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juliettrulyyours · 20 hours ago

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Human Fangirl Turned Demon Manager

Human Fangirl Turned Demon Manager (Part 3)

HFTDM Masterlist

synopsis: you’re a low-level paperwork clerk demon who somehow ended up hired (threatened) by a smug, too-pretty demon named Jinu to become the manager of the demon realm’s first-ever demon boy band. all because he accidentally found your boy band concept sketches.

warning: cursing, teasing (its giving that one boy who annoys you relentlessly bcs he likes your attention)

happy 100 followers i guess?? i was planning to post again next week but then i saw i already hit 1k notes, 50 reblogs, and 100+ followers in under 48 hours so i was like… what the hell, sure

“I swear, if I see those dumbasses, I’m gonna—” You start doing mock punching movements, like you’re fighting someone, imagining it’s those Saja Boys who told you to go wait here and that they’d be back “in a bit.”

In a bit? You’ve been waiting here since last night!

This all started because Jinu decided that all of you should head on early to the human realm, so you could practice the dance and not have any problems later during the performance. So, like the responsible manager you are, you got here a couple hours earlier than the boys’ actual performance time. However, just as everyone got here and was finally supposed to start dancing—

“Wait, where’s Mystery?” you asked, looking around for the mop-looking demon.

“He’s not here? I was sure he was just behind me,” Romance replied as he casually fixed his hair to stay in its perfect, dramatic shape while looking at a mirror.

“Well, we can’t start without him. We’ll go back,” Abby said.

You nodded and stood up, getting ready to go with them, when suddenly Jinu threw his arm out in front of you like a stop sign.

“Stop.” Jinu said, his palm basically in your face. “You. Stay here.”

You stared at him, completely confused. “What? Why?”

“Everyone doesn’t need to come. It’ll be fast,” Jinu explained. “Besides, you’re too heavy when teleporting. I get REALLY exhausted.” He added, dramatically placing a hand on his heart like he can’t breathe properly.

“Excuse me?” you said, slightly offended.

“Well… maybe you’re just having a hard time teleporting because…” you tried to find the words. “Your… butt is so big!”

As soon as that left your mouth, the entire space fell into silence.

Jinu looked at you with one brow raised.

“Manager… are you a butt gal?” Romance asked out of nowhere, his attention now fully on you. The mirror in his hand was completely forgotten.

“You know… it makes sense, because I’ve noticed every time we practice, she’s never in front,” Abby added. “Always looking at our backs.” He nodded sagely, then crossed his arms.

“Manager is totally objectioning us,” Baby chimed in, a slur in his voice as he said totally.

You furrowed your brows at Baby. Did he mean objectifying?

Suddenly, Jinu opened his mouth. “Wow, I mean, I already know you like me, but… I’m not really comfortable with you checking out my body,” he said seriously—though the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

You narrowed your eyes, glaring hard at him. Then, without thinking, you lunged forward in his direction.

But before you could even touch him, Jinu snapped his fingers—vanishing instantly into thin air, along with the other boys.

Your punch met nothing but air. And worse—your balance tipped forward and you tripped straight onto the pavement, face-first.

There was a long pause as you lay there, planted on the cold, hard stone floor.

“Stupid, stupid demon boys.”

—

You’re now handing out the Saja Boys posters that that stupid Jinu forgot to distribute between them, even though you specifically told him to when all of you were still in the demon realm.

Honestly, the guy has been so much more annoying ever since that day.

What’s his problem?

“Hi! Please check out the performance of Saja Boys later here today. I’m their manager and it’s their first performance. We would really appreciate your presence and support!” you tell another passerby, smiling while handing them the poster.

In your head, you’re stabbing Jinu with your pen, while the other guys get cooked in Gwi Ma’s fire.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city is HUNTR/X getting out from the clinic through the back door. Rumi is holding a box of tonics for her voice, while Zoey and Mira are beside her.

“We got the tonics! We got the tonics! Whoo~” Zoey hums like a song, as she holds onto Rumi’s side. Mira is on the other side of Rumi.

Zoey then says, “We can finally get back to the important stuff… like the fans!”

Rumi smiles at her enthusiasm as they all walk through the hidden alleyway.

But then, as they’re walking, they see four shadows from the left side walking towards where they are.

Zoey gasps in shock. “Fans!”

