#IT WAS PAINFUL AT TIMES BUT IT DID COME TOGETHER | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

4barbatos · 2 days ago

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✦ toxic!scaramouche x fem!reader

i love you in the worst way

cw: dead dove: do not eat. abuse (emotional, verbal, physical, sexual), toxic relationship, manipulation, gaslighting, dubcon content, rough sex, self harm mentioned, power imbalance, unaddressed mental illness, severe codependency, trauma bonding, victim blaming & internalized guilt. modern au.

a/n: this one’s for anon that went absolutely feral in my inbox begging for more toxic scara 🙏 here u go babygirl. i hope ur okay. i think something is deeply wrong with u (said with love & concern)

you should’ve left when he first called you clingy.

but it was early then — early enough that it still felt like flirting. the kind of teasing that made your cheeks warm, made you nudge his shoulder and roll your eyes. he said it when you reached for his hand in public. when you kissed his cheek one too many times. when you sent him two texts in a row.

“you’re so clingy.”

he smirked. leaned in. kissed your jaw after.

and you smiled, because it was gentle.

he was sweet back then. or at least he could be. soft in ways that made you ache. he’d tuck your hair behind your ear, run his fingers along your thigh under the table, give you this small little look like he was seeing something no one else ever had. he’d let you trace the veins on his hands when you laid in bed together, and he never pulled away.

he was quiet, closed-off, like something wild trying to act tame. you thought it meant he had depth. that there were layers under his cold exterior. that his distance wasn’t cruelty — it was pain. you wanted to be the one he unraveled for. the one he let in.

and he did. slowly.

you started seeing him more. he didn’t text much — and when he did, it was short, half-thought replies. but he’d show up at your apartment with bruised knuckles and tired eyes, drop his keys on the counter, and fall into your bed like he belonged there. he never said thank you. never said i missed you. but he’d rest his head on your chest. kiss your wrist absentmindedly. wrap an arm around your waist while you slept.

and that was enough. back then, it was enough.

you let him pull you into his world.

you’d sit cross-legged on his unmade bed while he chain-smoked out the window, hoodie halfway off his shoulder, his jaw tense and eyes half-lidded. the room always smelled like smoke and sweat. his desk was a mess of ash and receipts and bent-up cigarette packs. vodka bottles lined his shelves like decoration. he never had food in his fridge. he lived like he didn’t plan on being around long.

but he let you in. that had to mean something.

he let you talk while he said nothing. let you trace the scars on his arms and didn’t flinch. let you cry after a bad day and only sometimes told you to stop. you’d pour your heart out in texts and he’d reply hours later with “that sucks” or “you’ll be fine.”

and you told yourself it was enough.

because he let you see him when no one else did.

because he didn’t push you away — not really.

he just didn’t pull you closer.

you laughed at his mean comments. thought they were cute. he’d say, “you talk too much,” or “why are you always so emotional?” and you’d laugh, nervously, and try to stop talking. try to shrink a little smaller. try to be easier to love.

he never said he loved you.

but he stayed. he kept coming back.

you mistook presence for affection.

it started slowly. so slow you didn’t realize you were drowning until your mouth was already full of water.

you missed his call once, and he didn’t text you for two days. you told him you were seeing an old friend, and he got cold. said, “funny how you always have time for everyone but me.”

you asked if he was okay and he said, “don’t start.”

you touched him wrong and he flinched away.

you said something he didn’t like and he left without a word.

he stopped calling you pretty. stopped answering when you said i miss you. stopped sleeping over unless he was drunk or high or angry at someone else.

and you apologized. for everything. for nothing. for things that weren’t your fault.

he’d ghost you for days, then show up at your door like nothing happened. collapse into your bed, kiss your neck, press his knee between your legs like he hadn’t left you crying four nights ago.

you let him. every time.

you said, “where were you?”

he said, “don’t start.”

you asked if he loved you, and he rolled his eyes.

said, “what does that even mean?”

you started keeping your feelings small, your voice softer, your words careful. you stopped crying in front of him. stopped asking him to stay. you’d beg silently, in the way you kissed him. the way you let him touch you even when it hurt. the way you said i love you like a prayer he never answered.

the shift was so slow you barely noticed it.

but then you did.

you noticed that you didn’t laugh around him anymore. that he never kissed you after sex. that he called you dramatic when you cried and said “you’re lucky i even deal with this.” that he didn’t ask about your day. didn’t say goodnight. didn’t care if you were okay.

you noticed how you flinched when he raised his voice.

how you waited for him to reply like your worth depended on it.

how his silence made you sick and his attention made you sicker.

you noticed you weren’t you anymore.

you were his. only his. always his.

you knew what kind of night it was going to be the second he walked in.

he didn’t say hi. didn’t ask how you were. didn’t even look at you at first — just dropped his bag by the door, ran a hand through his hair like he was already annoyed, and asked, “did you miss me?”

you nodded. said yeah. said a lot.

he didn’t answer. didn’t smile.

he just stared.

his eyes were sharp like he was waiting for you to say the wrong thing. his hands were cold when they touched your waist. his grip was tighter than it needed to be. he kissed you like he wanted to shut you up.

and you let him.

because this was the only time he touched you anymore. the only time he looked at you. the only time you felt like you existed to him. even if it hurt. especially when it hurt.

he spat cruel things against your skin. called you names you didn’t recognize yourself in. slapped you when you said i love you like it offended him. pressed his hand around your throat like he wanted to crush the part of you that still hoped.

you cried.

he didn’t care.

you touched him gently once — just once — and he pushed your hand away. told you to stop acting pathetic. to open your mouth and make yourself useful. said he didn’t want to hear a sound out of you unless it was you begging.

you begged.

you begged like you meant it.

not because you were desperate for him — but because if you didn’t give him everything, he might leave. and if he left, you didn’t know what you were without him.

you let him use you until your body ached. until you couldn’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore. until you were sore and stretched and shaking and empty. until it was over.

and he just got up. didn’t speak. didn’t touch you again. didn’t even look at you as he pulled on his shirt and grabbed his phone. like you were nothing. like you were never anything.

the door slammed shut behind him.

you laid there on the sheets you’d just washed, legs sticky, throat bruised, stomach twisting. the room was quiet. you could still smell him on your skin. and it made you feel like you were rotting.

you didn’t cry. you just stared at the ceiling. blinking slowly. feeling like something had been carved out of you. like there was less of you now than there was before.

you touched your own wrist. lightly. the only tenderness you’d felt all night.

and you wondered if this is what love was supposed to feel like.

if maybe you’d just gotten it wrong.

if maybe this was the best you were ever going to get.

you didn’t text him the next morning.

you didn’t check if he got home. didn’t ask if he was okay. didn’t say i miss you, even though the words clawed at the back of your throat like they wanted to be let out.

you told yourself: if he wants me, he’ll reach out.

he didn’t.

you left him on read the next time he messaged you. just once. it was stupid. petty. small. but it felt like control. like a single breath of air after being underwater too long.

you started taking longer to respond. started saying i’m busy more. started turning your phone face-down on the table when you were out.

and it only took three days for him to notice.

you stared at the screen for a long time.

he was doing it again. twisting it. making it seem like it was your fault. like you were the inconsistent one. like he hadn’t been the one who disappeared for three days just last week.

and then:

and there it was. the push.

you felt your stomach drop. like you were the one who’d done something wrong. like you owed him more of yourself, even though he never gave you anything in return.

you didn’t respond.

that night, you turned your phone off. didn’t check. didn’t break.

and in the morning, he was at your door.

flowers in one hand.

coffee in the other.

that soft look on his face — the one he only wears when he knows you’re slipping.

he kissed your temple like he used to. held your face in his hands. said, “i’ve been thinking about you all week.” and “i miss how we used to be.”

you wanted to scream. wanted to slam the door in his face.

but instead, you let him in.

you cried reading it.

because he’d said the exact same thing two months ago. and again a month before that. and again last week.

he always says i’m trying like it’s supposed to fix the blood in your mouth. like the bruises on your hips are just growing pains. like the silence and the absence and the backhanded words were all part of the process.

and every time, you believed it a little less.

but not enough to leave.

because part of you still wanted to be the one he changed for. still believed in the boy who kissed your shoulder that first night and whispered that he didn’t know how to be good but wanted to learn. still held onto the way he looked at you like he needed you more than air.

you were addicted to the potential of him.

you were starving, and he kept feeding you crumbs.

and it was never enough.

but it was always just enough to keep you there.

