied. "And we're just getting started."

With that promise, he captured your lips, kissing you deeply as he settled his weight on top of you, his hard length pressing insistently against your stomach.

Satoru Gojo's eyes burned with desire as he watched you come down from your high, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. He could feel your heart racing beneath his palm, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. The sight of you, lost in ecstasy and utterly at his mercy, only fueled his own desire.

"You're stunning," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I could watch you come undone like that for hours." His hand slid up your stomach, cupping the swell of your breast, kneading the soft flesh. He could feel your nipple pebbling beneath his palm, begging for his touch. Unable to resist, Satoru leaned down and captured the hardened bud between his lips, suckling hard as his tongue swirled around the sensitive peak.

You gasped, arching your back to press your breast more fully against his mouth. Your hands slid down Satoru's chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles before reaching the waistband of his pants. With shaking hands, you undid the button and zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down his hips and thighs until you could free his thick, hard length.

Satoru groaned around your breast as your fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking the long, thick shaft. He was hot and hard, the skin like velvet over steel. Pre-cum leaked from the swollen head, and you swiped your thumb over the tip, smearing the liquid around before bringing your thumb to your lips and tasting him. Satoru's flavor exploded on your tongue, salty and slightly bitter, and you knew you needed more.

Wasting no time, you pushed Satoru onto his back and straddled his waist, hovering over his straining erection. You looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes dark with lust and desire, before leaning down and taking him into your mouth.

"Fuck!" Satoru roared, his hips bucking up off the bed as your lips wrapped around his cock. You took him deep, your throat muscles fluttering around his length as you swallowed around him. Your tongue swirled around the head, lapping up the pre-cum that leaked steadily from the tip.

fingers tightened in your hair as you took him deeper, your lips stretching obscenely around his thick cock. "Shit, Y/n," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "Your mouth feels incredible." His hips rocked gently, fucking your face with short, shallow thrusts as you worked his length with your lips and tongue.

You could taste the salt of his skin, feel the heat of his flesh against your tongue as you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his size. Your hand pumped what wasn't in your mouth, stroking the slick shaft as you bobbed your head in time with Satoru's thrusts.

Satoru's other hand slid down to cup your breast, kneading the soft mound before pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. The dual sensations, of his cock pistoning in and out of your mouth and his fingers toying with your sensitive nipple, had you dripping with arousal. You could feel your juices coating your inner thighs, your body preparing itself for him.

Just as you felt Satoru start to tense, his grip on your hair tightening and his thrusts becoming more erratic, you pulled off his cock with a lewd pop. Satoru groaned in protest, his hips jerking up off the bed as if seeking the warmth of your mouth. But you had other plans.

You straddled his hips, hovering over his straining erection. Satoru's hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as he looked up at you with hooded eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I was so close..."

"Shh," you hushed him, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. "I've got you." With that, you took his hands and placed them on your breasts, encouraging him to touch you. Satoru needed no further urging, his fingers immediately starting to knead and caress the soft globes. He rolled and plucked at your nipples, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

As Satoru played with your breasts, you reached down between your bodies and took his cock in your hand, lining him up with your entrance. You were so wet, his tip slipping easily through your slick folds.

Satoru’s eyes darkened with lust as you lined him up with your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. His hands gripped your hips tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as he fought the urge to surge upward, to bury himself inside your tight heat. But he held back, wanting to let you set the pace, to watch you take him in.

"You're so fucking wet," Satoru growled, his voice strained with desire. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you need my cock inside you." His hips twitched, his length jerking against your sex as if seeking entry. Satoru's chest heaved, his muscles flexing beneath his skin as he struggled to maintain control.

Slowly, torturously, you sank down onto his length. Your walls stretched and fluttered around him, struggling to accommodate his thick girth. You both groaned, the sound echoing off the walls as inch by inch, you took him deeper. Satoru's hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts, squeezing the soft mounds as they bounced with each inch of his cock that disappeared inside you.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Satoru panted, his head falling back against the pillows as he savored the feeling of your sex gripping him like a vice. "I've never felt anything like this before." His hips pumped gently, shallow thrusts that helped to work his length deeper inside you, stretching you around him.

Once he was fully sheathed, you started to move. You rose up until only the tip of his cock remained inside you, before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt. Satoru matched your rhythm, his hips rocking up to meet yours, driving his length deeper with each downward motion. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, of your moans and Satoru's grunts of pleasure as you rode him.

Satoru Gojo's breath hitched as you sank down onto him, taking him to the hilt inside your tight, soaked heat. A low, needy whimper escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that sent shivers down your spine. "Y/n, please," he gasped, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "You feel...ungh...incredible."

You could feel every throb and pulse of his cock as it stretched you wide, filling you completely. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him, trying to draw him even deeper inside you. Satoru's chest heaved, his muscles flexing beneath his skin as he struggled to maintain control, to hold back the urge to flip you onto your back and pound into you until you screamed.

But you set the pace, rising up until just the tip of his cock remained inside you, before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt. Satoru whimpered again, his head falling back against the pillows as you started to ride him hard and fast, your hips slapping against his with each downward motion.

"Yes, just like that," Satoru encouraged, his voice a low, rough rasp. "Ride my cock, Y/n. Take what you need."

Satoru's hips rocked up to meet yours, driving his length deeper with each downward motion. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, of your moans and Satoru's whimpers and grunts of pleasure as you chased your release. You could feel it building, the coil of tension in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter as Satoru's cock hit that special spot inside you with each thrust.

"Satoru!" you cried out, your voice echoing off the walls as your orgasm crashed over you. Your sex clenched and fluttered around his length, Milk, squeezing him rhythmically as you came apart above him. Satoru groaned, his hips stuttering as your walls massaged his cock,

Satoru Gojo let out a choked moan as your walls clamped down around his throbbing cock, gripping him like a velvet vise as you came undone above him. "Fuck, Y/n!" he gasped, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises.

"You're squeezing me so fucking tight. I can't...I'm going to..." His words dissolved into a low, guttural groan as his orgasm overtook him, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled himself deep inside you.

You could feel the hot, thick spurts of his release painting your insides, filling you up until it seeped out around his pistoning length. Satoru's body shuddered and shook beneath you, his muscles flexing and tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him.

You continued to rock your hips, milking him for every last drop as he emptied himself inside you. Finally, with a shuddering sigh, Satoru’s chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He looked up at you with hazy, satisfied eyes, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. "That was...incredible," he panted, his voice rough and strained. "I've never felt anything like that before."

You couldn't help but smile back, feeling a sense of feminine pride at having reduced this strong, powerful man to a whimpering, pleading mess beneath you. You leaned down to capture his lips in a slow, sensual kiss, pouring all of your passion and desire into the embrace.

Satoru's hands slid up your back to tangle in your hair, holding you close as he deepened the kiss. His tongue delved into your mouth, stroking along yours, tasting himself on your lips. You could taste the salt of his skin, the musk of his arousal, and it made your head spin with desire all over again.

As the kiss broke, Satoru nuzzled into your neck, his lips brushing against your sweat-damped skin. "Stay with me tonight," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble.

After, you lay there wrapped in sheets and stormlight. His arm around your waist. Your name whispered against your shoulder like a secret he couldn’t keep anymore.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“So am I,” he said. “But not of this.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“I’m scared of losing you again.”

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was you were scared too.

You didn’t leave the Gojo estate until just before sunrise. The rain had stopped, but the world was still wet with aftermath—glossy streets, bowed trees, the taste of something new and dangerous hanging in the air. You wore yesterday’s trench coat, yesterday’s silence, and his kiss still burning at the base of your throat.

There was no driver. No press. No trace of the night you’d just surrendered to.

But you could already feel it creeping in.

The shift. The unraveling. Because something had changed—and you couldn’t put it back.

The next morning, Sukuna was in the study. He didn’t look at you when you walked in. He poured his drink, leaned against the windowsill, and said:

“You were seen.”

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I know.”

He turned slowly. Not angry. Not surprised. Just calculating, like a man running numbers in his head.

“Do you want a divorce?”

You blinked.

“No.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. Sukuna took a long sip of his drink. His gaze was cold and sharp, like frost on glass.

“I’ve given you freedom, haven’t I? More than anyone else would. You’ve had your parties, your charity boards, your trips, your… distractions.” His tone barely shifted, but you heard it. The threat underneath. “But don’t mistake tolerance for permission.

“I’m not yours to keep on a leash,” you said, quiet but steady.

“You’re mine,” he replied simply. “Legally. Socially. Publicly. That’s all that matters.”

You turned to leave. You didn’t slam the door.But the silence behind you sounded like a war.

The press was louder now.

"Heiress Caught in Love Triangle?" "Gojo’s Secret Affair with a Married Woman?" "Sukuna Refuses to Comment."

Shoko called again. This time, you answered.

“You need to be careful,” she said.

“I’m always careful.”

“No. You’re quiet. That’s not the same thing.”

You leaned against the bathroom mirror, eyes on your own reflection. Your lipstick was perfect. Your life was not.

“What are they saying about Satoru?” you asked.

Shoko paused.

“That he’s a fool.”

You laughed, tired and soft. “He is.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But he’s in love with you anyway.”

That night, Satoru called you. You didn’t say hello.

You just said:

“He knows.”

And Satoru, who was all charm and confidence to the world, let out the smallest breath—like he’d been waiting for that moment to arrive.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“How?”

He paused.

“Together.”

But the truth was: nothing about your world was built for together. You lived in glass houses, walked on names more fragile than crystal. And now the cracks were showing. Sukuna didn’t need to raise his voice to destroy you. He had lawyers. Legacy. Entire empires of silence. You were his prize—the perfectly polished diamond on his public crown.

And Satoru? He was lightning in a bottle. Beautiful. Dangerous. Brief. You were stuck between the man who owned your name…

And the one who knew your soul.

And for the first time— You weren’t sure which was worse. The invitation arrived three days later—white silk envelope, no return address, sealed with gold wax in the shape of a flame.

Inside, it read:

The Gojo Estate Midnight Until the End of the World Dress to be Remembered. —S

No RSVP required.

Just like that, it was official: the season’s most infamous man was throwing a party. And every socialite, heir, debutante, washed-up celebrity and scandal-thirsty reporter in Tokyo was clawing for a way in.

You knew what it meant. This wasn’t just a party. It was a declaration. A rebellion in silk and diamonds. A middle finger to the rules of old money. A love letter disguised as spectacle. It was Satoru, telling the world without saying a word: She’s mine. Come watch.

Sukuna saw the invitation before you did.

He found it on the hallway table, studied the seal, and set it down without expression.

“You’re going?” he asked flatly.

You looked up from your phone.

“Yes.”

His jaw ticked.

“And what will you wear to your lover’s little circus?”

You smiled sweetly. “Something unforgettable.”

The night of the party, the city seemed to hold its breath. The Gojo estate glowed like a myth, gold and violet lights stretching skyward. The gate was guarded, but not by security—by a sense of exclusivity so thick it made even the rich sweat. No one knew who would be there. Only that everyone would.