Which causes Rumi and Mira to panic as well.

“We can’t let them see us. Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

All three of them panic. Suddenly hiding behind Rumi—who’s wearing a big hoodie—then they pull Rumi’s hoodie over her and she crouches like a turtle with the box hiding her face.

As they try to walk normally, the four shadows finally turn—and it’s revealed to be the four boys you’ve been cursing for the past few hours for being so late. Mira and Zoey both peek their heads out to look at them. It’s like everything slows down.

“Huh…” they both sigh.

The four boys are revealed to be Baby, Romance, Abby, and Mystery, who are all talking with each other and laughing at whatever dumb joke was just said.

“Woah…” Zoey and Mira exclaim while staring.

Abby then starts stretching, which makes his top ride up. Zoey gasps at the sight of his abs. He stretches more and more until the button of his top flies off. Zoey internally screams, her brain now lagging.

“So… hot…” Mira breathes, suddenly munching popcorn out of nowhere while still staring at them.

Rumi side-eyes them in disgust. “You guys are so gro—”

She trails off as she notices another figure walking behind them.

Trailing a few steps behind is none other than Jinu, who’s looking down before slowly glancing upward. Rumi’s jaw drops as her eyes widen slightly. A strange light flares as Jinu tilts his head slightly, and a random gust of wind blows her hoodie right off her head.

As she continues looking at him, she doesn’t even notice that they’re about to bump shoulders—causing her to suddenly lose her balance as the box flies out of her hands along with the tonics. Jinu slowly turns around in her direction just as she’s falling down in what feels like slow motion.

When she finally hits the ground—along with the scattered tonics—she glances up slightly and notices the stranger extending a hand. She slowly reaches for it, thinking he’s going to help her up.

That is, until his face scrunches in disgust and the hand moves… to brush off his shoulder where she accidentally bumped into him.

Rumi stares in confusion, still looking up at him. But he just keeps brushing off his shoulder like she left dirt on it.

“Ugh. Watch yourself,” he mutters, turning around as the other guys—who had all briefly stopped to look—go right back to their conversation as if nothing happened.

“I just know she’s furious~” Romance hums, glancing sideways at Mystery.

“Yeah, she’s gonna be so mad at you, Mystery,” Baby teases, sticking out his tongue while Mystery now crouches slightly, already pouty at the idea that you’re mad at him.

HUNTR/X hears the banter, but as the boys walk farther away, their voices fade into the distance.

As the Saja Boys finally got out of the alleyway, they all glanced toward where they left you.

You’re fixing the speakers that are going to play the music for their performance any moment now. They walk towards where you are seated. You glance up as you feel eyes on you and see the boys you’ve been mentally murdering since yesterday.

“You!” You get up from where you’re sitting, the speaker now abandoned. You march toward them in anger. Some of the passersby are watching now, probably from how loud your voice was.

“Do you have ANY idea how long I’ve been waiting?!” you say loudly, pointing a finger at all of them.

“Seventeen hours! Seventeen long hours, where I’ve already set up the technicals, gave out the posters, set up a guest appearance for all of you with the most popular variety sho—”

You’re then interrupted by Mystery, who steps in front of the boys so that he’s facing you first—making you halt mid-step.

You look at him before saying, “And you! Where were you? We said we were leaving at—”

He then reaches out and offers something between the two of you, which makes you glance at his hand.

It’s a Soda Pop.

“I… didn’t have any stock,” he mumbles slowly, eyes still on you.

He adds, “And I had to wait for the delivery guy…”

What he said makes you stop and just stare at him as his words simmer in your head.

Oh.

“It’s…” you start, “fine or whatever. Just don’t do that again! We worked so hard for this day and… we need everyone here on time.”

You say it, trying to keep your voice stern.

Holy shit?! Is this your main character moment?! You feel like one of those leads in those dramas.

In your head, you’re spiraling—but in your face, you’re trying not to react.

Mystery just nods, and you try to move away from him because he shouldn’t know he’s got you fangirling.

As you look at the other boys, you notice Abby’s shirt.

“Where did your buttons go?” you ask. Then, before he can say anything, you walk towards him and try to fix his shirt.

“Well… I don’t have any buttons, but I have a bobby pin that could… probably do the same thing,” you say as you start fiddling with his shirt.

Ugh, did he just get more buff?