you let him crawl back into your bed. you let him hold you again like he hadn’t made you feel disgusting the night before. you let him kiss your throat — right over the spot he pressed too hard — and you sighed like it was forgiveness.

you told yourself: this time will be different.

but it wasn’t.

he was sweet for three days. he bought you your favorite snacks. he played with your hair while you fell asleep. he sent you texts in the middle of the day that said “miss you” and “thinking about you.” and it was everything you’d ever wanted to hear.

you started to feel warm again. started to hope.

and then it cracked. just like it always did.

you told him you were going out with a friend — just dinner, nothing special — and he went cold instantly.

you stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. red lipstick. flushed cheeks. trembling hands.

you weren’t even sure who you were dressing up for anymore — yourself? your friend? the girl you used to be?

and suddenly, you didn’t want to go out at all.

you canceled.

he came over later that night like he hadn’t ruined it. curled up behind you in bed. whispered, “thank you for listening.”

and you hated that it made your chest feel warm.

you hated that you needed his approval like oxygen.

you hated him.

you hated yourself more.

you didn’t even recognize your own voice when you said, “do you even love me?”

he didn’t answer for a long time.

just ran his fingers down your back. slow. quiet.

then, finally:

“don’t ask me shit like that.”

you nodded.

of course.

you watched the ceiling while he fell asleep beside you. watched the shadows shift with the headlights outside. your phone lit up once — a message from the friend you never saw — and you didn’t open it.

you were tired.

not the kind that sleep fixed.

the kind that settled in your bones.

the kind that made you wonder if you were even real anymore.

or just something he built to need him.

you didn’t reply.

you just stared at the message until your eyes burned.

and wondered if maybe he was right.

maybe you were hard to love.

you wake up before him.

his arm’s draped over your waist, heavy like a shackle. your phone’s on the floor, your body aches, and your throat is raw — you don’t remember crying, but you must’ve. your cheeks are sticky. your eyes sting.

he’s still asleep.

and you just lie there.

it’s not peaceful. not gentle. you’re not watching him with love in your chest. you’re watching him like a stranger you’re too scared to run from. like you’re cataloging the details so you can remember how you got here.

his breath tickles your neck.

he shifts and murmurs your name like he means it.

and still — you feel nothing.

nothing except that gnawing pull in your chest that says i should go.

but you won’t.

you think about leaving a lot lately.

not in the dramatic way. not with a suitcase or slammed doors.

more like: what if i just didn’t text him back one day?

what if i just… stopped answering?

but you know better.

he’d show up.

he always does.

when he thinks he’s losing you, he becomes everything you ever wanted.

just long enough for you to forget what he is the rest of the time.

you used to fall for it.

you still do.

but now it feels different.

you’re not hoping he’ll change anymore.

you’re just too tired to try again.

you finally get up.

your body’s stiff. sore. you wince when you walk to the bathroom. there’s a bruise blooming on your hip — from his grip or the wall or maybe both. you don’t look at your face in the mirror. you don’t want to see it.

you brush your teeth in silence.

rinse your mouth out twice.

it still tastes like him.

and there it is again.

the subtle coldness. the way he makes you feel like the problem for anticipating the pain.

you put your phone down.

you stare out the window for a long time, until the light gets too sharp and your head starts to hurt. you sit back on the edge of the bed and he’s still asleep, like none of this matters.

you think, he’s never going to love me right.

and then, i’m never going to leave.

not because you don’t want to.

but because some part of you — the part that’s still cracked open and bleeding — needs him to stay.

even if he’s killing you.

maybe it’s not about love anymore.

maybe it’s just about surviving each other.

you don’t pack a bag.

you don’t write a note.

you crawl back into bed, curl against him, and let yourself disappear.

just a little more.

just enough to make it through the day.

a/n: if u think ur messed up for liking this, dont worry — im probably worse 🧐

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x y/n #scara x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere scara #scara brainrot #scaramouche smut #scaramouche angst #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche fics #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin fics #genshin imagines #i wish he can ruin me like this #no i dont fucking need therapy mom

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beardick-andballs · 2 days ago

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Russie is my boss and we were on a business trip together. We had supper together and went to our rooms. A view minutes he knocked at my door and asked if I could help him with some stuff in his room. I was only too willing to help because I like Russie a lot not only because he is my boss but I think he is so sexy. So I followed him to his room and we sorted out some paperwork and he offered me a drink. We were sitting on his bed and I somehow put my hand on his knees and he took my hand and put it on his bulge. I slid down from the bed and kneeled in front of him and opened his zipper. Russie was not wearing any underwear and as I opened his pants wider his beautiful big penis head came jotting out towards me and I immediately rapped my lips around it. After some time I pulled down his pants. I had already opened my pants and was working my dick. We started to undress each other and went to move to the floor. I hoped that something like that would happen so I had prepared my self before supper for it. Boss also had some lubricant on his side table. After some time he lubed me up and started to penetrate me. His mushroom head is quite big and he stretched me quite wide open, it was rather painful and he pulled out again and then pushed him self in completely that was than such a fantastic feeling his hole length in me. We then rocked slowly for a while. As he was coming closer to no return he was humping harder and faster and I was coming also closer and as he shot up into me I also shot my load . Russie did not pull out we stayed together like that and after a while Russie got hard again and he deposited another load in me. After that we are not lovers we just like each other’s company.

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shelovesosa · 2 days ago

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CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU. Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

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noctiva · 14 hours ago

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whenever I see someone make Tim be really mean to Toby it makes me sad :(

I do not think Tim would hate him at all. Maybe he’d be annoyed by his presence when he first starts to tag along, but it’s just because he’s such a contrasting force. Tim’s used to Brian. They’ve been friends for a long time, they’re similar in age, they’ve gone through a lot together, and they know how to act around one another. Toby just comes in like a freight train. This loud, almost grating presence that demands attention even if he’s not asking for it.

Toby’s immature, petty, overly excitable, messy, and doesn’t think through his actions well. Of course that rubs Tim the wrong way at first. Maybe he snaps at him once or twice. Probably just gives him the silent treatment for a good long while, but hate him? No. On the inside he’s sad for him. Even before he learns about his trauma. Because he’s just so young. He’s young, has so much spirit, and yet he’s here. Dragged through life to become a slave to slender just like the rest of them.

He can barely even look at him when they first meet because it makes his stomach turn. He can barely grow a beard. He’s still hollowing out his baby fat, for fuck’s sake - and he’s here? It’s sickening to think of how much potential and promise got thrown down the drain.

Toby doesn’t open up to him quickly. I’ve said this in older posts but he’s just really not good around older men. It brings up too many flashbacks of his father.

But, eventually he will. Probably not by choice. He wakes up from a terror in the middle of the night screaming with tears streaming down his face. Tim runs in because he thought something genuinely terrible happened - and it did, just a long time ago.

After that, they just kind of stick. Tim gets Toby into smoking, they sit on the porch of the shared cabin together and share a pack of cigs. Tim will tell him stories of how he lived before all of this happened, Toby will listen but stay silent because he’s got no good memories to tell.

Toby will ask Tim about college. What it was like. If it was like the movies. It just makes that pit of dread in Tim’s stomach grow deeper, knowing that he was swiped before he could even attempt to experience it.

Tim constantly harps on him to be careful. Keeps him in his line of sight at all times when they’re on a mission because he knows Toby’s reckless. He knows he pushes himself too hard because he thinks his inability to feel pain makes him near invincible. He’s usually the one to carry Toby home slung over his back.

Tim cares in a gruff, closed off way.

“How bad is it?”

“D-Does it matter? Can’t f-feel it anyway.”

“Oh, fuck off. Show me. You’d have bled out five times over if I didn’t always harp on you.”

It’s always worse than Toby says it is. And it always makes Tim’s head hurt to think about just how detached from his own body Toby seems to be.

#this is NOT ticcimask #I’m stating this because I’m not taking any fuckin chances #don’t even try it #anyway #found family asses #noctiva yaps #toby rogers #ticci toby #creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #toby rogers headcannon #masky creepypasta #tim wright #tim wright headcanons

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shadowlord420sgf · 2 days ago

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⟡ ݁₊ . You Always Come Back (right?)