Inside, it was chaos masked as elegance. Champagne flowed like it was holy water. Violinists played under glass chandeliers. Women in couture whispered behind fans. Men smoked cigars like weapons.

And at the center of it all, in a black velvet tux and ice-blue eyes that cut through the crowd like searchlights—

Satoru.

He saw you before you saw him. How could he not? You walked in wearing a gown dipped in silver, slit high up your leg, with a neckline that flirted with scandal and diamonds like armor. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Even the music seemed to slow. You weren’t just there.

You were the whole event.

Satoru moved through the crowd like gravity, smiling, nodding, charming—but it was all just smoke. He was coming for you.

“You’re late,” he said when he reached you.

You tilted your chin. “I wanted an entrance.”

His smile was slow. Dangerous. Like he already knew how the night would end.

“You’re not going home tonight,” he said softly.

“No,” you agreed. “I’m not.”

The party grew wild by midnight.

Fire breathers. A fountain of absinthe. A string quartet playing trap music on the balcony. Somewhere in the chaos, Sukuna arrived, uninvited but unstoppable, wearing black like the villain he didn’t care to deny being. He saw you and Satoru together. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The message was in the way he looked at you—like you were already lost.

But for once, you didn’t look away.

You stayed beside Satoru.

You let him touch your hand in public.

You laughed too loudly. Danced too close. You weren’t hiding anymore. The house was glass and gold. But tonight, it was on fire.

Later, as the music swelled and the drinks blurred, Satoru pulled you into one of the quiet rooms upstairs.He shut the door behind you.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he said, breathless against your neck.

You turned to face him, heart pounding.

“I’ve always been yours,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him like it would erase the world.

Satoru's hands slid down your sides, his fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulled your hips flush against his. You could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your stomach, and it made your core clench with need. Satoru groaned into your mouth, his hips rocking forward to grind his arousal against you.

Breaking the kiss, Satoru trailed his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth scraping against your pulse point before he bit down, marking you as his. You tipped your head back, giving him better access as you panted softly, your fingers digging into his shoulders. Satoru's hands slid up your torso, pushing the fabric of your dress out of the way until he could cup the swell of your breasts in his palms.

"I need you," Satoru growled against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "I can't wait any longer. I have to have you, right now." To emphasize his words, he squeezed your breasts roughly, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples through the thin lace of your bra. You arched into his touch

Satoru's hands made quick work of your dress, pushing the fabric up and over your head until it landed in a puddle on the floor. His eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of you, clad only in your lace bra and panties, your skin flushed and heated from his touch. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I want to touch every inch of you."

To start, Satoru reached behind you, unhooking your bra with a deft flick of his fingers. It joined your dress on the floor as he tossed it aside carelessly, leaving your breasts bare to his hungry gaze. Satoru leaned down, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth as he rolled the other between his fingers, pinching and plucking at the sensitive peak.

You gasped, arching your back to press your breast more fully into his mouth as jolts of electricity shot straight to your core. Your panties were damp, your arousal coating the thin fabric as Satoru worked your nipples with his mouth and fingers. You could feel the heat building low in your belly, the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter as he played your body like an instrument.

Satoru's hand slid down your stomach, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties.

Satoru's fingers slid through your slick folds, feeling the evidence of your desire coating his digits. "You're so fucking wet," he growled against your breast, his voice strained with desire. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you need my touch." His finger circled your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, quick circles that made your hips jerk and buck against his hand.

Satoru's other hand slid down to the curve of your ass, squeezing the supple flesh before hiking your thigh up over his hip. He pressed his hard length against your clothed sex, the rough fabric of his pants rubbing deliciously against your aching core. You could feel every thick inch of him, hot and throbbing, as he ground himself against you.

"Tell me what you want, Y/n," Satoru demanded, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me how badly you need my cock inside you." His finger dipped lower, teasing your entrance with the promise of more. Your walls clenched, desperate to be filled, to be stretched wide around his thick length.

"I...I need..." you gasped, struggling to form a coherent thought through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind. "I need you inside me, Satoru. Please, I can't...I need to feel you filling me up, stretching me, claiming me. Please, fuck me now!"

Satoru groaned at your words, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine. "That's my good girl," he praised, before capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. At the same time, he ripped your panties off, tearing the flimsy fabric away until you were bare before him. Satoru's fingers pushed two thick digits knuckle-deep inside you, pumping in and out, stretching your walls and stroking that special spot deep within you.

Satoru's other hand fumbled with his belt, undoing it with shaking fingers before pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to free his straining erection. You looked down, your eyes widening at the sight of his thick, hard length, the swollen head already glistening with pre-cum. Satoru gripped himself, lining himself up with your entrance, the tip nudging against your slick folds teasingly.

Satoru's eyes blazed with lust and desire as he drank in the sight of you, your naked body trembling with need against the wall. With a growl, he spun you around, pressing your breasts against the cool surface as he kicked your legs apart, exposing your glistening sex to his hungry gaze. You could feel the rough, cool wood of the bookshelf pressing against your sensitive nipples, making them harden even further.

"Keep your hands on the shelf," Satoru commanded, his voice a low, authoritative rumble. "Don't move them, no matter what I do to you." His hands slid around your waist, gripping your hips tightly as he pressed his hard, length against the curve of your ass.

"Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" he purred, his voice a low, rough rasp. "Don't worry, baby. I'm going to give you exactly what you need."

He gripped himself, stroking his length a few times, smearing the leaking pre-cum along his swollen shaft. Then, with a hard thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside your tight, soaked heat.

"FUCK!" Satoru roared, his voice echoing off the walls as your walls clenched and fluttered around his invading length. "So fucking tight," he groaned, his fingers digging harder into your hips as he savored the feeling of your silken walls gripping him like a velvet vise. "I knew this little pussy would feel incredible wrapped around my cock."

He started to move, pulling out until just the tip remained inside you, before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt. He set a hard, fast pace, fucking you with deep, powerful thrusts that made your breasts bounce and jiggled with each slap of his hips against your ass. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, of your moans and Satoru's grunts of pleasure as he took you roughly from behind.

Satoru's hand slid around to your front, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing the sensitive nub in hard, fast circles. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, you dirty girl?" Satoru growled, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "To be bent over and fucked hard, to be used for my pleasure? You're my little cock sleeve, aren't you Y/n?" His words sent shivers down your spine, your body clenching and fluttering around his pistoning length as he fucked you with wild abandon. You could only moan and whimper in response.

Satoru's hips slammed against yours with bruising force, his heavy balls slapping lewdly against your clit with each powerful thrust. The obscene sound of skin on skin echoed through the room, mingling with your wanton moans and Satoru's guttural grunts of pleasure. His thick cock stretched you wide, reaching depths you never knew you had as he fucked you with wild, animalistic abandon.

"Shit, Y/n, your cunt feels amazing," Satoru panted, his voice strained with exertion and pleasure. "It's squeezing my cock so fucking tight, like it never wants to let me go." To emphasize his words, he reached around to grip your breast roughly, squeezing the soft mound and plucking at your nipple, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

Satoru's other hand slid down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing the sensitive nub in hard, fast circles. "I can feel you getting closer, baby," he growled, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "Your little pussy is fluttering around my cock, begging to come on my thick dick. Go ahead, Y/n. Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock."

Your body tensed, your back arching as Satoru's words and touch pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the coil of tension in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap at any moment. With a few more hard, deep thrusts and a particularly rough circle of your clit, Satoru sent you hurtling over the edge.

"SATORU!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls as your orgasm crashed over you. Your sex clamped down around his pistoning length, gripping him like a velvet vise as your walls rippled and fluttered, trying to milk his cock for all it was worth. Satoru groaned, his hips stuttering as your tight heat massaged his length, bringing him closer to his own release.

"Fuck, yes!" Satoru roared, slamming into you one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt and grinding his pelvis against your ass. "Take it, Y/n. Take my fucking cum!"

Satoru's body shuddered and tensed above you as his orgasm overtook him, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Fuck, Y/n!" he growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "I'm...coming!" His words dissolved into a strangled moan as hot, thick ropes of his seed painted your insides, filling you up until you could feel it seeping out around his throbbing length.

You clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of his release as Satoru emptied himself deep inside you. His hips jerked and spasmed, grinding against your ass as he rode out the waves of his intense climax.

Satoru collapsed against your back, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He pressed sloppy kisses along your shoulder blades, his lips and tongue lingering on your sweat-damped skin. "That was...fuck, Y/n...incredible," he panted, his voice rough and strained. "I've never come so hard in my life."

Slowly, Satoru pulled out of you, his softening length slipping from your used, dripping sex with a gush of their combined fluids. You could feel the thick, warm seed dripping down your thighs as Satoru stepped back, taking in the sight of you with a satisfied, almost smug grin. Your body was flushed, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, and your hair a wild tangle around your face. You looked well and truly fucked, and Satoru looked extremely pleased with himself for the state he'd left you in.

"Look at you," Satoru purred, his fingers trailing down your spine, making you shiver. "Such a good little girl, taking my cock so well and milking me for every last drop." His hand slid between your legs, his fingers pushing through the mess of your combined releases to tease your sensitive, swollen folds.

He leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, sensual kiss, pouring all of his satisfaction and desire into the embrace. He stepped back, admiring the view of your naked, glistening body splayed out before him, your thighs still trembling from the force of your shared orgasms.

Satoru quickly cleaned himself up, tucking his spent cock back into his pants and refastening them. He then grabbed a soft, plush towel from a nearby chair and knelt behind you, gently wiping the sticky essence from between your thighs. His touch was surprisingly tender, almost reverent, as if he was cherishing the intimate act of cleaning his lover after their passionate coupling.

The city was quiet, wrapped in velvet shadows, and Satoru was still holding you like he never wanted to let go.nYour bare back pressed to his chest, sheets tangled around your legs, the soft rhythm of his breathing at your shoulder. “Don’t say anything yet,” he whispered. “Just... stay here a little longer.”

You did. Neither of you moved. Because the world had finally gone still.

And you were finally, finally, exactly where you belonged.

The party outside was still going. Soft jazz hummed through the open windows. Laughter floated like perfume from the gardens below. You could smell it—roses, gin, smoke. The scent of nights meant to last forever. You closed your eyes.

And then—

A scream.

Far off, sharp. Real. You sat up.

Then came the crash. Metal. Glass. Something tearing through the calm like a blade.

You were already moving. Grabbing for your robe. Running barefoot down the stairs as the music cut off and the lights in the garden flickered. Satoru followed.

The car had torn through the hedges near the side of the estate. Too fast. Too reckless.You saw it all as if underwater:

The crumpled metal. The pool of red on the stone. The young girl in a white dress, lying far from the road, her hair fanned out like a halo in the grass. She wasn’t breathing. Neither was her boyfriend.

The guests stared. Some cried. Others filmed. And Satoru—he just knelt. At the edge of the wreckage. Staring at his hands like they were drenched in something he couldn’t wash off.

They said later it was a valet. Too much to drink. He took one of the guests’ cars for a joyride and lost control on the curve just beyond the garden wall. It wasn’t Satoru’s fault. But it was his party. His name.