You’re trying to fix his shirt while he stays completely silent, just letting you. You don’t even realize how close the two of you are.

Jinu, who’s nearby, looks at the scene between you and Abby. He snaps his fingers, and an unexpected poof of pink-ish smoke appears right in front of your face, causing you to cough.

As the smoke disappears, Abby’s shirt is now perfectly fixed—like the buttons were never missing.

“Oh! Nice, Abby!” you say with a thumbs up, momentarily forgetting they even had demon magic.

You then walk away to the other guys, not noticing Abby’s confused expression—but he just shrugs and follows you.

You then gather them all into formation and tell them immediately to get in place. After giving out instructions and reminding them not to act so tense—and definitely not to suddenly start floating out of nowhere—you return to double-checking the speaker, the sunlight angle, and your newly borrowed (stolen) phone where you’re contacting the team for that variety show later.

Yeah, you’re almost done. Just a few more seconds and—

“Manager, I’m scared…”

You hear a voice. You glance towards the direction it came from and see Romance.

“Huh?” you say, confused.

Romance ignores the expression on your face and continues, “I have social anxiety…” He sniffs dramatically, like he’s trying to fake-cry.

“What are you—” you begin. “You really expect me to believe that?”

His hands, which are covering his face, slightly part so he can peek at your unimpressed look. Then he quickly covers his face again. “Yes,” he insists, and starts “shivering” with fake stage fright. You don’t even have a stage!

You just stare at him and roll your eyes. You glance at the rest of the members, then at the time.

You can do this… just give him what he wants.

“What should we do then?” you ask, forcing a smile as you bite back a snarl.

He peeks through his hands again before saying—still hiding his face—

“Wish me luck.”

“No.”

He pulls his hands away and leans in toward you. “Aww, come on! You do wanna see me perform, right?” Romance says, getting just slightly too close for comfort.

You stare at him, before taking a deep breath and exhaling through your nose. It’s fine. Just imagine he’s your ultimate bias and not some pink-haired demon who will most likely eat your non-existent soul.

You then say, a little too excitedly, “Good luck out there, Romance-oppa! Fighting!” You finish it off with your fists raised near your chest.

He just stares at you.

Okay, yeah… maybe that was kind of cringe, now that you think about it. Before you can say anything to save yourself—

“Of course! This performance of mine will be dedicated to you, my number one fan!” Romance declares. His earlier “social anxiety” completely vanishes as he winks at you and jogs back to the other guys, now finally in position.

Number one fan? You didn’t even say that.

Romance waves at you one last time, and you just give him a nod in return.

You turn to the cue button and start the countdown.

Okay.

Start in three… two… one.

—

“Jinu, don’t forget to announce that you and the boys will be on the variety show Play Games with Us tonight,” you say, holding the earpiece that’s connected to the boys’ in-ears.

You watch them closely, and finally, when they strike their final pose, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Jinu brushing off his shoulder was… new, but honestly? You weren’t mad at it.

He then starts announcing their guest appearance on the variety show, his voice loud and confident over the screaming crowd.

“Saja Boys, love you!”

And as if perfectly timed to the last beat of the song—"My Little Soda Pop!"—they vanish in that signature pink-ish smoke.

You exhale another sigh of relief. They did it! The debut performance was a success! You’re practically giddy now, smiling wide. Maybe you wouldn’t be turned into demon soup after all.

As you start counting the leftover posters you hadn’t managed to hand out to the crowd, a realization hits you.

Those assholes left you again!

next part

—

taglist is closed! (as of jun 29, 2025)

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maskedbyghost · 3 days ago

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this is part 2 to toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni

You hadn’t planned to cry, and honestly, you weren’t even sure why your chest felt tight in the first place. It was just supposed to be a walk, nothing more, just some fresh air and sunshine and maybe a break from your own thoughts.

You thought moving your body might help. Maybe if you just walked far enough, breathed deep enough, looked up at the clouds instead of staring at your bedroom ceiling, something would click into place and you’d feel like yourself again. Like a person again.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because every corner you turned, there was another couple.

They weren’t even being obnoxious about it. It wasn’t the affection that made you roll your eyes or want to vomit. It was worse. It was the soft stuff, the connection you could feel without even hearing a word of it.