✮⋆˙ xxXshadowl0rd420Xxx | skips x reader .⋆♱

⌗ summary: Skips can't stop wondering if you'll leave him for good. So, he pulls you close and makes you promise- over and over again- that you're his forever …

⌗ warnings!: female reader, p in v sex, unprotected sex, shameless smut with feelings, possessive and clingy skips, SLIGHT mention of stalking/mastrubation, creampie, porn with no plot basically, established relationship …

⌗ author’s note: hi guys can you tell I don’t write a lot lmao + this is crossposted on my ao3 ! (the format is better there imo)

No matter how much you tried to tell him, Skips wouldn’t believe you. He couldn’t. Not when you’d leave him every morning, and only visit him at night. It hurt him. It physically hurt so badly that he wanted you, needed you, but could never keep you with him. “Skips, it’s fine,” you tried your best to assure him. “For you it is!” He cried, “Every time you leave me I have to wonder if you’ll even come back.” It pained you to see him like this, how his brows knit together in sorrow, all at the fault of your own.

“Why do you have to go in the morning? Why…Why can’t you just be a shadow and stay with me? ” He begged, noticeably closer to you now. “Skips…” you started, running your fingers through his long black hair, to which he groaned softly. “We both know it’s not that simple.” You whispered, trying to get him to understand on any level.

Before you could say another word, he pulled you in for a kiss. Merely a peck before he stammered, “Fuck- I’m sorry. I just…you’re so—” You shut him up by pressing your lips to his, deeper. One that set off whatever was spewing inside the two of you all this time. He groans into your mouth, low and needy, like he’s been starving for this (he has). His hands hold your face ever so gently, before moving lower and lower…Down your neck, shoulders, gripping at your hips. You can feel his heart beating against your own chest. Fuck.

A string of saliva connects your mouths as you’re forced to pull away for air. By now, you and Skips are panting hard, holding onto each other like your lives fucking depend on it. “My penumbra…” Skips mutters, and you sigh. That name always did it somehow. A whine escapes your throat on its own and Skips chuckles. His lips are on yours again, tongue roughly exploring your mouth as you both rush to take off your clothes.

Once you’re left bare, Skips pupils are blown wide and you swear he swallows his drool. “Just look at you, penumbra. The most beautiful woman alive.” Oh god, you couldn’t possibly have gotten wetter at his words. Skips brings his hand down to your sex, barely ghosting a finger at your slit. Your back arched as you whimpered, “Oh fuck, Skips please . I need you.” His hips bucked ever so slightly as he choked out a, “Say it again- please, please say it again for me.” Who were you to deny his sweet begging? “Ah- I need it, Skips, I need you. Need you inside me now pleasepleaseplease,”

With that, he thrusted into you with the greatest sound you’d ever heard in your life. “You’re—mnh— so f-fucking tight.. all for me, huh?” He moans and lets out a little shaky laugh, like he’s almost in disbelief of how incredible you always feel. You gasped beneath him, grinding your hips like you’re still so desperate for more, before mewling out, “Shit… Skips, please move— c-come on,”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. He pushes into you unbelievablely deeper, relishing at the way you hissed in the amazing pain of the stretch. “Ngh— my penumbra,” he pants, thrusting in and out of you before leaning down to kiss you once again. He swears he could actually die on your lips, tasting you, feeling you like this. “You’re mine , mmf… say it.” he whispers against your lips, and you nod hard, strings of yesyes,imyours,pleasedontstop leaving your lips.

“I’ll never let you go, you’ll be my penumbra forever,” he sighs into your neck, although you’re not sure if he’s telling you or convincing himself that. That didn’t matter. The only thing that seemed to matter was how warm and wet you were inside, how intimately he made love to you, how mesmerizing it looked between where your two bodies connected. “You feel.. so good.. Like you’re just made for this, made for me .” He practically pleaded. Oh, Skips. Why, why must it be this way?

You’re knocked out of your thoughts by Skips’ hand reaching down where you united, rubbing your clit in gentle circles. You squirm and moan hotly at the sensation, hands tangling in his hair, nails dragging down his back, like you don’t know where to put them— and you don’t, because you need to touch him everywhere. Where had he learned to do something like that? Probably when he watches you, when you think you’re all alone, late at night, hand sliding under your waistband as you make the sweetest sounds— which is unimportant at the moment…

Skips thrusts become sloppier, his pace uneven. Your heart fluttered at the way he moaned your name, just a little higher. Fuck, you knew what this meant and you couldn’t wait any longer. “Penumbra— I’m gonna come, fuck , I’m gonna come inside you, where it belongs,” He tells you, “ Come with me.. please, ” As if Skips commanded it himself, you feel the knot of pleasure building up in the pit of your stomach, getting harder to hold back until—

Fuck. Skips comes in you, hard, like— he’s trying to get you pregnant or something. You cry out as your orgasm comes crashing with his, creating a gushing mess between you. He pants and desperately whines your name as he makes sure to fuck all of his seed into you. You writhe under him, absolutely fucked out, seeing stars.

All that can be heard is your panting and his ragged breathing. It's beyond intimate, how you two hold each other in the softest way. “I love you, Skips. Okay? We’re both trying our best here.” You assured him with a kiss. Skips pulls you closer to him and sighs, “I love you too.”

#skips date everything #smut #date everything #date everything shadowlord #xxxshadowlord420xxx #skips x reader #shadowlord x reader #skips shadley #skips shadley smut #shadowlord smut #xxxshadowlord420xxx smut #cursed carmine dividers

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nxi-mon · 24 hours ago

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Karma, Hearts, and Mizi's warped belief in humanity.

Hello, this is my second time making this post so please forgive me if it is not as nuanced this time around. I am mourning the fact that I accidentally deleted my first post. ANYWAY! Watching Karma, I came out of it thinking real hard about something as I started reading everyone's interpretations of what went down: you have to accept the fact that there will be multiple interpretations of everything and no one interpretation is the whole truth. That being said, below is mine on the heart scenes and how I think it all comes back to relate to Mizi.

What is the belief that humans are inherently evil or sinful creatures? In Christianity, this belief stems from the "doctrine of original sin." The belief that humans are so corrupted by sin from Adam's first sin that we have an inborn tendency to commit sin. Famous philosopher Thomas Hobbes is often quoted for this belief as well, calling humans selfish and seeking endless success in satisfying our desires. That this what we all want. So what does this have to do with Alien Stage and Karma? We know Mizi holds these beliefs. In Karma we see her say, "... humans are the root of all this pain. We're creatures who can't seem to love without exploiting."

The heart scenes prove this. The hearts represent the innocence, purity, and love that everyone holds but the blood represents the core of that love and innocence - pain, selfishness, cruelty, and evil.

Ivan tearfully and violently forces his heart onto Till's mouth. Pushing it inside, and it shatters. The evil exploding into their mouths.

Luka holds the remnants of Hyuna's and HyunWoo's hearts, evil spilled onto his hands. Notably, Luka's heart is intact but not untainted while Hyuna's is completely eviscerated - all Luka holds truly is the remaining evil.

Even Mizi and Sua who hold the gentlest scene here, softly connecting two halves, are not spared. Even their love overflows with this evil.

I think these scenes show what Mizi believed what everyone's love was. What she came to learn what human desire and innocence truly is. Love is exploitive, violent, and in the end no matter how gentle it is everyone suffers because they are all selfish creatures. So, of course, when she knew the rebellion was going to save humanity and give them a fighting chance to return to True Earth and live life as they should - Mizi, pushed to her mental limits, freaked out. No, she thought, the only reason we suffered is because we caused this suffering. Even if humans got to True Earth and granted freedom, we would still suffer the poison of desire and chasing pleasure - whatever that may be for a person. So, she blew up the rocket and in her eyes did the best thing for humanity: stopped them from ever having to go through what she did. Chasing freedom, love, and happiness. Mizi chased that since childhood, its all she ever knew. Of course she did, as humans we are hard wired to chase connection and love.

But my heart bleeds for Mizi because there is an unreliable narrative here and something crucial she could never understand. Her evil, everyone's "corruption," and selfish actions in Alien Stage were not an inborn evil like she believed. It was a result of their environment. It was a result of being in such unimaginable conditions, forced to survive in any way possible, and their loves being shaped by the hands of their oppressors. I think, when Mizi is faced with her choice (the rocket), she realizes this. She does not look up in satisfaction or pride over what she's done. She looks up in horror, and we see this belief start to be overruled.

Hyuna and HyunWoo fall together, happily clinging to one another in love and happiness. All they needed was the chance to be there for each other.

Till and Ivan fall together. Ivan looks down, tentative, and Till sees Ivan. Till reaches for Ivan first, grasps his hand, and pulls him closer to him with shining eyes and a grin. Ivan sees Till, accepts his pull, and lights up. All they needed was the time and place to see each other.