His gates. His home. His world.

And in the public’s eyes—he was responsible.

He didn’t speak to anyone the next day.

Didn’t see you. Didn’t answer Shoko. Or even the press. By sunset, the house was quiet again. By nightfall, he was gone.

You found a letter at the door.

I’m sorry. I thought I could hold you and still hold this world together. But I don’t deserve either. You were the only thing that made this life feel real. And that’s why I have to let it go.

Don’t wait for me. But know I’ll always be looking for you—in every life after this one.

— S

You stood in the doorway of his mansion the next morning. The windows were dark.

The staff dismissed. The garden gates wide open, rusted slightly from the rain.

And for the first time since you met him, the house didn’t feel alive.

You stood at the dock that night, staring across the water. Somewhere out there, a green light blinked at the end of a distant pier.

Long after the summer ended and the gossip faded, you still look across the bay.

Still wonder if one day he’ll return.

Still waiting for the greatest man you ever knew.

The Great Satoru.

A/n: maybe I’ll make a playlist for this who knows.

#gojo satoru #jjk #jjk gojo #jjk satoru #jujutsu gojo #gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru x reader #jjk smut #satoru smut #satoru x you #shelovesosa

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stars-and-clouds · 16 days ago

Text

Unsent

Xavier. Linkon International Airport, 7:48am. Overcast sky. Gate 314B. Song

A03

p.s. tumblr can't format urdu properly!?!?

---

She walked through the glass barrier and didn’t look back until the last second. And Xavier could almost see the mental debate ongoing inside her head; her mind battling her heart.

She had always been like that. Looking back would make it harder. But she wasn't one to shy away from difficult things. So, right before the gate closed behind her, she turned. One last smile between the narrow gap of the door. One last wave. Glassy eyes, half-moon behind a smile. Xavier's brows furrowed as he smiled back. He swallowed and kept watching until she disappeared.

She had to go back to her family in India for an emergency. Didn't know when she'd come back, how long they'd be apart. They had stayed up all night. Crying, kissing, making love, cuddling, crying again, touching each other as if sand was slipping through their fingers. Xavier couldn't leave with her because of missions. She'd be gone for at least a month, maybe more...

They should've slept earlier. That would have been sensible. They had to leave home at five am at the least. But leaving her hand, letting her go, to not touch her face, not look into her eyes for the last time before months apart was harder than waiting two hundred years for a single glimpse of her face. He knew what sunlight felt like now and going back into the dark was akin to exposing a wound to salt.

It was easier before. He was alone and had no expectations. When he'd saved her life as Lumiere, he'd expected nothing. He was a silent guardian; a distant watcher. Keeping the promise he made to himself that he'd never let anything happen to her. With or without being loved in return, it didn't matter. Only her safety mattered. In every life, every form, she'd always be safe. But then she met him that day during her first mission. Then she touched his hand, asked him out on a date, pressed her lips to his, said she wanted him and he was weak...

I'm only a man.

He waited another two minutes. What for? He knew not. Then he turned toward the parking level, already dreading going to his empty apartment.

It was easier before.

---

As Xavier was reversing her car he saw on the back floor: her sling bag.

"Shit." he cursed softly.

He tried calling her, but she didn't pick up. She was probably going through security. There was no point anyway. It's not like she can come back out... The hope to see her again died in his throat.

Xavier: U forgot Ur sling bag.

He sent the message, stared at the screen for a minute, sighed and put the phone back down.

He slid the sling bag onto his lap, and opened it to check if she’d left something important. She'd taken too much baggage home: paid for extra luggage for gifts, souvenirs, clothes, food. But she was a meticulous woman. They had counted the bags, checked and rechecked the contents multiple times. This bag should've probably been inside the luggage.

He opened it to check if she'd not forgotten something. Another souvenir perhaps. Inside: a small packet of chocolates, a few old-fashioned currency bills she swears they can 'use in an emergency', spare R-rank protocores and an envelope.

Plain. Unmarked. Sealed, but not tightly; as if done half heartedly.

He paused.

There was no name written on it nor an address. It wasn’t stamped nor folded the way something mailed would be. Just an ordinary pale-white envelope tucked into the bag, slightly crumpled. He opened it, genuinely worried if it was her cover letter or something she needed to show at customs.

The first thing he saw: Urdu writing. Her handwriting. The soft, looping script. Intimate and gentle but not pretty. It wasn't written in a way one writes letters. Not presentable nor tidy; it was a scribble. As if a confession; a letter never meant to be sent.

She didn’t know he could read it because he had never told her. He’d started learning last year. Quietly. Slowly. For no reason other than her whispered curses in that Punjabi accent. The way her accent sometimes curled into certain sounds whenever she got emotional. Because he had once seen her smile at something her mother said to her and wanted to say the same thing to her. It was supposed to be a surprise and it will be.

He started reading and from the very first letter he heard her soft spoken, raspy voice. The way she always whispered words when she was shy:

Kisise mohabbat insaan ko bohat kamzor kr deti hai. Mujhe inn saari cheezon se nafrat hai.

Love can make a person weak, helpless... And I hate all of that. The need. The want.

His hands stilled.

Magar in sabke bawajood tum mere zindagi ke markaz bante ja rahe ho.

But despite it all, you are slowly becoming the center of my life.

Xavier's grip on the paper tightened involuntarily. He looked up and around as if second guessing he was reading it right, if his knowledge was faulty. He looked down again with a lump in his throat and kept reading.

Tum mujhse puchte ho ki mujhe tumhari kya baat acchi lagti hai... Main tumse ye kaise kahu ki mujhe tumhari konsi baat acchi nahi lagti...

You ask me to tell you what it is that I like about you. But how do I tell you there is nothing that I don’t?

His brows furrowed almost in pain.

Tumhara har waqt ki tawajjo. Tumhara jaan chidakne wala har andaaz. Harr baar jab tum mere maa baap ke ehteraam mein khade hote ho...

Your unwavering attention, no matter the time. The way you give it like a gift. The way your eyes shy away from me. The way your insight always touches my soul. The way you stand up when my parents enter a room.

His chest tightened. She saw all that in him? He imagined her writing this at night, on her clean and meticulously organised table. She must've been angry at herself for feeling too much again. Maybe listening to old bollywood music, maybe crying without knowing why. Maybe folding this up and putting it away because it felt too honest to send.

Main tumse ye kaise kahu ki main tumhare aage jhukne lagti hoon... Aur kya kuchh nahi... Magar ye sab mein tumhe kabhi nahi bataungi.

How do I tell you I want to bow down; fall down to my knees in front of you? And God knows what else... But I will never tell you all this.

Tumhare har waade par hasoon gi... tumhari har baat ka mazaak udaungi. Kyunki sach to yahi hai ke mein tumhari barabari kabhi nahi kar sakti. Tum mujhe sangemarmar samajhte ho... to samajhte raho. Main tumhare samne rait ki deewar tak nahi ban sakti.

I will laugh at your every promise. I will tease you and make fun. Because the truth is, I can never be your equal. It's fine if you think I’m like a marble fort. But the truth is I can’t even hold myself up like a sand wall when I’m in front of you.

Mujhe tootne se khauf aata hai. Magar, mein phir bhi tumhe chahti hu.

I’m afraid of breaking. But I still want you.

---

That was all. No post script, no salutation. It ended like that. Xavier couldn't move for a good while. Staring at the paper and black ink. An airplane whirred loudly somewhere as it landed. Wind and rain beat against the car window but Xavier couldn't even hear himself breathe.

Finally, he folded the letter, too tightly. His hands shook. They'd only been together for a year but it felt like a lifetime.

She loved him more deeply than he had dared to believe, more deeply than she was ready to admit. He thought her love was soft, intense, passionate all at once and that was more than enough, more than he deserved. But only now did he understand her devotion.

The dark voice in his head told him this wasn't addressed to him. Maybe for a past lover. He couldn't have made her feel this love. He couldn't inspire such poetry. But she'd told him once to listen to his gut, not the voices in his mind. And his gut told him this was for him.

And he would be right.

He leaned back in the car seat with a gentle thud, lips still parted. He took a deep breath to compose himself, rubbing a hand over his face. He stared outside and realised his eyes were just as blurry as the rain sheathed window. He let the pain of her absence settle like weight in his chest.

Then he opened his phone again.

Xavier: I miss U already. Please come back to me soon.

He would never mention the letter and she would never send it to him.

--- END ---

this entire thing was inspired by this pin i saw, idk if it actually from zindagi gulzar hair. I haven't watched the show in a decade atp, but whoever wrote it or if it's from the show, the credit for the letter goes to them. Thank you <3

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x mc #desi #urdu #xavier x reader #xavier lads #lads shen xinghui #xavier fanfic #love and deep space #xavier fic

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lift-for-dead · 7 months ago

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repοst

*If you don’t have a stamp, reverse your destination and return addresses. The post office will deliver it to the return address for free

*One bag of garbage from a McDonald’s dumpster has hundreds of receipts in it, each of which has a survey. Submit each one for lots of free food

*Holding a cell phone to your ear justifies lοitering. This aids in public urinαtion, dυmpster diving, trespαssing, etc

*If you’re going to plαgiarize, plαgiarize something in a foreign language. Use a translator and spend a few minutes touching up the results.

*If they have free refills, save your cup. Next time you eat there, your drink is free.

*A plastic coffee stir stick can fool any push in coin acceptor that loads the coins on edge. Just insert stir stick, push the mechanism forward until you feel the stick hit a bump, push the bump down with the stick and push the mech all the way in

*If you look like you know what you’re doing, no one will bother you.

*When lγing, always include something slightly embarrassing, or something that makes you look bad, as part of your story. It’s not only going to disarm their skepticism (admitting to something embarrassing gives an impression of humility), but even if they remain skeptical, they’ll be left wondering why you would make something up that you’d rather keep secret if it were true

*Using Clorox or any bleach will turn the red/pink liquid detection dot on electronic devices back to white so they replace them under warranty

* “A drυg deαler in DC taught me to pick my nose if the police are staring at me. No one picks their nose if they think someone is watching them, so it’s the ultimate way of being nonchalant.”

* "I learned that you can get into almost any special event by wearing a chef coat. Even just carrying one and walking like you know where you’re going will work every time. Most people don’t want to look stupid by asking you who you are.“ (I've done this one. I'm actually a chef so it's great.)

* "My go to missing work call was never “I’m sick”, it was “Family problems”. They never questioned it, it’s vague enough and embarrassing enough that nobody ever asks.“

*As part of the employee training at Tαrget, they teach you that if a customer argues over a price, and the full price is under $20, to just give it to them for whatever price they claim. It’s cheaper for the company to move on to the next customer than to call in a price check.

*Put a rolled up sock in the change slot on a vending machine, come back back 4 days later….and pull sock….you will be 6-ish dollars richer.

*If it’s a small lie, like who farted or who put the empty milk carton in the fridge, I’ll tell a terrible lie. I’ll not be able to hold a straight face, contradict myself, basically suck at lying. Now everyone I know thinks I can’t tell a lie to save my life, So when I really need a big lie, I nail it every time. No one ever suspects me when I lie straight faced.