A guy was walking with his girlfriend, and his hand was resting right at the small of her back. Another couple sat under a tree with a checkered blanket spread out beneath them. She was half in his lap, trying to balance her drink, laughing at something he had said, and he was holding her as if she were made of glass and sunlight, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other brushing her hair with his hands, slowly.

An older couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers intertwined so casually that it made your throat ache. She was talking, he was nodding, and they stopped every few steps to point at the flowers planted along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world.

And you just… froze.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even sadness, just this deep yearning that settled heavy in your chest and refused to budge, this desperate ache for something that didn’t hurt, something soft, something simple, something that didn’t feel like you were holding your breath all the time, afraid of saying the wrong thing or asking for too much.

You wanted to be held. Not grabbed, nor thrown onto a bed because someone couldn’t control themselves. You wanted to be chosen in the quiet moments, when there was no sex or tension or drama to sweeten the deal. You wanted someone to look at you and think, There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

You sat down on the nearest bench, dropped your phone into your lap, and just stared at the grass. You didn’t want to cry in public, not really, but the sting was there, just behind your eyes, and you blinked fast, hoping it’d go away.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even want to check. You already knew, somehow, like a sixth sense, or maybe just muscle memory.

“Come over. I’ll order Thai. You can stay.”

As if it was some kind of prize. Like the offer of food and his bed was supposed to feel anything other than a pity invitation. Like that sentence wasn’t the exact same breadcrumb he’d been throwing your way for months, just enough to keep you following, never enough to satisfy.

He wasn’t saying I miss you. He wasn’t saying I’m sorry I hurt you or I didn’t know what I had until you were gone. He was saying Come over. Like this was still a game he was winning.

And maybe a week ago, hell, maybe even yesterday, you would’ve paused. You would’ve stared at the message with that same dull throb in your chest and thought maybe this time will be different. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s trying.

But right now?

Right now, you felt done.

Done with making excuses for him. Done with confusing attention for affection. Done with dragging your heart behind you like dead weight every time he pulled you back in with nothing more than a half-assed promise and a takeout order.

Your fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the part of you that still wanted to believe he’d ever be capable of giving you what you needed.

And then you typed:

“No. We’re done, Simon. For real this time. Don’t text me again.”

Your thumb hit send before your brain could stop you, before your heart could scream, before the echo of what if could take root and grow into something dangerous again.

And then, without waiting for the three dots to pop up, without giving yourself a chance to hesitate or soften or let him back in even a little you blocked the number.

And that was it.

Your hand was trembling, your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. And your heartbeat was steady in your chest, like it was relieved.

You looked up at the sky. Watched the clouds move slowly across the blue. They didn’t know what it meant to panic over someone who didn’t care.

You weren’t happy, not yet. But for the first time in too long, you didn’t feel chained to him anymore.

And that, in itself, felt like something.

...

You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.

No texts, no calls, no sudden knocks at your door. No glimpses of him near your job, no DMs from new burner accounts, nor mutual friends trying to convince you he was “going through it.”

And honestly? You were starting to think he’d finally gotten the message. That maybe he’d realized what it meant when you said we’re done. That he’d felt the silence for what it was: a full stop, not a pause.

But then he showed up. Of course he did.

You were walking home from the grocery store, just a quick trip for bread and milk and some random snacks you didn’t need but bought anyway because the act of filling your cupboards made you feel happier. You’d just turned the corner onto your street, earbuds in, music low, mind somewhere else entirely, when you looked up and froze.

He was leaning against your building. And he had the nerve to be casual about it too, his arms crossed, head down like this wasn’t completely insane. He looked up when you stopped walking, and his mouth did that slow curl into a grin that used to make your stomach flip but now just made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your earbuds out and said nothing.

“Hey,” he said, as if this was normal or completely not out of bounds. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“Simon,” you started, your voice flat, your pulse already kicking up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “You blocked my number and my backup email. You weren’t really leaving me a lot of options.”

You blinked, stunned at how casually he said it. “So you decided to stalk me instead?”

“That’s a dramatic word,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you like you weren’t already backing away slightly, trying to hold onto your grip. “I just wanted to talk. You made that impossible.”

“I made it impossible because we broke up,” you snapped, dropping your grocery bag onto the steps with more force than necessary. “I told you not to text me. Not to call. I said we were done—done, Simon—what don’t you get?”

He smiled again, that infuriating smirk, like you’d just said something cute instead of trying to set a boundary.