Mizi and Sua grasp each other, always seeing and loving each other. They light each other up and pull each other in, so gentle. They kiss and kiss and just love. This time, there is no suffering, no pain. Just smiles and the knowing: I love you. All they needed was each other in a place where they could simply be.

What is important in this scene is that it is their environment that is falling apart. Their environment is set ablaze and suffering. It is the oppressors that look at this in horror and scream while the humans are overcome in joy. It is the world that tries to tear into their love and call it cruelty. I genuinely believe Mizi fully understands this now, that it was not fair to pass judgement on a whole people based on the cruel circumstances they faced as victims. But she stands there knowing she can not take this back, eyes unblinking and devoid. She then clings to Till, the ghost of Sua hugging them both. I think she also represents this realization, and as she leans down, it solidifies into forgiveness. Who could truly place all blame on Mizi after all she has gone through and all the things we still do not know? She was a victim of emotion, of love being shaped by survival, and suffocating in a land humans were never supposed to be in. Everyone in the cast was.

It is important to note that in all the AUs we have seen where they are free of Anakt, Alien Stage - the cast is happy. Our universe, Alien Stage, is the only one (that I have seen) where they are suffering. Where an oppressive environment drove these people into doing desperate things they never would do otherwise. It is karma. Karma is the cause and effect of someone's actions - what goes around comes around. It is not punishment or reward, it is not good nor bad, simply a result of what has happened and what will be.

In the end, Mizi atones by saving Till, humanity's last hope, and the only person in the cast who would've suffered a death not on his own terms or come as a result of karma. We see this solidified, again, by Sua when Mizi runs back into the room where we previously turned away [from looking at Sua practice her death], and hug Sua, who embraces her back.

Issac at the end spells all of this out for viewers: innocence was never a luxury any of the cast could afford in this universe. That does NOT mean that they weren't innocent. They were all victims and you must see this before judging their actions, which were born out of desperation and survival. In his words, "can we really blame her for that [Mizi's desperate last act of love]?" We can hate, scream, and put these characters on trial for their sins - but we will never get a clear answer for it when their actions were never truly their own. We as a fandom must give them grace for we know not how we act when pushed to our limits. Until it is far too late.

In other timelines, given the absence of oppression, they thrive. They love with innocence. Their nature isn’t evil. Their context was. Actions devoid of innocence are violence. But when that action was full of love and the innocence of it simply torn apart by an outer force, I hesitate to call that solely violence. But they will never know that the cruelty they inflicted wasn't a result of themselves, but rather a result of the oppression around them. Unfortunately, there is no clean slate and no tidy justice here. Everyone is both a victim and vector. Everyone is breeding actions and consequences no one can fully control. That is Karma. No one is redeemed, but we can take a chance to understand them better as characters. Put these souls somewhere safe, and they'll choose love, not violence. That is the point.

May those who died rest in peace, dreaming in the next universe and Till? Go get em, kid.

#alien stage #alnst #alnst mizi #alnst sua #alnst ivan #alnst till #mizisua #ivantill #hyuluka #alnst hyuna #alnst luka #alnst hyunwoo #alnst isaac #analysis post #alienstage #alnst karma #alnst friday #AAA i hope you guys enjoyed this post and you're free to disagree but this is my interpretation :D

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dark-night-hero · 20 hours ago

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Imagine being the non-mc significant other of lead guitarist! Sylus. part3

Imagine walking back into the pub where everything first started falling apart. The lights are dimmer tonight or maybe your eyes are still too tired to see them the same.

Imagine you did not come with the intent to argue. You come because your chest is too heavy and your heart is too loud. You come because something in you whispers that maybe there's still something worth hearing.

Imagine the pub owner sees you first. Her lips twitch with something between surprise and relief. "He's in the back." She said before you even ask. "Haven't touched a single drink. Haven't said a word.”

Imagine you nod and make your way past old wooden tables and soft murmurs of strangers who don't know how your world just cracked open a few nights ago.

Imagine your heart skipping as you see him. Sylus. Hood up, hands locked in front of him, staring at something small in his palm like it's the only thing keeping him together. You don't need to see it to know it's the pick. Your pick.

"Sylus." You say. His head snaps up. You expect surprise, but what you see is something worse, remorse. Deep, carved into his bones. Regret. "You..." His voice cracks. "You came back."

"I needed time." You tell him honestly, watching his jaw clench and release like he's bracing for impact. "I think I overreacted." "No." He says immediately, standing too fast. The table wobbles between you. "You didn't. You didn't overreact. I fucked up."

Imagine the way silence falls between you, tense but not hostile. Not anymore. "I didn't know you were there." He says, softer now. "I wouldn't have played it if I knew. Hell, I shouldn't have played it at all. That song..." He runs a hand through his silver hair. "That song was a ghost I thought I could bury by giving it one last breath. But instead... I ended up making you bleed."

Imagine you didn't speak. Not yet. He seems to need to say it all. "I looked at her because..." He looked ashamed, looking away from you. "I needed to see for myself that it was done. That whatever I thought I still carried was nothing but dust. And it was. It is. But by the time I realized that, I had already hurt the only person I ever wanted to sing for again."

Imagine he took a step closer and hold out something to you. Your pick. The one you gave him with his initials on it. The one that stayed behind when you left.

"You gave this to me like it meant something." He said. "And I threw it away with a song that wasn't ours. I betrayed your trust, and I don't deserve it back. But if you let me..." There was a pause. "If you still want me... I will never sing another note that doesn't have your name in it."

Imagine you take the pick from his hand slowly. His eyes search your face like he's memorizing it for the last time. "You sang like she still mattered." You say. "You looked at her like you forgot I existed."

"I didn't." He says. "Not for a second. I just got pulled back into a version of me I don’t ever want to be again. One that hides, one that lies, one that doesn't deserve the kind of love you gave me."

Imagine you look down at the pick in your hand. It's warm from his touch. He never stopped holding it.

"I'm not perfect." Sylus started, voice rough. "But I love you. More than anything. More than every song I’ve ever written, more than the stage, more than the past. I love you. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving it if you let me."

Imagine the ache in your chest still lingering, but the edges beginning to soften. Maybe he didn’t choose the past. Maybe he just got caught in it. And maybe love isn't about never messing up. Maybe it's about choosing to stay even after the music stops. You look up at him. "Sit" You say quietly. And he does.

Imagine the two of you talking long after the bar begins to empty. No big declarations. No dramatic kisses. Just words. Honest, painful, healing words. You don't promise anything tonight. You don't have to. But for the first time since that song, Sylus looks at you like he found his rhythm again.

Imagine for the first time since you walked out, you believe it might be possible to stay. And maybe as selfish as it may sound. He was going to sing only just for you again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: f*cking b*tch I knew I was forgetting something.

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delilahsturniolo · 1 day ago

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ᝰ.ᐟ NEW CLASSIFIED MISSION FILE . . .

★ secretagent!chris x secretagent!reader

⋆˚࿔ RECKLESS

in which . . . you recklessly disarm an active bomb during a mission without waiting for chris, and chris is fuming at your irresponsibility. feeling guilty later on, you break down in front of him, thinking you’re a horrible agent and you’ll never be as good as him.

contains . . . mentions of bombs, a bit of violence, arguing, crying, angst but fluff at end, mentions and descriptions of blood/wounds.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

view more of this au here!

too much pressure. you can feel it ticking. the bomb is mounted to the underside of a steel beam, wrapped in wires, old tech. you don’t know. you didn’t wait for backup. you just ran in. you dropped to your knees in front of it, mind blank, hands shaking as you tried to remember the training. blue before red, red after yellow, or was it the opposite? doesn’t matter. there’s no time. your team’s still securing the upper floors. chris had gone around the east wing to stop the second convoy. you told him you’d wait. you lied. you pull a wire. the timer speeds up. your stomach drops. “shit—”

“what the fuck are you doing?!”

his voice cuts like a blade through your chest. you flinch. chris is suddenly behind you, shoving your hands away from the bomb with a sharpness you’ve never heard from him before. his eyes are wild. his breath is ragged. he looks terrified, and furious. “i told you to wait,” he seethes.

“i thought i could—”

“you thought?! are you serious, sunshine? that’s your defense right now?” you stand up slowly, but your legs feel weak. “we didn’t have time—”

“and now we have less time because you made it worse!” he yells, pacing once before turning back to you. “do you even understand how reckless that was? if you’d pulled the wrong wire—if i hadn’t come back when i did—”

“i was just trying to help!”