*Bring crutches to an airport. Bypass every line (including boarding) and you are chauffeured to your gate the second you pass through security. (idk abt this one)

*Make up a secret to share with someone- they may open up and share far more valuable real secrets.

*Here’s a classic. Drive over to your 7/11 of choice. Fill up a Slurpee and drop some candy bars in that bitch. Make sure the candy bars aren’t showing. Cover the Slurpee and pay for it. Free Snickers bitch.

*I tell everyone i’ve never done any drυgs. Suddenly everyone offers me cοcaine, ecstαsy, pοt, lsd. I think i’ve had $200 worth of drυgs each weekend for free. Same with liquοr. “I'm not drinking tonight” BOOM! Everyone gives me bοοze. Its like everyone wants to break your integrity as soon as you tell them you are not doing whatever they are doing.

*If you need to cash from an ATM and its not a large amount, buy a 5 cent piece of gum from a gas station that has the cash back option. Its cheaper than a $3 charge

*Act less intelligent than you really are. Acting stupid can get you out of some tricky situations. Feigning ignorance is way better than admitting you knew better but did it anyway. My old man used to say ‘It is easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission’…sometimes it’s true.

*Every time I fly, when I land I’ll pen a little complaint to the airline that flew me. You know, I’ll come up with something like “oh, they denied me a drink! Oh, the food wasn’t vegetarian!” Whatever miscellaneous hogwash potpourri comes to my crazy brain. Like clockwork, within a business day, they’re reimbursing me with a $50 voucher, a $100 voucher, I can sell that on the secondary market.

*I’ve always had a lot of success in shutting nosy people up by blaming any personal issue on allergies. Crying from a panic attack? Allergies giving me puffy eyes. What’s that mysterious pill I’m taking? Allergy meds. Why am I acting spaced out/hungover/tired? Allergies meds making me drowsy.

*If you really wanna get away with some shit, buy a reflective vest, a white hard hat, and a clipboard. You can go ANYWHERE.

#for dead tips

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undercover-monsterlover · 6 months ago

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Requested Matchup for @graveyard-dash

Diavolo

This is a really interesting match, because of Diavolo's instense desire to be unseen and unknowable, and your apparent openness and friendliness. He has spent his life since becoming the boss trying to scrub away every connection to his identity, his past, everything. So meeting someone he becomes enamoured with, is trouble. I'd imagine meeting him would have to happen by a purely coincidental, wrong place, wrong time sort of situation. Him, making a covert exit from a hotel room at night, after making incredible efforts to erase any trace of himself from said room, only to literally bump into you, passing through an alley as a shortcut. After a brief moment in which you think he's a thief or something looking to rob you, (the expression on his face led you to believe that) you calm down. Diavolo's immediate thought is to use his stand to "take care" of you after you've seen his face, but after all, you don't yet know he has any connection to Passione, let alone being the boss, yet. And of course, a body being found, or a missing persons case connected to the hotel he was just at would draw more attention then he'd want anyways.

But it's not purely his thoughts of hiding himself that make him pause. We've seen over and over that in JoJo's, some people just have a sense of gravity between them. A magnetic force, red thread of fate, whatever you want to call it, there is something beyond just typical attraction to you. So, there he is, gawking at you in an alley, and you, just kinda talking to fill the awkward space as he just stares at you like a freak, before you quickly slip away. And it only gets worse for him from there. This is an issue. He goes no contact to his proxies and underlings for almost a week, gives no orders, calls no hits, nothing. Everybody in Passione is wondering what's happening. What's happening, is that he's having a freakout. He thought he was above this, this goes against everything he's worked for. At one point he even considered ordering La Squadra to find and kill you. But perhaps that a bit too far, and he knows nothing about who you are yet anyways. He thinks on it for days, what he should do. He has this strange, unexplainable connection to some rando he saw in a fucking alley, and now he's having nightmares about his identity being discovered, only to then have a dream about this mystery person. It takes a long time for him to overcome his fear of looking into you leading to the discovery of his identity, but he eventually snaps. He tells his underlings to scope out the nearby businesses to that alley, the nearby apartment buildings, and eventually he gets a manilla folder, with one picture of you taken from far away, and your name written on the back.

This brings up a new issue. One, should he even pursue this, and two, how could he possibly do so while still keeping his identity safe. There's no meetcute with Diavolo. He can't pretend to be a customer where you work, he can't temporarily rent an apartment in the same building as you, he can't eat at the same café you frequent and hope you come along some time. There is no public space in which he can approach you. So, you start getting letters. Typed out, of course no handwriting, no stamp, no return address, and delivered during the dead of night. These letters aren't loveletters exactly. There's no declarations of love, espousing of everything he adores about you, poetry, nothing like that. They're more of a preparation. You only get a few, and they all sort of say the same basic thing. I'm interested in meeting you, I know this is a strange way to contact you, but I'm under strange circumstances, I mean you no harm. And the final letter is just a request to meet, in a far away hotel, at a specific time. You consider if you should go or not. You know it's a ridiculous request, and so does he. But, armed with a knife and cheap handgun you buy just for this, you arrive to this little reandevoux, and meet him face to face. And it's then that he knows he is truly cursed. Whatever hand of fate led you two to meet that night by the hotel, had cruelly chosen the exact person he would never be able to resist.

He has been so isolated for so long, and the people he did interact with were closed off, guarded Mafia members. But you, after the initial suspicion, were so open, so friendly, so captivating, it was refreshing to him in a way. You talked with passion and the carefree sort of attitude of someone who had not lived in the underbelly do society as he has. He almost felt guilty for asking to see you, not only because it was a threat to himself, but because he was dragging an unknowing person into the most dangerous position possible, without them yet knowing. That first night, I don't think you could even call it a date, was strange. It was mostly you talking, telling him about yourself with occasional prompting from him, but he was mostly silent other than that. You were a little afraid that since he had asked you to meet him in a hotel that he would be expecting sex, but he makes absolutely no allusion to it at all, and he leaves you with only a phone number, telling you to contact him through that if you wanted to. But he says something else too. He hasn't even told you his name yet, but he tells you that he is deeply associated with Passione, and has no intentions to cut that off if you decide to continue seeing him. But it's your choice. He won't call you again guess you call him first. You have to make that choice.

And you do. Despite the insane circumstances, you call that number with an ease of mind that's almost stupid. Surprisingly, you don't actually hear him on the other line, just some lackey that helps you set up another time and place to meet.

Your dates for the first few months are always like this. Covert, private affairs, never in a public place. You begin to wonder if he's married, but he quickly shuts that idea down. You get the sense that he really is deeply connected to the Mafia if he's going through such lengths. But you can't help wanting to see him. As strange as he is, and as different as you are from eachother, he approaches these meetings/dates with an intense energy of care and importance placed apon your preferences, and your feelings. The two of you certainly have a unique dynamic. You're always trying to set up easy jokes and bits for him to play along with, but he never seems to catch on to your humour. He does find you funny, but it's more so in a way that he's amused someone can be so open and relaxed even in a situation like this. You seem to just kinda, go with the flow of this bizarre romance. He thinks you're a little naive at first, but eventually understands that this is just the way you are. When he finally does reveal his true identity to you, both in his real name and his position as the boss of Passione, you take it with an admirable level of calmness and understanding. At this point the two of you can be a lot closer, he very quickly decides that he needs to find just one good, hidden place to hunker down so he can stay with you. It has intense security, and many ways for the two of you to leave without anyone seeing you, even having Secco create tunnels that go through winding paths and miles away in case you need them. (He was blindfolded when he was brought there, and basically just told to use his stand for a while lmao.)

The two of you spend most of your time in this new home, you don't go out too much because of his situation. You go out far more often then he does, and he doesn't really like it. As passionate as both of you are, I think at the beginning there would be at least a few arguments. He makes sure never to go to far, and hey, he's already put this much effort into being with you, he's not gonna fuck it up now. But after a while, you'd settle into a mutually satisfying sort of rythem.

A lot of your hobbies seem to be things you can do at home, so he encourages them as much as he can. He'll buy any art supplies you want, any albums or records and listen to them with you even if he secretly hates an artist or album. In the long run, a relationship with him requires a very unique person, and a person who is very patient, and thankfully, you fit the bill perfectly.

Here's a song I feel would encapsulate this relationship:

(Hope you liked this, I've honestly never really liked or appreciated Diavolo as a character, but I did my best😭.)

#jjba x reader #matchups #jjba diavolo #diavolo jojo #golden wind #vento aureo #jjba vento auero #Spotify

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misfitbimbosblog · 2 months ago

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The Girl Who Wasn't There

A Scream Universe Fanfic / | Thriller I Psychological Suspense I Time jumps back and for from 1996-2001|

Stu Macher x OC

Part One🐇

Los Angeles – October 2001

Randy Meeks didn’t believe in ghosts. But he believed in bad endings.

He worked at a video store now—nothing glamorous. Horror section always stocked, foreign cinema barely touched. Every now and then, a customer would ask if he was “that guy from the murder town,” and Randy would laugh it off. They didn’t know. They couldn’t.

Not like he did.

He thought he was done with Woodsboro.

Until the letter arrived.

There was no return address. No stamp. Just his name, handwritten in red ink, as if whoever sent it knew exactly where he’d be, what shelf he’d be restocking, what moment to pick.

He opened it at the register.

Inside was a photograph—old, faded, but unmistakable. A girl standing in a field. Long dark hair, combat boots, a cigarette burning low between her fingers. Luna.

On the back, a message:

“Five years later, and the game isn’t over. She’s back. But whose side is she on?”

There was no signature. Just a single symbol scrawled at the bottom: a crude sketch of a Ghostface mask, drawn in red ink.

Randy felt the room tilt.

It was her.

But it was also something else. A warning. Or maybe a threat.

Because if Luna was alive…

Then someone knew where she’d been.

And someone wanted him to find out.

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jellybeanium124 · 1 year ago

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my parents (gen x) have custom return address stickers. actually, my mom has stickers and my dad has a custom STAMP. I've also seen these custom stickers from other older relatives on physical mail, so I became curious. I have my guess as to what the results are gonna look like lol but it can't hurt to run a poll and see!