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head. “We broke up, sure. But that doesn’t mean you get to erase me.”

You stared at him, jaw slack. “Are you actually hearing yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said, stepping closer now, his voice calmer, which, honestly, made you want to scream. “You think a couple texts and a blocklist are gonna make me forget what we were? You really think that’s enough?”

“I don’t want you to forget,” you snapped. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to understand that this—whatever this was—is over. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, just a flicker. A twitch of his jaw, a tightening of the eyes. You’d seen that look before, right before the walls went up. Right before the mask slipped into place.

“You keep saying we’re over,” Simon said slowly, “but you don’t get it.”

He stepped in so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the scent of his skin, that cologne he always wore too much of, the one that used to make you ache but now just made your stomach turn.

“You and me?” he whispered. “We’re never really over.”

Your breath hitched, and for a second—for one stupid, fleeting second—you felt that pull again. That old, broken, magnetic force that lived in the space between his mouth and yours, in the memory of what it felt like to be wanted by him.

But you were so fucking tired of confusing that with love. So you stepped back.

You looked him dead in the eye, and you said:

“What do you want from me, Simon? Seriously. Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to fall apart in front of you just so you can feel something? Because whatever this is—it’s not love, it’s not real. It’s you, trying to control me. And I’m done letting you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there. And you picked up your bag again, turned on your heel, and walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t have to.

Because this time? You were the one leaving him behind.

...

It had been weeks.

Weeks of silence, weeks of healing, and pretending you were ready to move on, even when your heart still felt like a battlefield he’d walked away from without ever looking back.

So when your coworker asked you out—the nice one, the one who remembered your coffee order and always held the elevator—you said yes.

You didn’t feel fireworks, nor did you get butterflies. But you also didn’t feel dread, or the bone-deep exhaustion that came from chasing someone who only ever looked back when you were halfway out the door.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe soft was what you needed now. Safe and simple.

He took you to a cozy little restaurant tucked off the main street, the kind with candlelight and mismatched chairs and a menu written entirely in cursive. He held the door open for you, pulled your chair out when you sat, complimented your dress without looking at your chest. And you smiled, even if it felt a little forced. You laughed, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You tried...

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to the bathroom. The ladies’ room was down a narrow hallway in the back, quiet and dim, music muffled through the walls. You were halfway there when you felt it.

That shift in the air.

That awareness that only ever came from one person. And you didn’t even get the chance to turn around before he was there.

He stepped out from the shadows of the hallway like a fucking ghost, like he’d been waiting, like he knew you’d be here and timed it down to the minute. And before you could speak, before you could even breathe, he had you pressed up against the wall, one arm caging you in, the other sliding slowly along your waist.

His mouth was at your ear in an instant, voice low, thick, dirty.

“Really, sweetheart?” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “This the best you can do?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. Your hands went to his chest, pushing lightly, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in closer, body not quite touching yours but so fucking close, you could feel the heat radiating off him like fire.

“You think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?” he whispered, and it wasn’t even a question—it was filth wrapped in confidence. “You think he even knows what to do with you? Bet he doesn’t even know how you sound when you beg. Doesn’t know how your thighs shake when I’ve got my mouth on you—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, voice shaking, but your knees were already weak and your throat felt tight.

Simon smirked, eyes dark and gleaming. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you? His hands won't feel right, will they? Bet you’d picture mine every time he touches you.”

Your hands pushed harder now, but he didn’t flinch.

“And what about when he’s inside you?” Simon rasped, mouth brushing your jaw, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna close your eyes and pretend it’s me?”

“At least he’ll fucking stay,” you snapped, louder now, anger burning through the haze. “At least he won’t leave the second he gets what he wants. At least I won’t wake up to an empty bed.”

That got him. His jaw clenched instantly.

But he didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing hard, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to touch you or punch a hole in the wall beside your head.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Simon didn’t move right away. He just stood there, watching you like you’d gutted him, like your words had cut deeper than you’d meant them to—but you didn’t regret it.

Not this time.

You stepped around him, ignoring the way your legs trembled beneath you, head high, heart pounding like it was trying to tear its way out of your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You walked straight back to the table, sat down, and smiled at your date like your ex hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear in a hallway like a man possessed.

“Everything okay?” your date asked gently.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “The bathroom line was just long.”

...

The walk back to your apartment felt like an out-of-body experience.