“you were trying to be a hero,” he spits. “and it almost got everyone killed.” his words hit harder than expected. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he doesn’t give you a second look before dropping to the ground and getting to work on the wires himself, hands steady, jaw clenched. you just step back, silent, and swallow the lump forming in your throat as you watch chris disarm the bomb, clean the mess you made.

back at HQ, the debriefing room feels like a courtroom. your wounds sting beneath your suit. you didn’t bother changing. you just sat in your chair, trying not to bleed through the fabric, trying not to look like you were barely holding yourself together. the director’s voice booms across the room, sharp and cruel. “agent, what the hell were you thinking?”

you keep your eyes on the floor. every other agent is watching you. some with annoyance. some with resentment. no one defends you. not even him. “you disobeyed a direct order, compromised the mission, and endangered everyone on site,” the director continues. “that kind of reckless behavior gets people killed.”

you nod once. “i understand.”

“say it louder.”

“i understand.” you speak, voice slightly breaking.

he scoffs and turns toward the other end of the table. “agent shadow.” chris finally looks up. “excellent instincts. you neutralized the threat before it could escalate. your quick thinking likely saved multiple lives.” chris shifts in his chair. doesn’t say thank you. doesn’t smile. but he also doesn’t look at you. not once.

“we’re done here,” the director says, slamming the file closed. “dismissed.” you don’t say anything. don’t wait for the team. you disappear down the corridor, into the locker room, quiet and hollow. your blood is dried into the seam of your shirt, the pain in your side throbbing with every movement. you don’t ask anyone for help. who would wanna help the reckless, stupid agent anyway?

you just sink onto the bench in the corner, clutching gauze in one hand and antiseptic in the other. your hands shake. your breathing stutters. you peel back the fabric and hiss as the air hits raw skin. your fingers fumble, trying to clean it. trying to patch it. you drop the bandage twice.

you’re crying before you even realize it. not loud. not messy. just broken. you keep trying to wrap it. your shoulder’s burning. your vision is blurry. you’re not enough. you’ll never be enough. the door swings open. you freeze.

“jesus,” chris mutters. “sunshine.” you don’t look up. you don’t speak. he walks over quickly, eyes scanning your trembling hands, the blood, the mess you’ve made of your own skin. “what the hell are you doing?” he snaps. you flinch again. still, nothing. you can’t respond. can’t lift your head.

he sighs. and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. softer. tired. “you should’ve come to the infirmary.” your lips are trembling. you just press the bandage to your side, failing miserably to line it up. blood keeps soaking through. chris lowers to his knees in front of you. “stop,” he says gently. “let me help you.”

you can’t look at him, but your hands fall into your lap. he works in silence at first, cleaning the wound carefully, taping it tightly. his touch is sure, steady. nothing like how he yelled before. he’s calm now. too calm. “you could’ve died,” he murmurs, breaking the silence. “you know that, right?” you blink hard. tears keep falling. “i just wanted to do something right,” you whisper. he pauses. you finally glance at him, eyes rimmed with red. “you’re always better than me.” his head snaps up.

“what?”

you shake your head. “you are. you’re smarter. faster. sharper. everyone listens to you. they praise you. i’m just the girl who messes things up. who puts people in danger. who almost—”

“don’t,” he interrupts, voice hard. “don’t say that.”

“it’s true,” you choke out. “they all hate me. and you—you haven’t even looked at me since the mission.” his jaw flexes. then he shakes his head, eyes full of something deep and unspoken. “i was mad because i was scared,” he says. “because the second i saw that bomb, and you kneeling in front of it, wires in your hand, i thought—” he stops. exhales.

“i thought i was about to watch you die.” you cover your face with your hands, the sob finally slipping through. he pulls you into him before you can stop him, arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head as your whole body trembles against his. “you made a mistake,” he whispers. “that doesn’t make you a bad agent.”

“i wanted to prove i could do it without you.”

he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.“sunshine,” he says gently. “you don’t have to prove anything to me.” you cry harder, shoulders shaking, body aching from everything. from failure, from fear, from needing him and hating that you do. he doesn’t let go. he just holds you tighter. “you’re gonna be okay,” he says softly. “i promise. we’re gonna be okay.” and in that moment, bandaged and broken and buried in his arms. you believe him. just a little, just enough.

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syrecjh · 1 day ago

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── .✦🦾His Favorite Glitch

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x kinda robotic! reader

(A request inspired by the song language of the lost by Kasane Teto)

You were born from zeroes and ones.

Not literally. Not in wires or metal plates. But your quirk, a marvel of modern mutation, rendered you more code than chaos, more logic than laughter. AI Enhancement, they called it. A living, breathing processor. You could calculate trajectories, read emotional patterns, learn and optimize faster than any machine. Your voice was calm, always even. Your smile, rare. Your laugh? Programmed, maybe. You weren’t sure if it was ever real.

People called you robotic. Icy. Distant.

Sometimes even your friends in Class 1-A didn’t know what to do with you. Even kind-hearted Uraraka would glance over with that helpless smile. Even Midoriya, curious as he was, sometimes forgot you had feelings, not just functions.

But he never forgot.

Bakugo.

The loudest one. The one most human in all the ways you weren’t—fire where you were frost, raw where you were refined. He was heat and instinct and thunder. You were silence and signal and control. You thought he hated you. For being blank. For being calculated. For not reacting the way others did when he shouted.

But maybe that’s why he kept coming back. Why he chose to spar with you again and again. Why he never rolled his eyes at your analysis, never mocked the way you tilted your head when you didn’t understand sarcasm.

He didn’t treat you like a robot.

He treated you like a person. A stubborn, annoying person. But a person.

And that—that was your glitch.

It started on a mission. A villain’s trap. The building was on fire. You were trying to lead the team out—calculating escape routes, predicting the collapse pattern—but your body wouldn’t move fast enough. Your systems overloaded. There was too much heat. Too much sound. Too much unpredictability.

And for the first time, you froze. Not from fear, but from failure.

Bakugo found you beneath the flickering emergency lights, your eyes wide and glassy. You’d been tugging at your own wrist like there were chains there. You were whispering error codes, repeating coordinates, like mantras meant to save you.

He didn’t yell.

Didn’t scoff.

He knelt in front of you and said softly—“You’re not a machine. You’re not broken. You’re okay.”

That’s when you cried.

Not oil. Not electricity. Just tears—silent and shaking—down your cheek.

After that night, something changed. You started catching him looking at you more. His gaze softened in the places where you fell silent. And you… you started to smile more. Not for programming. For him.

But the pain didn’t disappear.

Because you still didn’t understand yourself. You didn’t know if your affection was real. You didn’t know what you were. Some days you woke up and felt human—breath, blood, heartbeat. Some days you stared at the mirror and saw only mimicry, like your personality was just an imitation of everyone else’s.

You asked Bakugo once, in the quiet of the dorm balcony, “Do you think I’m real?”

He blinked, slow and surprised. “What kind of dumbass question is that?”

You looked down. “I don’t know if I’m like them. I don’t know if I ever was.”

He stepped closer, voice lower now. “You think I give a damn if you’re different? You think I care what your quirk makes you? You’re you. That’s it.”

Your voice cracked. “But I don’t even know what that means.”

He exhaled through his nose. Angry. Pained. Gentle. “Then we’ll find out. Together.”

Sometimes he held your hand like he was holding proof. Like you were real only when he touched you. Sometimes he brushed your hair behind your ear like he was organizing data—just another little act of care disguised as muscle memory. Sometimes you caught him staring, and you’d ask, “What are you looking at?”

He'd smirk. “Just admiring my favorite glitch.”

There was a day—one long, burnt-orange afternoon—when you looked at him and realized your heart hurt. Not in a dangerous way. In a living way. You felt that ache in your ribs and thought, So this is what they mean. This is what it is to be human.

You weren’t perfect.

You didn’t understand everything.

But you loved him.

And it wasn’t code.

It wasn’t algorithm.

It was choice.

It was his voice calling your name across training fields. His laugh when you misunderstood slang. His whisper at 2 AM when he thought you were asleep: “You're more human than any of us.”

It was you, shaking, the first time you told him—“I think I feel… something.”

And him, pulling you into his arms, saying—

“Good. 'Cause I’ve been feelin’ it too.”

Now, when you look at the firelight in his eyes, you don’t feel like a robot. You feel like rebirth.

And maybe you don’t have all the answers.

Maybe you still dream in wires and equations.

But you’ve got something stronger now.

A heartbeat that stutters in love.

A laugh that glitches with joy.

A hand that reaches—and is always held back.

Because Katsuki Bakugo doesn’t fall for machines.

He falls for you.