#nina rambles

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justinspoliticalcorner · 3 months ago

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Marisa Kabas at The Handbasket:

Principal Jaime Cook describes one of the third graders in her northern New York school as particularly rambunctious. In a phone call with me Saturday evening, she says this particular student loves to sing and loves to dance. But last week this child was handcuffed and taken by US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), along with other family members—two of whom are high school-aged kids. While they all remain jailed in Texas, classmates leave cards on the student’s desk and hang a welcome home banner they hope will be seen. As people across the country assembled Saturday to tell the Trump regime to keep their “Hands off!”, a protest in the tiny town of Sackets Harbor, NY caught my eye. While this one was certainly related to the larger theme of the day, the impetus was much more specific: A worker on a local dairy farm who had no criminal record and was awaiting legal immigration proceedings was disappeared late last month by ICE along with her three children. Agents were executing a search warrant for an unrelated suspected criminal who lived on the same block, and somehow the family was swept up and whisked away to Texas. And around 1,000 people came together this weekend to rally for their safe return and to send a message that this won’t be tolerated there—or anywhere. “There was the concern in our little small town that if we speak out too loudly, there might be hateful voices from far away,” Cook tells The Handbasket. She wonders: “Are we gonna become the center of something that becomes really ugly?” But ultimately she and her staff decided anything less than loud and unwavering support was unacceptable. And as a result, the rest of the country has taken notice. The town of 1,300 people has just one school for all children K-12 where they graduate approximately 40 students each year. It’s an affluent and idyllic-looking town on the shores of Lake Ontario in a county that voted 61% for Trump in 2024. And when protesters marched down the streets in solidarity with their stolen neighbors, they made sure to pass by the home of one community member in particular: Tom Homan, Trump’s Border Czar. Homan grew up nearby and still has his primary residence in Sackets Harbor, presumably splitting time in DC to spearhead Trump’s campaign of terrorizing immigrants. “This isn't like a situation where a politician has multiple houses,” Cook told me. “Tom Homan lives in Sackets Harbor. I believe that in the hours when this was unfolding, he was receiving a lot of calls on his personal cell phone.” In anticipation of Saturday’s march, the Mayor of Sackets Harbor declared a state of emergency. Law enforcement officials from the village police department, the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, state police, and state park police were all called to the gathering to remind protesters of what they would face if they put a toe out of line. Cook has spent the past 10 days worried sick about her students in the 3rd, 10th and 11th grades at her school. Saturday morning she posted a statement on Facebook addressing the situation head on:

[...]

The contrast between Homan and Cook couldn’t be more stark. Cook says she grew up on welfare and food stamps and says that being “disempowered” and “discarded by the system” has always helped her empathize with people in peril. I tell her that her Facebook statement and comments to a reporter at the protest have people online hailing her as a hero. Then I ask her how she feels about that characterization. “I think that's silly,” she says. “I think anybody who's been a public school teacher knows that people are doing this stuff all day long. And I think that the only reason that people might think that this is out of the ordinary is because educators are so frequently underestimated and their contribution is not seen for what it is.” Cook is tackling the situation boldly, despite having only been principal in Sackets Harbor for less than one school year. The California native has lived in the area for 15 years and says the community has welcomed her with open arms—which has made it easier to feel empowered to speak up. “You just gotta put your money where your mouth is and you gotta live by your conscience,” she says, “and you gotta know that your livelihood cannot overpower your conscience.” The school has been in touch with ICE since the family’s arrest, and Cook says she feels hopeful about the chances of them being home soon. She says one of her teachers who has been the immigration agency’s main point of contact has been waiting for “the call” letting them know the family is free to go, and believes that call is imminent. But even once they’re freed, ICE will do nothing to transport them back to the home from which they were snatched. Fortunately the town has come together to make sure there are people on the ground in Texas waiting to accompany the family when the time hopefully comes. "They can rally and protest all they want, but I'm not gonna be bullied. I'm not gonna be intimidated,” Homan told the local news prior to Saturday’s rally. Meanwhile, Sackets Harbor 10th graders leave flowers on their jailed classmate’s desk in hopes of a safe return.

Seeing ICE haul away three children and their mother in Sackets Harbor, NY to a concentration camp down in Texas is an abomination. It’s also an excellent case for ICE to be abolished. #AbolishICE

#ICE #ICE Raids #Immigration #Sackets Harbor New York #Jaime Cooke #Thomas Homan #Immigration and Customs Enforcement #Abolish ICE

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artikjewels · 3 months ago

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Highlights

Made by artikjewels

Delivery from a small business in India

Materials: Silver

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Made to Order

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acornsalessealsstamps · 4 months ago

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PSI Pre-Inked Majestic Masons Custom Address Stamp

Elevate your correspondence with the PSI Pre-Inked Majestic Masons Custom Address Stamp! 🔷 Perfect for Masonic collectors, this personalized round stamp (1-5/8") delivers crisp, detailed impressions on envelopes. Add a touch of tradition to your mail! 📜✉️ Order now!

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skelavender · 5 months ago

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There’s a letter in Tommy’s mailbox. It’s not a bill, not an advertisement. A bona fide letter, with his name penned carefully across the back. There’s no return address and no stamp. Tommy runs his thumb across the corner of the envelope as he contemplates it. When he flips it over and sees the actual red wax seal holding the flap down, he realizes what it is and drops it onto the counter like it’s burned him. Evan. Buck. OR Reconciliation through a series of letters.

read the center of every poem on ao3, listen to the podfic on gdrive, or find it below the cut!

you can also listen to evan's playlist and tommy's playlist on spotify.

“the centre of every poem is this: i have loved you. i have had to deal with that.”

Letters From Medea, Salma Deera

***

There’s a letter in Tommy’s mailbox.

It’s not a bill, not an advertisement. A bona fide letter, with his name penned carefully across the back. There’s no return address and no stamp.

Tommy runs his thumb across the corner of the envelope as he contemplates it. When he flips it over and sees the actual red wax seal holding the flap down, he realizes what it is and drops it onto the counter like it’s burned him.

Evan.

Buck.

Buck had driven across town to drop this off himself. He had been outside. Was Tommy home? Did he miss his chance to catch one last glimpse of Buck?

Had he wanted to come inside?

Tommy doesn't let himself dwell on that possibility.

A memory comes to him, a few months ago. Chris’s birthday. A couple weeks beforehand, Tommy had knocked on Evan’s door and been greeted with the sight of Evan’s thumb pressed gently against his own lips.

A paper cut, Evan had explained. When Tommy looked past him, the counter top was spread with a mess of different types of papers, envelopes, rubber stamps, pens, and ink pads.

That was when he learned about Evan’s — Buck’s — greeting card habit. Every birthday came with a custom made card, slaved over for hours. Every gift was countered with a thank you note a week later. The card Chris would be receiving had layers of different colors of card stock, and "Happy Birthday!" was nearly stamped across the front.

This is… not a birthday card. Tommy’s birthday isn’t for another three months, and Buck knows this. He doubts it’s a thank you card, because thanks for ripping your heart out by breaking up with me! seems pretty callous. The only other thing Tommy can imagine it being is a postmortem.

Tommy… Tommy’s not sure if he’s ready for that yet.

He’s still too raw. Thinking about breaking the wax seal makes his skin sting like air on muscle, like he’s covered in a thousand of Buck’s greeting card paper cuts.

The letter mocks him from the countertop for two more days before he sits down with it and a beer squarely in front of him. It takes him an hour and another bottle to flip it over and slide his finger under the seal. It pops off in one piece, and Tommy breathes.

He slides the paper out of the envelope, but doesn’t unfold it yet. Its color matches the envelope perfectly, but the texture is different. It’s heavier, and thicker. It’s the nice stuff, the stationary he knows Buck spent way too much money on and saves for important letters. Which means this, to Buck, is an important letter.

Tommy stands and paces the kitchen. The letter keeps screaming at him from the counter, calling him a coward, calling him weak, in a voice eerily similar to that of his father.

Tommy makes it halfway through another beer leaning against the door jamb of the kitchen when he sets the bottle down a little too hard on the counter, slides back into his seat, and flips the paper open before he can back out again.

Tommy,

Tommy tears up immediately, reading just his own name on the page in the same handwriting he would see in good morning notes left on his bedside when Evan had an early morning shift, or stuck to a container of tupperware with reheating instructions and a “see you tomorrow!”

He continues reading.

Tommy,

I’ve tried to write this so many times, but it either comes out too desperate or too pushy. I hope this time I manage to find the balance, because I’m not sure how many more times I can write this before I lose my mind.

I’ve been running every moment with you over and over in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong, or which interactions I misunderstood, or how we ended up on such different pages, or what I could have changed to hold onto you. If I had chased after you, would you have stayed and kissed me? If I had kept you awake with my research one night less, could I have kept you for one more? I’ve been reading up on chaos theory and the butterfly effect. One minute change could have altered everything. There are infinite different paths we could have taken, and I can’t understand why we ended up on this one. It just doesn’t feel right to me.

I didn’t think I would have to tell you this, but I guess you didn’t get the message: we were serious. Or, at least, I was serious about you. You were my boyfriend, my partner, not an experiment. I’ve had a lot of partners I wasn’t serious about — I think I had slept with a good quarter of the single women in LA at one point, and I’m done with that. I’ve been done with that for years. Realizing that I’m queer hasn’t changed the fact that have no interest in sleeping around anymore; it’s not fulfilling to me. And I have had meaningful emotional relationships, ones that have made me feel cared for and loved, at least for a while. That includes you. None of that changes because men are suddenly an option.

I don’t know why it’s so important to me that you know that. I’m not aiming to make you feel guilty, or regretful, or confused. Maybe it’s selfish, but I needed to get that off my chest.

I wish you the best,

Evan

Tommy is in tears by the time he finishes the letter. God. Tommy had known he had fucked up the second he closed the door of Buck’s loft behind him, but now the pain is sunken far enough into his chest that it lives there now.

***

There’s a letter in Evan’s mailbox.

This fact alone is not particularly unusual. He has a couple friends from his days on the road that he still exchanges letters with. But his name and address are scrawled across the front familiar chicken scratch. Tommy’s chicken scratch. Buck’s breath hitches.

The return address confirms it. His name isn��t there, but Buck knows that address. He’s spent hours there; he’s plugged it into his phone countless times to try to find the quickest way to cross town. He had done so as recently as last week, to drop off…

Oh. The letter.

Buck hadn’t expected a response, to be honest. He had only wanted to voice — or, well, pen — his feelings, which he hadn’t actually been able to do when Tommy had broken up with him because he was so caught off guard. But here he is, holding a letter nestled in an ivory envelope. A suspiciously nice ivory envelope, with a texture similar to the ones he saves for important letters.

Buck hasn’t scrambled up to his loft faster in his life. He beelines for the box that contains the LAFD letter opener he had… liberated… during his fire marshall days and slips it into the flap of the envelope, prying it open as carefully as he can with his trembling hands.

The paper is heavy. It’s not the exact same stuff Buck uses, but it’s nice enough that Tommy must have had to go out and buy it. This is paper that requires intent.

He starts reading it right there on the floor, knelt in front of his stationary box.

Buck –

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you; I’m sorry I left you reeling.

But you have to understand, baby, this is how it has to be.

I really meant it when I said you’re absolutely incredible. I don’t want you to be feeling like you were too much, or not enough, or anything like that. You are such a wonderful man and you’re going to make an amazing partner once you find someone good enough for you. You’re a precious thing, and you deserve someone equally precious. But that’s not me.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t serious about you, Evan Buck, the problem is that I was. I love I fell was falling far too hard for you. I know you care cared about me, but you have so much love to give, and I’m I was so afraid that you would regret it if you chose to give it to me.