Your date had walked you home, smiling the entire way, hands tucked into his pockets, making soft jokes that you tried to laugh at, even though your stomach had been turning since the second you stepped out of the restaurant. He was kind. He listened, he held the door open, and he even complimented your dress without leering. And when you reached your door, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and gentle, just like the kind of kiss you should want from someone like him.

And you felt nothing. Not even a flicker, not even a spark.

You kissed him back out of politeness, maybe even a little guilt, and when you stepped away and thanked him for dinner, he smiled like he’d had a good time. And you hated that you hadn’t. Hated that he was everything you said you wanted—safe, respectful, sweet—and all you could think about the whole fucking night was Simon’s mouth, Simon’s hands, Simon whispering filth and promises and pain in your ear like he was made to ruin you.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.

From this endless, exhausting loop of trying to do the right thing and still craving the wrong one.

You fumbled with your keys, cursing under your breath, eyes burning. You wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to shove Simon’s face into the fact that he’d broken you so thoroughly that now, even when someone was good to you, it felt wrong.

The door opened. And there he was.

Simon.

Sitting on your couch but he didn’t look cocky this time. Didn’t smirk or lean back with that smug glint in his eye. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he didn’t even know what to say anymore.

You dropped your purse.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” your voice cracked, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He stood, slowly, but you were already walking toward him, hands clenched, eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” you hissed. “How fucking dare you be here again. After everything.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” you snapped. “No, you don’t get to talk. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re confused about why I don’t want you in my life. You ruined me, Simon.”

He flinched, and good. You wanted it to hurt.

“You took everything I gave you, every part of me, and you made it ugly.” Your voice shook now, rage mixing with grief. “You used me when you wanted company. Tossed me when you were bored. And I kept coming back, like a fucking idiot, thinking maybe this time you’d mean it when you kissed me.”

He was quiet.

“I went on a date tonight,” you spat. “With someone who treated me like I mattered. Someone who held doors and remembered things I said and kissed me like he gave a damn, and do you know what I thought the whole time?”

Simon swallowed, barely whispering, “What?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes now.

“I thought about you,” you said, voice cracking. “I thought about your fucking mouth, about your hands. I thought about how I’d rather have your soft kiss than his perfect one. And I hate myself for it.”

Simon took a step forward. “I never meant to—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling now. “Don’t stand there and act like this just happened. You did this. You made me believe you’d never care, and now I’m so fucking broken I can’t even feel anything from someone who actually tries. I still picture you when I think about love, Simon. That’s the worst part.”

He was right in front of you now, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide as he just watched you split yourself open in front of him.

“I imagine you,” you whispered. “But better, softer, and kinder. I imagine you as the version I needed, the one I deserved, and it kills me, because I don’t even know if that version of you exists.”

Silence.

He reached out then, so slowly it made your breath catch, and placed one hand gently on your cheek, the lightest touch he’d ever given you.

“I can be him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll try. I’ll be him.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then another, on your temple. One on your cheek, your jaw, your nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You were crying now, full-on sobbing, body shaking like it had been holding this in for far too long. And he didn’t grab you, didn’t pull you into him like he used to. He just stood there, kissing every tear that fell like he was trying to wipe them from existence.

“I didn’t know how to love you right,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But I will. If you let me. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. I’ll do the work. Just… don’t shut the door on me yet.”

You didn’t answer.

Because even after everything, even through all the rage and resentment and raw wounds, his kisses still felt like home.

And that was the scariest part of all.

He kissed your tears like they burned him, as if each one that slid down your cheeks was proof of what he’d broken, and he was trying, pathetically, hopelessly, to piece it all back together with nothing but his mouth and the weight of his regret.

You didn’t say anything when he pressed his forehead to yours. Didn’t pull away when he wrapped both arms around you like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You just stood there and let yourself breathe him in, his warmth, his scent.

“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, voice raw. “Please, just once. Let me make it right.”

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, but you let him take your hand.

He led you to the bed and didn’t tear your clothes off like he usually did. He didn’t grab or push or bite. He just kissed you, like you were something fragile, something he didn’t think he deserved to touch but was begging to try.

His hands trembled when he slid your top up over your arms. He took his time with every button, every hem, because rushing would ruin it. When your bra fell away, he kissed the center of your chest—not your breasts, not your neck—your chest, right over your heart, and rested there for a second like he was trying to feel it beat.