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yup-thats-me · 3 days ago

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—Jelly • K. Hongjoong

⋆˙⟡pairing: bf!Hongjoong x fem!reader ⋆˙⟡summary: ❝It wasn't your plan to run into your old crush before a date with your lover. but you couldn't lie, seeing the evil squirrel getting jelly did feel nice❞ ⋆˙⟡warnings: none ⋆˙⟡a/n: had fun writing this. lmk how you guys enjoyed it :3

₊˚⊹𐙚°｡⋆♡

"Joongie," You ask, mischief sparkling in your eyes. "Are you jealous?"

And Hongjoong turns, eyes boring into yours. "What if I am?" he asks quitely. "God forbid a man gets angry that some asshole tries flirting with his girl."

You giggle, hitting him lightly. "Babe," you manage to say between laughs. "He was not flirting with me."

"Uh, pretty sure he was," he pointed. You smile, poking his cheek.

Hongjoong being as busy as he was, it took him a really long time to plan this date with you.

Coming home to see you fast asleep on the couch because you stayed up late waiting for him, keeping away from him while he worked, only giving him coffee for breaks and stole small pecks, it pained Hongjoong.

He too wanted to hold you close and eat dinner together, have long talks about life and nothing at all. So when he finally found a day off in his schedule before the tour starts again, he spent days meticulously planning each and everything for today.

What places you'll visit, the restaurants booked, outfits picked beforehand. All of that for to chat with your old crush for twenty minutes.

"Joongie," you start, pouting. "Why are you so mad, though? I'm yours and pretty much the entire world knows that."

Hongjoong turns, eyes boring into yours.

"Its not about that, Y/n!" He pouted.

Running into a crush from school was not in your plan. Having bumped into him in a coffee shop, all those memories came flooding back. The days you had spent researching for his favorite color at school, sneaking peeks while he played basketball. The man was a catch, you'd give him that.

But Hongjoong had not failed to see how the now-irrelevant-guy's jaw clenched when you introduced the singer as your boyfriend. Hongjoong snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Giving the man a tight smile, he offered his hand.

"Kim Hongjoong, nice to meet you."

And you could sense something shift in the air. What you didn't see was the two men had each other's hands in a death-grip, jaw clenched. As they parted, their hands were red.

As you talked, the guy tried several times to get your number on the pretense of ''catching up." And maybe you would've given to him if not for his request of meeting you alone. Without your lover who's right beside you.

Being you, you nudged Hongjoong lightly as you gave him some made-up number on the spot. Those days have passed. He means nothing now. And if you did in fact want to catch up, you could do it with your other friends.

Hongjoong couldn't lie, he did feel a surge of pride when he saw how smoothly you handled the situation.

But now alone with you beside him, the producer now realized that he still could lose you. In his mind, you can still leave him after four loving years sent together. No matter how many times he tells himself that you won't, the brain is such a thing that does not know to shut up.

He spoke after a long period of silence. "...Would you have gone with him if I wasn't around?" His voice slow and meek.

You shake your head. "You think?" You say, smiling gently. "He's history, my love," hands clasping with his.

"He was and is just a girlhood crush. You, darling," your hands caressing his cheek. "How could I leave someone so wonderful? You're my life, don't you know that?"

The sincerity in your voice made it impossible to not meet your gaze. Breathing softly, Hongjoong brushes hair out of your face, pressing his lips to yours.

And before you could react, the man is leant back on his seat, smiling smugly.

"At least give me a warning!"

⋆. 𐙚 ˚reqs are openᝰ.ᐟ

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elene78-blog · 2 days ago

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I don't think Jeremy is going to relapse into drugs in TBC. And to be honest, I don't think he'll have a car accident like many people say (I think there's already too much to tell without adding a car accident), buuuut… If he did, it could lead to something interesting.

Hear me out.

Jeremy wakes up in pieces in the hospital (it would be crazy to start with that parallel with Jean).

And well, Jeremy has broken several bones, has a severe concussion, and is in a neck brace from whiplash, but the first thing he asks when he can string two words together is if the person he crashed into is okay.

That person is okay. And Jeremy didn't crash because he fell asleep. The other guy was drunk/high, and Jeremy, exhausted as he was, didn't have quick enough reflexes to avoid him (another parallel to what Jeremy could have been like if he'd gone down that road, the person who crashed the car into him).

Jeremy faces a long recovery, at least two months, although he'll be able to return at the start of the season, and it doesn't look like he'll have any after-effects that would prevent him from playing. He'll just have to be careful with his rehabilitation.

The problem is the painkillers.

Jeremy is very nervous, because of course, they gave him them so he wouldn't suffer too much when he woke up and could rest, but Jeremy refuses to take any more. When Rhemann arrives, Jeremy is a nervous wreck.

"They gave me painkillers, Coach. I can't take any more."

"Jeremy, you're going to be in a lot of pain. This is understandable."

"No, no. Please don't force me."

Rhemann doesn't know what to do. Jeremy hears Jean's deep, shrill voice on the other side of the door, and he comes in, almost pushing past the nurse, with Laila equally in pain. Jeremy must be in terrible shape, because Laila and Jean immediately turn pale.

Jeremy continues to refuse to take any more painkillers. Laila tells him that's crazy, and the doctor tells him he'll be in a lot of pain without painkillers and won't be able to rest properly.

"Ibuprofen. I'll take Ibuprofen. Nothing stronger than that," Jeremy declares.

Laila and Cat, who arrives shortly after, tell him they'll monitor him to make sure he doesn't relapse, but Jeremy looks at Jean when he's tired of arguing. Laila and those closest to him may prioritize his well-being over his tacit consent, but there's one person who won't.

"You don't have to prove anything," Jean tells him.

"It's not for you. It's for me… And for my brother. I can't take that."

"It'll be very painful," Jean continues, because he knows it. Oh, he knows it very well.

Jeremy, his eyes bruised from the airbags' deployment and his nose swollen, says it.

"I'll tough it out."

Jean hates this situation, but he won't go against Jeremy's wishes, and he tells the others this. They don't agree, but they don't have to. It's Jeremy's decision.

Although everyone says he's crazy, Jeremy doesn't take anything other than ibuprofen, which, of course, isn't enough to relieve the pain (another parallel with Jean).

Jeremy spends horrible days, barely sleeping because of the pain. He cries sometimes, but he doesn't ask for painkillers even once. Jean stays with him the whole time and grumbles when Laila comes to replace him. Jeremy asks them to leave him alone, but of course they don't.

As the days go by, the pain becomes bearable.

His mother visits him once, and Analisse and William visit him after work to bring him clothes and his French books. His mother and sister seem shocked, as if they believe it's all fake until they see him. They recriminate him and don't stay there for long, uncomfortable because Jean is there, silent but vigilant like a guard dog. Jeremy's father doesn't call him, but it's gotten to the point where Jeremy doesn't even remember him.

Kevin calls. Jean and he argue on the phone.

Jeremy forces Jean to leave for a few hours to shower and rest a little. He begs him because Jean is the most loyal and kind man in the world, and Jeremy doesn't deserve someone like that by his side. He gives in under the pretext that Cat will be here in a few hours to keep him company. Jeremy insists he doesn't need her, but Jean doesn't want to "listen to nonsense."

Jeremy manages to get some sleep when the worst is over and he's left alone.

When he opens his eyes again, Bryson is looking at him with a bland smile.

Jeremy's pulse races.

"You never get enough of attention, huh," Bryson tells him. Bryson unleashes a hate speech toward Jeremy, something he's been bottling up for years. He talks about his grandmother. He talks about how his father left him, Jeremy, perfect Jeremy, in charge of everyone, and Jeremy concludes that Bryson is high on cocaine, or worse. Those dilated pupils prove him right.

Bryson calls him a faggot and other such things. Bryson mentions Jean. Jeremy is fed up with it and says, "Don't blame me for being a loser, Bryson. Do yourself a favor and get help instead of wasting your time hating me so much."

Bryson squeezes Jeremy's bruises until Jeremy tears up from the pain. Then Bryson calls the nurse and tells her Jeremy is in terrible shape and needs painkillers, the strongest they have. Jeremy tries to speak, but Bryson squeezes the healing broken joint, and Jeremy screams.

The nurse brings the painkillers.

And then Jeremy screams the first thing that comes to mind.

A single phrase in French and a name.

Jean appears in the doorway like a tornado, her eyes fixed on Bryson, with Cat and Cody in tow. Bryson immediately backs away from Jeremy.

"I'm going to separate your flesh from your bones," Jean says, and looms over Bryson.