I’m still I think about you I wanted to text I still see you everywhere I miss you I made it all the way to the checkout with a book I thought you would like the other day before I realized what I was doing

You’ve found this whole new side of you, and I’m so, so happy I could help you find it, but it would destroy me to help you keep exploring.

Again, I’m sorry.

Tommy

For the first time since the breakup, Buck is mad.

He’s cycled through every other stage of grief multiple times, sometimes all in one day. He had felt a little better after dropping the letter off, like he was inching towards closure. But now that Tommy is doubling down, insisting that he somehow isn’t enough for Buck…

It’s ridiculous. Buck thought that Tommy would throw it into the trash, if Buck was lucky he might give it a read before he did so and that would be that. But now Buck is stuck with another layer of pain to work through before he can move on.

He squints through the scribbled out bits, but Tommy was too thorough, and Buck can’t read it. Perhaps something that makes sense is hidden under the loops of ink, some key that makes anything that Tommy said make sense with how Buck saw their relationship.

Buck wants to make a photocopy and draw lines between the letters, connect the things Tommy has said to certain interactions. He wants to annotate the letter like a high school student writing an essay on a poem. He wants to break it down to the tiny bits and pieces and weave it into something that makes sense.

Buck’s phone is ringing. He removes it from his pocket and snaps a “what” into the microphone without even checking to see who was calling.

“Jesus, who pissed in your cheerios?” Eddie asks from the other end.

“Tommy.”

Eddie sighs. “Buck, I told you not to call him!”

“I didn’t, but I… I left him a letter the other day. He sent one back.”

“And?”

“He doubled down on it. I’m great, but he’s not good enough for me.”

“Damn.” A beat of silence. “You’re going to ignore it, right?”

“No, I’m going to write a letter back.”

“Ooh, no you’re not.” Eddie says. The sound of a car door slamming comes through the phone. “You are not going to write him an angry letter. If Clipboard Buck is scary, Angry Letter to the Manager Buck is a million times worse. You want to get back together, right? That’s why you sent the letter?”

“I don’t even know!” Buck bursts, “I just wanted closure, one way or another, and he didn’t really give me a chance to say anything before he just… up and left.”

“Well, if you write that letter now, you’re going to close that door for good, and you’ll never know what could have happened if you had waited until you were calmer.”

Buck sighs. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

“I’m already on my way over. Don’t do anything until I get there. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you.” Buck hangs up and stares at the letter box, calling out to him.

When Eddie walks through the door of the loft, Buck is sitting at the table with his fancy letter paper in front of him.

“Buck,” Eddie drawls, disappointed.

“I didn’t!” Buck defends. “I’m just thinking about it.”

“Put your stupid $50 paper away and let's go to a museum or something. C’mon.”

“It was only $37.”

“Let’s go, Buck.”

***

Did you know that LA has an all night fine stationery store? Tommy does. Because he had looked it up and Doordashed a set of expensive paper and pens at midnight. The driver had looked at him like he was crazy, but Tommy had written the letter in twenty minutes and dropped it into the blue mailbox down the street before he could sober up enough to second-guess himself. He hadn’t even written a clean copy, instead leaving bits scribbled out on the final page, hopefully thoroughly enough that Buck wouldn’t be able to decipher the parts he had decided were too raw for Buck to see.

Evan, apparently, hadn't been too put off by Tommy's sloppiness, because he's responded. This envelope is the same creamy ivory color as the last, with his name written neatly across the back, with a wax seal. This one, however, has a stamp and Tommy's address below his name. The corner is bent and scuffed, clearly packed into some poor mailman's bag for too many hours. Tommy peels the envelope open delicately, and starts to read.

Tommy,

Eddie talked me down from being too mean to you, but god, you fucking asshole. Did you read a single thing I wrote?

I could never regret you. I’ve never regretted dating anyone, I’ve certainly never regretted caring about someone. Everyone I’ve been in a relationship with has led me to where I am today. That’s part of what I was trying to tell you, with Abby – our breakup sucked, and it really hurt me for a long time, but that relationship transformed me. She was my first – the first person I actually dated instead of just sleeping with. You were my first man, but not my first partner. That was Abby. I’ve had my heart broken and learned how to heal it. I’m not someone who is going to brush you aside for the sake of my own self discovery. Being in a relationship with a man is new to me, and yes, there were some things I had to learn with that, but loving is not.

I’ve spent so much time and energy sprinting through relationships and then holding onto them when I should probably let go – Abby, Taylor, hell, even my parents. I’m sorry I moved too fast for you. I was really, really trying to slow it down this time, to let our relationship grow on its own instead of drawing shapes around where I wanted it to form.

I did not view our relationship as you helping me figure myself out. I viewed us as two people who liked each other and wanted to build a life together. I need you to understand that I cared about you, and that feeling was genuine. What did I do that made you feel otherwise? That I was just using you? I don’t do that. I’ve been nothing but used my whole life. I never want to make someone else feel that way. I need that to get through to you. I can’t have you walking through life thinking that you’re nothing but a stepping stone. You’re not.

You are worthy of love that lasts.

Evan

Reading the first paragraph feels like a shot of ice to Tommy’s veins, how he had misunderstood Buck’s history so terribly. They had never really had a conversation about exes, but they really should have. The second makes the acidic burn of guilt flood through him, that somehow Buck is apologizing as though he has done something wrong. The last bit… well.

Despite everything, it makes Tommy feel warm. Cared for.

A life together.

With three words, Buck has painted a picture that Tommy wants, more than anything. Buck’s bike mounted in the garage. His Jeep in the driveway. His socks between sheets, no matter how many times Tommy complains about them. Sunday dinners with the Hans, or barbecues with the extended family of the 118. A cat. Maybe, if Tommy could convince Evan, a couple kids.

Tommy wishes it were possible. History has said it is not the case.

***

Buck has never checked his mailbox as obsessively as he has this week, waiting for a letter from Tommy to arrive. He had mailed it properly this time, with a stamp and an address instead of a personal drop-off.

With his first letter, Buck hadn’t expected a response. This time, he does. But as the days drag on with only bills and useless coupons, he starts to lose hope. Perhaps he had come on too strong, been too harsh, or too vulnerable, or any other undesirable thing.

It comes two weeks after Buck’s letter had hit the USPS. He’s on his way inside with a couple bags of groceries when he checks his mailbox, and there it sits. The same creamy ivory envelope, the same messy handwriting addressing it to him, the same save the sea turtles stamp.

He makes it upstairs in a far less rushed manner. Very calmly, he puts his groceries away and lets the letter sit on the counter. When everything is away, Buck fetches his letter opener and flicks the letter open.

Buck –

It took me a couple days to respond, but I really wanted to put the thought in to give you a genuine, thought-out answer, not just a knee-jerk reaction.

First of all, I want to apologize again for how I treated you that night. I never should have discounted the relationships you've had in the past. I'm not trying to make excuses for how I acted, it was shitty and wrong, but I want you to understand what was happening in my head and why.

My first response was that you hadn’t done anything wrong to make me feel that way. While I still think that is true, the response has to come from somewhere, and I think it was how I came out. I used a lot of people. I used Abby to help me keep up the macho straight guy facade. I used a bunch of men for sex after I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. We hooked up in the bathrooms in gay bars, and I never told them my name so no one could out me. Many others did the same to me, and that is what I’m used to. I assumed that you would need someone to help you figure yourself out as well, but I understand now that it’s not what you need. That doesn’t reflect how I felt about you, or what I wanted, but it’s what I thought I could get. And I was so hungry for any bit of you, I took what I could – or what I thought you were giving. I still thought you would leave, eventually. I’m sorry that I assumed the worst of you. I’m sorry for assuming you cope in the same ways I did. My experiences are my own, and not applicable to anyone else.

I wish I could do it all over knowing this. Not just that day, but the whole time we were together. I don’t know that I would have changed much, but I would have cherished it differently. I think I did a lot of mourning, even though our relationship was very much alive. I would look at you and think “He’s so beautiful,” and then, immediately, “Someday I won’t get to look at him like this anymore.”

When you asked me to move in, I had this moment of hope. Like everything I could have ever wanted was right there, reaching out to me. You were reaching out to me. But it got overshadowed by all this worry, and this fear, and I couldn’t deal with that. In your first letter, you mentioned infinite possibilities for the future, and that’s exactly what I saw. Infinite timelines where that moment was the flap of the butterfly’s wings that caused a hurricane of heartbreak. A thousand futures were I would think, “God, if only I hadn’t moved in with him, this would hurt so much less.”

But now I’m not so sure that it would hurt less, because I’m so in love with you, Evan. I have been so in love with you, even if I couldn’t identify it before I left. I didn’t know that my love for you was what caused that fear, I only knew that it was choking me, and I couldn’t let that happen. So, like a fool, I hurt both of us because I thought it would protect myself.

Love,

Tommy

Buck takes in a deep breath. Lets it out. Repeats the action.

He’s starting to understand where Tommy’s mind is at. He still doesn’t agree, doesn’t think he was in the right, but Tommy’s mental state is starting to come into focus. This letter is much more insightful than the last one, and Buck just feels…

Well, he feels sorry for the guy. It can’t be easy to be haunted by the man right in front of you.

Buck wishes they had talked about it then, but he also understands how that would be difficult when Tommy is actively trying not to pull him closer or let him in.

He hadn’t even addressed Buck’s assertion that he deserved love, maybe because he disagreed and didn’t want to cause more of an argument, or maybe because it was too raw for him to touch.

But still, it feels like a step in the right direction.

***

Tommy,

First of all, thank you so much for being vulnerable and sharing your past with me, and how it has been affecting you. I feel a lot closer to you now, in a way I didn’t know I was missing when we were dating, and I really, really like the feeling.

That honestly sounds pretty miserable, both the hiding and the mourning. I'm sorry you went through that.

Can we please try to fix it? To work on things together? I want to be with you again, Tommy, I really do, but I’m so afraid of you leaving again. I’ve been left behind so many times, and I can’t do it again. This whole ordeal hit me in a very weak spot. Before we try again, I need you to prove to me that you won’t run away next time you get scared, but that you’ll talk to me. That you know I’m here, and I want to help you through all that. I feel like I was the one guiding us for most of our relationship, driving us in the direction I wanted, and we need to make sure neither of us let that happen again. I need you to check me if I’m pushing too far forward. I need for both of us to feel secure, safe, and close.

Evan

P.S. Please for the love of god stop calling me Buck. It feels so wrong from you.

***

The next letter Buck receives comes on the same stationery as the rest, but the content is one line.

Evan,

I want that more than anything. What can I do to get us there?

With love,

Tommy

Evan smiles and heads for his stationery box.

***

Tommy swears he’s been holding his breath since he sent off his latest letter.

Evan’s latest letter. He can be Evan again.

When he opens his mailbox and sees Evan’s envelope, he’s choked up. He sits on the curb and reads it right there on the street.

Tommy,

I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready, or how to get there, but I know I will be one day. This is fixable, if we can both heal.

How about this: we can keep writing letters. We keep our communication here, and when we figure we’re ready, we’re ready. Until then, we’re pen pals. I’m not planning on dating or sleeping with anyone else, but if you decide to, I just ask that you be honest with me about it.