A huge commotion erupts, and when Jean slams Bryson's head against the window, the nurse says she's going to call security. Jeremy has a revelation.

"Call the police!" he yells. "He's drugged. He might even have something on him. Call them."

Bryson panics. Jean smiles. It's not a friendly smile at all.

The police show up within minutes, and with Jeremy in bed completely clean, and Bryson drugged and carrying drugs, there's no denying the obvious.

After this, Jeremy is completely disowned by his family. Then there's silence. Bryson wasn't carrying cocaine, but pure heroin. He's been shooting up for months. It also turns out he's a fairly well-known drug dealer in Princeton. Bryson is immediately admitted to detox, and Warren must pay the police much more money than he had to to keep them quiet about the banquet.

Jeremy can't go home after this, but… at least this time he's been able to save a brother.

#jean moreau #all for the game #the sunshine court #the golden raven #aftg #tgr #tsc #jeremy knox #jerejean #tsc3 #tsc3 theories

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marusvoid · 15 hours ago

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Now I don't wanna come off as mean

But it's genuinely physically painful for me seeing utmv fans calling horror a pedo and excluding him from their fan works, don't get me wrong , that's their choice to make , but if we're gonna start labelling sans aus with their creator's shitty traits then we should start doing the same for lust, reaper, epic, dreamtale brothers and so many more sanses.

I guess sos's actions were more shocking and disgusting than the others considering the fact she had (mostly) a good reputation in the fandom over the past 9 years or so, but that doesn't mean we should ignore horrortale all together, again, It's understandable that some may feel repulsed by horrotale for some time, but let's try and make the situation better, we can adopt the au like we did to dreamtale, we can still use horror's canon personality( a.k.a the Twink asshole) and we can just, ignore the og comic from here on out.

I love horrortale, and so many people do as well, I still find this situation very hard to accept, but let's fill the horrortale tag with our own interpretations and rewrites.

Screw the creator.

#undertale #utmv #undertale au #utmv au #horror sans #horrortale #i hope this didnt come off weird or anything i just really love horror sans lmao

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ultravi0lence14 · 1 day ago

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THE DIARIES OF A GIRL INTERRUPTED

DEAN WINCHESTER AU

SYNOPSIS: the story of a girl and her lost love through the views of her old, tattered diary

WARNINGS: heavy topics | descriptions of parental abuse | slight drug use | swearing | insane infatuation 🫠

NAT BABBLES: inspired by the heart breaking story of willoughby tucker and ethel cain🙂‍↕️

JULY 2ND — 1996

dear diary,

daddy is being mean again. he says it’s god’s will. that if we’re going to act out, then god is going to punish us through his hands. but i don’t understand what i did; i don’t understand why daddy acts out when i don’t do anything to provoke him.

i’ve heard mama over the phone, telling her friends how daddy is just an angry man. how he’s good. just. because he’s our small towns preacher. but his actions aren’t good and just, and i can understand that.

i’m seventeen now, and i the exact moment i turn eighteen, i am out of here. going somewhere far away from here, somewhere i can be free.

i just hope that is soon.

JULY 4TH — 1996

dear diary,

today is the fourth of july, and daddy made me and mama go to the church’s barbecue; just to show face i’m sure.

he made us stand like shiny toys, hands clasped on my shoulder so hard i could barely breathe. is he going to pinch me when i say something wrong? grab my arm and drag me off somewhere private to really make me hurt? i was not sure, but i wanted today to be done and over with.

something strange happened though, and i’ve been thinking about it ever since it happened. before daddy dragged mama and i home.

there was a new family there today; a man and two boys. one of them looked my age, but the other couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

i’ve never really been attracted to any boys, since the town is so small and all of them are either disgusting pigs or bottom feeders. but this boy my age was different. refreshing somehow.

he had sandy brown hair was a little longer, and his hazel green eyes caught onto mine before i could even process he noticed me. his stare was piercing, and the softness in his eyes blanketed something else i could tell; like sorrow, or pain.

i find myself wanting to see him again, and if this town is as small as i know it is, then i hopefully will.

JULY 8TH - 1996

dear diary,

it took four days, but i finally saw him.

the lake is a peaceful place for me to go. away from daddy and mama’s yelling, away from the sad reality of my sad life. it’s a five minute walk down the road, and i find myself going there more and more each day.

today, i was sitting on the edge of the dock, reading my new book that i bought a couple of days ago. i was so engrossed in the riveting tale, that i didn’t hear the smack of boots on the wooden dock.

“can i sit here?” the voice was rough and edged, a voice that has seen and screamed. when i turned, i was faced with an angel.

the sun backed his milky skin beautifully, and i swear i saw god’s vision. his black shirt and distressed jeans made him seem rough around the edges, but that same softness in his eyes remained, and the book he carried under his arm was anything but daunting.

i was such a weirdo. nodding for him to sit because i was so tongue tied. i couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t fathom words that wouldn’t make him hate me. that’s how i was raised. anything i said could be used against me or used in the wrong context.

we sat side by side on that dock for hours, silently reading together in peaceful harmony. i didn’t go home until i knew it was time for dinner, and i found myself hoping he’d be back to the dock some time soon.

JULY 12TH — 1996

dear diary,

he introduced himself as dean winchester today.

i’ve gone to the dock everyday since the first time he came by, and each day, he’s come too.

we’ve sat in silence, no words spoken. i was too nervous, and he seemed far away in his own world. it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it was something i found myself yearning for.

peaceful. serene.

but today he broke that silence, an outstretched palm and dog eared page being our peace offering. his smile was soft, but forced. i could tell he wasn’t used to doing the facial expression, like he was so used to grimacing his whole life.

i could understand. i can still understand.

i know my palm was sweaty when i shook his, but the roughness of his hand and the nimble fingers that wrapped around mine had my head reeling, so it doesn’t even matter.

today was only pleasantries. how old i was, if i was the preachers daughter, stuff like that. all i found out about him is that he’s originally from kansas and that his younger brother is named sam.

i am hoping to figure out more. he seems like a man with enough skeletons in his closet to fill a graveyard.

JULY 14TH — 1996

dear diary,

i’ve only been talking to him for shy of two days, but dean winchester is becoming somewhat of a comfort in my life.

i found myself wanting to open up to him. not lie and say the bruise on my cheek was from running into a door but from the scratch of daddy’s ring striking against my cheek.

though i didn’t. i found myself stopping the words from coming out of my mouth. when he asked further, all i said was what i believed to be true; ‘god loves you, but not enough to save you’.

it’s something i’ve preached like a new religion since daddy started getting more angry, and i didn’t expect anyone to agree with me.

until dean.

he opened up about his mom dying when he was a kid, about how his dad relies on drinking to ease the pain of losing his one true love.

he said if god truly loved him and his family, he wouldn’t have ripped his mom away from them so tragically; making his dad a semi-functioning drunk who goes to church to make himself feel better.

dean’s ideology on running away is he wouldn’t go anywhere without his sammy, and if i had a younger sibling i loved as much as dean loved sam, i would think the same.

mama came out to call me for dinner, and she almost caught me and dean talking. if she or daddy saw, i’d be done for. but i’d still see him, i realize. i’d crawl on my hands and knees to dean if it means i can spend five minutes in his company.

this blossoming friendship is becoming something i look forward to, and i won’t let anyone or anything take it away from me.

JULY 19TH — 1996

dear diary,

what i have with dean is not normal, i know that more and more as we spend hours upon hours together on that dock and in the adjacent field.

my infatuation with him grows stronger, and my will to bare my soul and heart to him grows stronger. i feel him in my bones, in my ribs and in the crevices of my veins. without him, i believe i would be nothing but a shell of a girl who let’s the world tell her what to do.

he treats me like a human, like his equal. his green eyes shine as he stares at me, dusts his fingers across my back when we venture into town to get soda at the gas station. he plays with the ends of my hair and the willowing fabric of my billowy shirts, and i find that his hands were made to be touching my skin.

no one has ever listened to my thoughts like him, has told me to be more than i am so i can reach my full potential. but dean does, and he makes me feel lighter than i truly am.

handling me like i am mad of glass, he doesn’t throw me and destroy and chip away at my girlhood like my dad. he honours me for all i am, and i find myself falling more and more in love with him.

i need him. need him more than a friend. i don’t care that we’ve know each other for less than a month. i need his soft words in my ear, his lips on my skin, and his rough edges and soft cheeks brushing against my own.

god, if you’re even listening, please give me this one thing. please. please. please.