I still want to be with you, I swear I do. I accidentally ordered your coffee on my way home this morning. I didn’t even realize what I had done until I got home and realized that I had two cups. I want to live in a world where I can come home and hand it to you and tell you about the crazy calls from today. But I think it’s best if we work this out before we jump back in and have the same issues again in a couple months, and I honestly think that if I see you right now I’ll fall into your arms without actually fixing anything. I want us to build something strong together, something that lasts.

Evan

Tommy glances over at the tall stack of heavy paper he had bought a couple weeks ago. Yeah, he thinks he can make this work.

***

Evan,

I love that idea. I haven't really written many letters, but I’ve been surprised by how much I’ve been enjoying it. I want to hear about your day and all the weird calls, so tell me here. It doesn’t all have to be the heavy stuff. We can build our foundation on the small moments too, they’re important.

I understand the coffee thing though. I chose the turtle stamps because they seemed like something that would make you smile. A couple weeks ago I made it to the checkout counter with a book I thought you’d like before I realized what I was doing. I put it back, but I’ll go back for it if you let me. It was about a bunch of misconceptions and myths. I mentioned it in my first letter, but scribbled it out because I was afraid it was too much. I guess I didn’t want you to know how badly I missed you. I’m not so afraid of that, now that we’ve talked a bit more.

So, tell me about your weird calls. We picked up a guy who got impaled by a golf club in the middle of the woods. I still have no clue how he managed to do it. We don’t get as many weird calls as you guys do at the 118 — you’re like a magnet for the weirdest of the weird calls. I can’t wait to hear about your day.

Tommy

P.S. I didn’t think it would have to be said, but I’ll be clear just in case – I have no interest in dating or sleeping with anyone else. Ever.

***

Tommy,

I can’t tell you what a relief it is to hear that. I would have made my peace with you being with other people while we’re apart, but it makes me really, really happy that you aren’t.

We do tend to have weirder calls than most other firefighters I’ve talked to. I didn’t realize it when I started at the 118, but after a couple “What do you mean you’ve never cut a premature baby out of a toilet pipe?” conversations, I started to get the message.

This week was like a series of sex mishaps, at least one every shift. Someone got stuck on one of those fucking machines (people use those outside of porn??), someone had an allergic reaction to cherry flavored lube. Some basic accidental handcuffings. I don’t know what’s in the air, maybe it’s because we have a second moon? Did I tell you about the second moon? I will gladly tell you about the second moon. I'm a little obsessed with it, but I think that Hen might slap me if I mention it at work again.

Evan

***

Evan,

You haven’t told me about the second moon — please do. I’ve missed you and your rambling. The house sounds too quiet without you in it. No one has told me a fun fact in weeks.

Yes, people use fucking machines outside of porn. No, I have never used one, and now knowing that it’s possible for someone to get stuck on one, I don’t think I will. I hooked up with someone who had one once, but we never used it.

What's something I might not know about you? I don't think I ever told you about my childhood imaginary friend. His name, oddly enough, was Evan. He was a baseball player and ballerina and had every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figurine a seven-year-old could dream of.

Tommy

***

When Tommy pulls the contents of his next letter out of the envelope, two pieces of paper slip out. One is labeled as ‘serious’. The other is labeled as ‘fun’, with a smiley face.

Tommy freezes. He holds one in each hand as if weighing them. The serious one seems to burden his hand a little more, so he opens that one first.

Tommy,

This might not be what you were looking for when you asked for something you don't know about me, but I'll take an opening when I get one, and this is something you should know about.

I told you a couple weeks ago that I had been used my whole life. In order to understand me, I think I need to tell you more about my family, and some of the things I didn’t know about until very recently, but really put the puzzle pieces together about why my childhood was the way it was.

My brother had leukemia. His only hope was a bone marrow transfusion. No one in the family was a match. My parents decided to have another kid in hopes that he would be a match. Genetically, I was. But it didn’t take. Daniel died when I was a year old, and my parents were stuck with a savior kid who couldn’t save anything.

I didn’t understand why they couldn’t stand me growing up. I was the wrong son. I was defective. I grew up in the shadow of a dead nine-year-old I didn’t know existed until I was 28. I have always felt the need to be of use, and never known why.

So when I told you I never intended to treat you as nothing more than a method of self-discovery, it was because I’ve been where you thought you were. I’ve been the one who has put myself in a bad place because that’s where I was needed, where I was useful. You’re a person, Tommy; you’re not a tool.

That’s also why I think I cling on to relationships so badly. I need to be needed. The closer we are, the harder it is for them to untangle themselves from me. I’m really happy you’re still letting me be tangled up with you.

Evan

Every cell in Tommy’s body itches to call Evan. He wants to reach out, to pull him into his arms where Tommy knows he’s safe and warm and loved.

He doesn’t. He can’t. He knows why, and he’s not going to cross that line, no matter how good his intentions. He’s not sure he could hold the line if he got word that Evan had been hurt again, but this is an old hurt, one that Evan knows how to cope with. Tommy has no doubt that if this were something Evan needed support with, he would go to Maddie, Eddie, or Bobby about it.

Tommy takes a deep breath and reaches for the other letter, the one adorned with a smiley face.

Tommy,

We are so not using a fucking machine. I’ll take your normal dick, thanks. I do miss it ;)

Speaking of sex stuff, I finally did some research on the Kinsey scale! I think I'm Kinsey two. Kinsey himself was actually an interesting dude, did you know that he disproved the theory that women have stronger orgasms from vaginal stimulation? He also developed the Kinsey scale while he was studying wasps. He wasn’t the best guy (slept with so many members of his staff and research subjects) but his research is fascinating.

Your childhood best friend was named Evan? Talk about an invisible string. I didn't have many friends other than Maddie growing up, but I never had an imaginary friend either. I didn't have any TMNT figurines, and I certainly wasn't cool enough to be a baseball player/ballerina.

Sorry for breaking this letter into two parts. I’m assuming that you opened the other one first? I had been working on it for a couple weeks, but I had to get my thoughts in order before I sent it because it was something I really needed to say, but didn’t want it to disrupt the flow of our conversation.

I almost forgot about the second moon! It’s an asteroid that is in Earth’s orbit until late November. It was probably a part of the Earth billions of years ago…

***

… so Lena let me walk through the entire day with a smudge of ketchup on my face. I think I saw Kareem hand her $20 after I finally wiped it off…

***

… trying to get Eddie to join a trivia night with me so that he leaves the house every once and a while…

***

… I can't believe you've never seen 10 Things I Hate About You! We'll have to watch it together some day…

***

… It's a date …

***

… I was always a lonely kid, and I've always been a lonely adult, too. I'm so jealous of the family you've built in the 118 and how there for each other you all are. I've never had that with anyone, but I wish I had…

***

… They're there for you too, Tommy. Hen, Chim, Eddie… they're your people too, not just mine…

***

…Here's another conversation we should have had months ago: what are your thoughts on marriage?

***

…My thoughts on marriage are very, very positive. Especially with you…

***

Sorry for the postcard, ran out of paper but wanted to tell you that Lucy enjoyed the lemon loaf recipe. Thank you for sending it. Will send a longer letter when I get off shift

xx T

***

…I just made the best roast chicken. I think I’ve peaked. I wish I could have shared it with you. I’ve missed having you keep me company while I’m cooking…

***

… I was afraid of the power I gave you, and that you gave me…

***

… Cap sprung for a new coffee maker and it's changing our lives…

***

… I know what you mean, I can barely stand to be in the kitchen without you, and meals are way too quiet…

***

… Are you still afraid?…

***

… I think I'll always be a little afraid of it, but I'm learning to sit with that and not it let rule me…

***

Just saw 2:17 on the clock, thought of you <3 E

***

… I swear to god, people have got to stop hiking alone with no water. Are they stupid? Just because LA isn’t boiling alive anymore doesn’t mean you don’t need water. We’ve picked up three this shift alone. Bets going around about how long it’ll be until the next one…

Scrap of paper enclosed in envelope: It was an hour, by the way. Kareem won the bet.

***

Things start to blend together.

There are lots of letters. So many that Evan's drawer in Tommy's dresser is getting hard to close, and the thread of their conversations have gotten so convoluted and hard to follow because their letters overlap. Instead of weekly, envelopes are dropped in mailboxes daily. Some have stamps, having traveled all over LA in mail trucks and distribution centers, and others have a plain top right corner, a sure sign that it had been dropped off in person. Checking his mailbox has quickly become Tommy's favorite part of every day.

Tommy has bought two more packs of fancy stationery and four more packs of stamps. He's also started keeping a pack of postcards and stamps in his duffle bag so he can jot down tidbits from his day and slide them into the mailbox around the corner from Harbor. The first pack had been cheesy LA-themed ones, the second had been a pack of zoo-themed ones he got in exchange for making a donation. He's on the third now, a set of sexy firefighter ones he had found online and that Evan had admitted made him laugh out loud. He imagines Evan opening his mailbox and ten postcards sliding out, each with a text message's worth of information. Tommy doesn't think he minds, but if he does he hasn't let on. Evan just responds to each postcard at some point in his own letter.

Most of their letters are silly, but many are serious. They've talked through their problems at length, and Tommy feels closer to Evan than he ever did when they were dating. Emotionally, at least. Physically, Evan is still across the city.

Until he's not.

It all thanks to happenstance. Tommy doesn't look outside before opening the door to go on a run, but with one foot on the welcome mat he looks up to the end of the driveway and freezes. Because there, parked in front of his mailbox, is Evan's Jeep.

And with one hand on the mailbox, there is Evan.

A minute in either direction and Tommy wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be staring at the love of his life who he isn't supposed to be interacting with in person.

Every part of Tommy is screaming for him, longing to run to Evan and meet him halfway across the yard, to fall into his arms in a moment straight out of a rom-com.

But he doesn't. He stares at Evan and his jaw slightly agape in surprise, and his eyes raw and unblinking, as if he closes them for a millisecond, Evan might be gone.

He's gorgeous. When Tommy's eyes break from Evan's, they drag up and down his body. He looks good, largely the same as he did when Tommy left him in his kitchen — but thankfully, much less torn open.

Evan is the first one to move. He breaks out into a grin, the kind that Tommy knows he couldn't hold back if he tried, and lifts his left hand from the top of the mailbox in a little wave.

That's when Tommy notices it. The new tattoo.

He can't make out what it is — maybe a flower or a tree? — but it lays at the front of Evan's bicep, visible only because he's wearing a sleeveless shirt.

Before the moment escapes, Tommy raises his hand and waves back. Evan's smile grows, and he climbs back into the Jeep, glancing back at Tommy every step of the way like he, too, thinks the man in front of him will disappear if he looks away too long.

The Jeep peels away from the curb and down the street, and Tommy's eyes follow until it disappears around the corner.

He stands there for a moment, dazed, with one foot still inside his house. It was… Evan. He's real. This, their reconciliation… it's real. They're working towards something — towards each other.

Tommy steps out onto his porch and goes to retrieve Evan's note from the mailbox.