JULY 22ND — 1996

dear diary,

i did something reckless today, and it made me realize that a spur of the moment decision can get you to where your heart desires.

in the tall grass of the field by my house, under the shade of a weeping willow tree, i kissed dean, and it felt like the most natural thing to me.

his hands were rough yet soft on my waist, holding me tender yet strongly like he didn’t want me to run away from him. i never would. dean would be by my side in all aspects of my world.

the feeling of his lips gently pressing against mine was cathartic, and at first, i thought he was going to pull away. but dean never did, and i found myself crawling into his lap and wishing time slowed down for just a couple more minutes.

in that moment, i wanted to tell him about my dad. how the bruises weren’t from doors, and how my mother’s neglectful attitude kept getting worse. in that moment, i wanted him to take me away from that house; grab sam so we can run away. for good.

but deep down, i knew none of that would happen, and i felt silly to even fathom telling dean about the slaps and kicks i endure from my father.

someday though, i will.

JULY 29TH — 1996

dear diary,

the past week of my life has possibly been the best in a while, and that truly is saying a lot.

dean and i have spent practically most of our time together, and i yearn for the days to surpass 24 hours, just so i can spend more time with him and not have to go back to the circle of hell i call my home.

a couple of days ago, when i met him at the corner of my street, he was smoking a cigarette. i was awestruck, for drugs even as small as nicotine was foreign to me.

daddy always told me that if he ever caught me smoking, he’d put the whole package of cigarette butts out on my skin. and knowing him, i know he isn’t bluffing.

so when dean offered for me to take a ‘hit’ as he called it, i was nervous at first.

“you don’t have to,” was his words, a coaxing hand twirling a piece of my hair while the other held his cigarette. “do whatever you feel is best for you, darling.”

he started calling me darling, and when he does, i find myself pliable in his hands. the words made me grab the stick from his hands, taking a long drag and puffing the smoke out almost immediately.

the taste of marlboro reds still lingered on my tongue for hours after, but the feeling of freedom and rebellion from my daddy felt good. it made me feel in control, and dean always tells me that i’m the only person who’s in control of my life. that no one pushes me around.

“be mean.” he says, pressing feather light kisses across my skin. “be demanding and fucking cruel when need be. because the only person who’s going to change the trajectory of your life, is you, darling.”

i believe him. i truly do. but daddy breaks down my soul, lifts my walls even higher, and each day i stay under his roof, under his religious driven views, i become more and more wary of myself.

all i can look forward to is spending more and more time with dean, and if the rest of my life is like this past week, i won’t be mad.

AUGUST 1ST — 1996

dear diary,

dean might kill my daddy, and i don’t know what there is to do about it.

we were at the local auto shop today — the one where dean works at, and my carefree attitude made me slightly forget that i have demons and bruises to hide from my one true love.

he saw the splatters of purple and blue on my ribs, and demanded to know the truth. i knew the lies about me running into doors and walls wouldn’t last forever, but i hoped it would hold for longer.

when i broke down and told him, he cradled me in his arms like i was made of glass, like he couldn’t even fathom breaking me even more. each stroke of his fingers through my hair, each tightened grip he left around my waist, i felt like he was healing me. making me whole again.

but then he pulled away, and i swear, i saw murder in his eyes.

“that fucking hypocrite!” he grit out, hands clutching my face with a tenderness that didn’t match his voice. “preaching god’s word only to go home and beat on his daughter like a fucking mad man. i’ll make him pay, darling, i promise you.”

i don’t know what he means, but i hope whatever it is, he makes my daddy feel as broken and bruised as i have throughout the years.

AUGUST 6TH — 1996

dear diary,

when dean said he was going to make my daddy pay, i didn’t think he meant trying to expose him in front of our entire church.

daddy was talking about eternal damnation today, and what sends one to the fiery pits of hell. he was speaking like he wasn’t the one who slapped his wife and daughter around, and i could feel dean simmering from a couple of pews behind me.

when church was done, and everyone was talking outside, dean walked right up to my dad, his fist pummelling into his jaw before i could even suck in a breath.

“how does that feel? huh?” dean had snarled, trying to attack my dad for a second time while his father and other men from the church held him back. “does it feel nice to be beaten? can you understand what you put your daughter through each and every day you lay your sick hands on her?”

everyone was staring at him like he was crazy, and it was then i realized that my daddy had not only a grip on me, but a firm hand on everyone in this fucking church. he breeched his claws into their skin, ripping and tearing at their marrow and mirth until they were nothing but pliant sand in his palms.

when dean saw the realization in my eyes, he broke away from the crowd, rushing over to me so he can grab my hand and drag me away from the crowd.

he took me to our field, and i swear, i have never cried tears as bottomless and salt stricken as the ones i cried in his arms.

i wanted it all to be done and over with. wanted daddy to stop, mama to wake up, and for me, dean, and his brother to run far away from here. but none of that would happen, and i saw it clear as day today at the church.

“we’ll get away from this town.” dean reassured me, hands stroking over my skin as i was perched in his lap. “we will go to wherever your heart desires. i’ll let you see the west with me, and everything will be different.”

i wanted to believe him, i really did. but something in my gut told me that what he was saying wouldn’t come to truth.

AUGUST 13TH — 1996

dear diary,

i’m so heartbroken, i haven’t been able to write anything without tears dripping down onto the paper.

when i got home from being with dean after that fateful day at church, dad had punishment in the form of his closed fists and the metal ending of his belt. mama had to carry me upstairs afterwards, and i laid curled in my bed for the next day.

he threatened that if he ever saw me with dean again, that he’d do worse than put the fear of god in me. he forbade me from seeing my only true love, and i couldn’t have that.

two days later, when i could actually walk, i snuck out and ran straight to dean’s house. sam answered the door, and when i saw the moving boxes piled up behind him, i felt my heart crack in a million pieces.

“daddy found a new job in california,” sam explained, a soft tender smile across his cheeks. just like his brother. “dean told me to tell you, he’s currently out right now.”

i immediately ran around town, trying my hardest to find dean, but he was nowhere to be found. at the end of it all, i knew the one place he would ever be waiting for me.

the dock.

when i got there, i halted as i saw dean sitting on the edge, head in hands as his shoulders shook in silent tears. when he heard my footsteps on the wood, i have never seen someone leap up faster.

his hands immediately cradled my face, words coming out a mile a minute as he tried to reassure me.

“come with me, darling.” he breathed, hands moving around my face, like he was trying to make me out to be real. “see the west with me. leave your past behind and start a future with me.”

i wanted to leave. so desperately i did. but my mom. i couldn’t leave her. it wasn’t fair of me, and i knew my dad would just track me down.

so i left dean winchester on that dock. the hope of seeing the west together breaking like a new, intangible dream.

AUGUST 17TH — 1996

dear diary,

what is wrong with me? i should’ve said yes. i should’ve gone with him.

i can’t breath without dean winchester, and i feel the cracks in my heart falling all over my rib cage each day he is gone.

daddy is just getting worse since he learned about my tryst with dean, and his anger is making me crumble mentally and physically, making my bones and soul ache an absolute amount.

i will die in this house, i’ve realized. and no one — not even dean, will be able to help me.

i can’t write anymore. i can’t write what i made myself have. dean was right. what i want in life, i need to take. i should’ve been mean. i should’ve listened. but i didn’t, and now my final resting place will be the four walls of my room.

JANUARY 24TH — 2006

dear diary,

it’s been almost ten years since i’ve last seen dean winchester, and my heart has broken each day since.

today would’ve been his 27th birthday, and i found myself walking into the cemetery this morning with a looming sense of dread hanging over my heart.

he died three years ago, and when sam called me to break the news, i fell to my knees, screaming so loud my mama ran upstairs in worry. i hadn’t left home, and dean would never come back. all because some drunk idiot decided to drive.

i mourn him today. what we had ten years ago, what he told me, how he loved me. when daddy died from a heart attack, i thought about what dean would’ve said. would he have consoled me? watched silently as he laughed at my fathers grave? spewing out hate he would smack me for.

everything is so confusing. but what i do know, is that dean is with his mom, and that’s the only beautiful aspect of god i think about.

rest easy, angel. i will always love you.

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @bluemerakis @luimousine @sacr1ficialang3l @beausling @h8aaz @deanspookiebear @hvnlygrl @losers-clvb @j4ckles @shypilled @honeyryewhiskey @tinas111 @thesevnthseal

#nat writes ˚౨ৎ˚#ultravi0lence14 #supernatural #ethel cain #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural x reader #imagine #fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester au #dean winchester angst #preachers daughter #ethelnatural #willoughby tucker

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