Tommy—

Since Eddie is Chris-less and I am… in a not-so-long distance relationship? Whatever. Since neither of us have anyone we have to rush home to, I managed to convince him to join that trivia night with me. We're trying to get Hen and Karen to come so we don't have to take in strangers every week to form a team, but haven't succeeded yet.

Anyways, one of the questions this week was the one that knocked Ken Jennings off of his Jeopardy run. The question is about how H&R Block has a majority seasonal employees, and one of the strangers was being so aggressive and insisting that I was wrong because he works for JP Morgan and was SO sure of himself. I was right (OBVIOUSLY) and when they announced the answer and our team won, I just looked at the guy like "I told you so" and he stood up to walk out, and ran right into a pole. It was hilarious (he was fine). You'll make a wonderful, less asshole-y addition to the team whenever it happens.

Evan

It's mundane. It's all so familiar that it makes Tommy ache for him, ache to hear these stories from his perch on the counter top while Evan stirs a new sauce that Bobby gave him the recipe for, or for the words to sit in the inches between their mouths as they lay facing each other in bed late at night, or be whispered into his chest as Evan lays on top of him on the couch after a shift.

Soon, Tommy tells himself. He will hear Evan's voice again soon enough.

***

Evan,

Of course I'll join trivia night, and I promise not to storm out when you get a question right. I'd much rather kiss you about it, because you're adorable when you're smart, and even more adorable when you're smug.

Sorry if I surprised you the other day when you were dropping off your letter. You kind of caught me by surprise, but god, Evan, it was so good to see you. Did you get a new tattoo? What is it?

Tommy

***

Tommy,

Yes, I got a new tattoo. It's Jee-Yun's birth flower. I've been spending a lot of time with her recently, which has been really fun for me and her but less fun for Chim and Maddie, because they have to deal with the sugar rush I give her when I feed her a ton of cookies.

God, you look good. Did you somehow find a way to get hotter? That shouldn't be allowed.

I miss you. I've been missing you this whole time, but seeing you the other day really made me see it. There was a moment where the hole that's been sitting in my stomach the past few months was filled, and I didn't realize how heavy that emptiness was until it wasn't weighing on me for a moment.

I want to see you again, and be able to talk to you this time. Can we meet up? Do you think we're ready for that?

Evan

Tommy's stomach drops. He wishes this had come two weeks later, so he could say yes. But he hasn't told Evan about Henry, and he doesn't think he will be ready to until they talk.

The letter breaks his heart to write.

***

Buck checks his mailbox on the way out the door, and doesn't crack the seal on the envelope until he's sat on the locker room bench at the station before his shift. In just the first few lines of Tommy's letter, Buck's heart plummets.

Evan,

I'm so sorry, but I don't think I'm ready to see each other in person yet. I don't want you to think I'm still running away, but I actually want to make progress towards being a better partner to you.

I promise you, I just need a couple more weeks. I need closure on something that has nothing to do with you, and I'm not sure how to tell you about it yet. It's not that I don't want to; I just don't know how to even start putting it into words, or what conclusions to reach. I know I'm asking for an exorbitant amount of trust from you, but I'm begging you, Evan. I'm not running away this time; I just need to solve this so that I can explain it to you and can finally let you see all of me. I want to see you so badly, but I don't want to fuck things up further by doing it before I'm ready to do it right.

I want to see you more than anything, I do. But I need to get better, not only for you but also for myself.

Love,

Tommy

Buck tries not to feel completely rejected, but it's hard. He had put his heart on the line and been shot down. For a good reason, but still.

He does want Tommy to be in a better place when they reunite. He doesn't want to push that, and he won't. But god, he misses Tommy with his whole being. Seeing him in front of his house had been the final straw, and made the longing in his chest increase tenfold. It hadn't alleviated in the days since.

Usually, he responds to Tommy's letters immediately. This one, however, he lets simmer in his head through his shift. He wants to give Tommy a measured response, not one tinged by the feeling of rejection still stinging behind Buck's eyes.

Everyone notices that he's a bit off. He's not bouncing around like usual. He gets raised eyebrows (Chimney) and concerned looks (Hen) and sympathetic shoulder pats (Eddie), but no one confronts him until late, when most of the team has settled into the bunk room and Buck remains at the table upstairs.

He's fiddling with a piece of string he found in his pocket when a mug appears in front of him. When his eyes follow the arm that set it there, he is unsurprised to find Bobby sitting in the chair next to him.

"What's going on, Buck?" Bobby says in his caring tone, the one that makes Buck wish he had someone to speak to him like that when he was a kid. "You've been quiet all day."

Buck wraps his hands around the mug and lets the tea warm him, ground him. "Tommy and I have been… writing letters."

"I know," Bobby replies, "You've seemed a lot happier since you two got back in contact."

"It was… it was always meant to be temporary, y'know? We both missed each other, but I needed to learn to trust him again and I needed to learn to go slow this time and not jump all the way in, and he needed to work on himself so that when we do get back together, it's… good."

"That sounds very healthy."

"And it has been! But I was dropping a letter off in his mailbox because I wanted him to get it quickly and I… I saw him."

Bobby's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. "Oh."

Buck lets out a dry laugh and takes a sip of his tea, "Yeah, oh."

"And how was that?"

"It was…" Buck pauses. "God, Bobby, I didn't think it was possible for me to miss him any more. But there he was, in one of those stupid hot sleeveless hoodies, and it just hit me ten times worse."

"So you're just missing him extra today?"

"No, that was… that was a couple days ago. I realized that I was ready, that I… I want to see him again. So I wrote to him saying that, that I wanted to meet up and he…"

"He's not ready yet."

Buck huffs and shakes his head. "I opened the letter when I got here this morning. I haven't replied yet, I — I don't know what to say." He sighs. "I don't know, Bobby. Maybe this has all been a waste of energy. Maybe I should have never sent that first letter and just let him go."

"Well, I don't think that, Buck."

Buck's eyes shoot to Bobby's. "You don't?"

"No, not at all. Look, you do trust him now, right? That he's going to be honest about where he's at instead of just leaving again?"

"I — I thought I did, but now he's —"

"He's telling you where he is now, Buck. He's being honest with you. He's not saying he never wants to meet up, right?"

"No, he — he just said a couple weeks. Something he has to do, but he didn't say what."

"So there's an end in sight. Trust him, trust that he's telling the truth."

Buck looks up at him, eyes a little watery. "Thank you, Bobby."

Bobby's hand lands firmly on Buck's shoulder. "Anytime, Buck." He rises from his chair. "Now let's go get some rest before—"

The scream of the bell shakes the firehouse.

"Before that happens."

Tommy's hands are shaking when he opens Evan's letter. He's terrified that Evan will take this as a rejection of him, instead of something that Tommy doesn't want to do but has to in order to actually fix the problems that made him ruin things in the first place.

***

Tommy,

I understand. Thank you for your honesty, and I'm glad you're making an effort. I don't think you're running, and I appreciate that you trust me enough to be honest about it.

I won't lie, I felt a little rejected at first. That tends to be my immediate reaction to most things, that I'm the problem — even when I know I'm not. But you explained it the best you could, and I do trust you to tell me more when you have the words for it. Until then, I miss you, and I hope whatever it is you're about to do helps you move on and back towards me.

Evan

Tommy lets out a breath and presses the letter to his chest, letting the pure cold relief wash over his shoulders. It was a boundary, but it had… worked. Evan wasn't calling him selfish for it, or accusing him of making excuses, or any of the other catastrophe scenarios Tommy had been imagining over the past couple days.

There's another paper in the envelope, this one an index card Tommy can only assume was nicked from Bobby's office or Hen's leftover study materials.

We had a call involving one someone who had almost a foot of fingernail on each finger. We all trimmed ours immediately after getting back to the station. Did you know the world record holder's longest nail is like 4.5 feet? How do they do anything?

Tommy makes a face and picks up his pen to respond.

***

… That's so gross. I once came across people who had tried and failed to break the world record for largest pizza, and were giving it away. Hey, I'm not going to say no to free pizza…

***

…You know how they say dogs look like their owners? This guy had twelve identical Dachshunds …

***

… I saw Hen and Karen the other day. Karen made it inside the house before chewing me out for messing things up with you…

***

…It's okay, we're recovering from it. Hen said you seemed like you were on steady feet, and I was so relieved to hear it …

***

…I've got plans for tomorrow, and I'm scared shitless. Wish me luck.

***

That's incredibly vague, but good luck. I love you.

Tommy carries that one in his pocket, and traces his fingers over the ink as he steps through the doorway of the cafe.

***

Evan,

I’m ready.

I want to tell you about that last thing I had to do, but it requires some backstory. A couple years after I broke it off with Abby, I got into what I viewed as my first big gay relationship. It was the first time I had seen someone I had sex with multiple times, and saw them outside of when we were sleeping together. I told my coworkers he was my boyfriend. I was head over heels for him, but we never actually talked about what we meant to each other. We really should have, because he saw me as one of many friends with benefits.

I can’t really blame him. I don’t think it counts as cheating if I assumed a promise of exclusivity that was never actually given, but it felt that way. He wasn’t someone who ever planned to settle down with one partner, which is what I wanted. What I want now, with you.

So I did the stupid thing: I stayed.

I thought that if I were a good enough partner, if I were fun enough and enticing enough and supportive enough, he would dump everyone else. I never outright asked him to leave them, or told him that I wanted to be exclusive. I even let him believe that I knew about the others the whole time.

Eventually, he did decide one person was enough for him; it just wasn’t me. He told me he was breaking it off with all his friends with benefits to be with his childhood best friend. Thy hadn't spoken in years, but the friend had just come out of the woodwork with some grand love confession. That’s hard to measure up to. That relationship is what made me feel like I wasn’t long-term material.

I needed to get closure on that fucked up relationship. We met up, and I got it all off my chest. Hearing from him that it had nothing to do with me being inadequate helped, even more than I thought it would.

I told him about you. He asked to meet you, said we could do a double date with him and his spouse. I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted any further contact with him, but that I would think about it. He was understanding.

Which brings me back to us. I miss you, I love you, can we meet up? The coffee shop we went to after that bad first date? I hear it’s pretty good for second chances. I’ll be there next Monday at 2pm. I think that should be enough time for this to get to you, and you to send something back in case you think it isn’t a good idea.

All my love,

Tommy

A grin bursts across Buck's face.

***

Tommy,

I'll be there. I'll save everything for then.

I love you.

Evan

***

Tommy's already claimed a table when Buck arrives ten minutes early. Buck will always recognize the set of his shoulders, even hunched with nervous tension. He's rubbing his thumb along the rim of his coffee mug, and Buck recognizes his usual order sitting across from him.

Tommy ordered their drinks as dine-in. He plans to talk to Buck long enough for both of them to finish their coffees. He plans to stay.

When Buck approaches, he lays a hand on Tommy's shoulder. Tommy looks up at him with open vulnerable eyes, and something blooms across his face — something like gratitude, something like bliss, something like love.

"Hey, Evan."

#LTWrites #.txt #LTW: the center of every poem #911 #fics

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