“You don’t have to forgive me now,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m gonna earn it. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

You didn’t stop the tears. You didn’t hide from them. They slid quietly down your cheeks as he lowered himself between your legs and pressed his mouth to your stomach, your hips, your thighs—anywhere but the place you were already aching for him.

“I’m gonna learn how to love you right,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m gonna give you every soft thing I never thought you’d want. You won’t have to beg for affection anymore. You won’t have to guess if I’ll stay.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, then finally pressed his mouth to where you needed him. It felt as if he was praying with his tongue. Like this was how he was going to worship you now.

You gasped, hands fisting the sheets, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

He looked up from between your thighs, his face a mess of want and pain.

“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly, crawling back up your body. “I mean… I know why you are. But I hate that I’m the reason for it. I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You cupped his face, fingers trembling, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

He lined himself up, slow and careful, and when he pushed inside, he went still. Completely still. Just breathing against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this close again.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, you always did.”

He moved slowly, painfully slow. Like every thrust was an apology. Like he was rewriting the way he touched you, undoing every rushed, selfish fuck with something tender and earned.

Your tears didn’t stop. And neither did he.

He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, and your jaw. Whispered everything he’d never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I’m gonna do better.”

“I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.”

“No more games. No more pushing you away.”

You whimpered beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like you didn’t know how to let go anymore.

He rested his forehead against yours and kept moving, slow and deep, every thrust sending something hot and unbearable through your chest.

“You deserve flowers,” he breathed. “And check-ins. And hand-holding and fucking morning texts and someone who doesn’t make you cry every goddamn day.”

His voice cracked again. You felt it.

“And I want to be him,” Simon said, nearly choking on it. “I need to be him.”

Your body trembled beneath him. You were already so close, not just because of his cock, but because of the way he was inside you.

You came with a broken sob, your nails digging into his back, your legs shaking.

He came a moment later, groaning into your neck, and holding you tightly.

He didn’t pull out and didn’t move.

Just wrapped his arms around you, face pressed to your shoulder, and kissed you again and again and again, believing that if he just stayed close enough, the damage might finally start to heal.

...

Morning came quietly.

You woke to the pale gray light bleeding through your bedroom curtains, the kind of early morning glow that made everything feel hazy. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Warm.

And then you remembered.

The weight behind you wasn’t just a dream.

Simon.

Still here, and breathing steadily against your back, one arm draped around your waist.

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t that last night had been bad. It hadn’t. If anything, it had been too good. Too soft. Too vulnerable. It was the kind of night you used to pray for back when you thought he’d never give it to you.

And now?

Now it just felt like weakness.

You untangled yourself from his arm slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him as you sat up and slipped your legs over the side of the bed. But he stirred anyway, and you felt his hand twitch behind you, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

You stood up and didn’t turn around when you said it.

“Simon… you need to go.”

Silence.

Then the quiet sound of bedsheets rustling behind you.

“...You serious?” His voice was rough from sleep, low and uncertain in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You nodded, still facing the window. “Yeah. I am.”

He sat up, and you could hear it, the shift in weight, the creak of the mattress, the pause before the sigh.

“Last night—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Was a moment,” you said, finally turning around to look at him. “That’s all. A moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes bloodshot, hair messy, mouth parted.

“I meant everything I said,” he told you quietly. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “But meaning it isn’t enough. Not yet.”

He was quiet again, looking down at his hands, he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding you.

“Okay,” he said eventually, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

You watched as he stood, pulled on his jeans, his hoodie, his boots. He didn’t rush, nor beg. He just moved with weighted sadness, like leaving was physically hard to do.

But at the door, he paused and turned around. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. That I meant what I said. That I’m changing. You’re gonna look at me one day, and you’re not gonna feel stupid for loving me anymore.”

You didn’t reply.

You just looked at him, arms crossed, your heart pounding.

And then he opened the door and stepped into the hall, casting one last glance back over his shoulder.

“I’ll win you back,” Simon said, voice like a quiet promise. “Even if it kills me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you didn’t breathe until you were alone again.

PART 3

-----------------------------------------

@nightunite I'm not done with this bitch yet.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon riley smut

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inseobts · 2 days ago

Text

When the Sea Gives You Tangerines

shanks x fem!reader

after years spent loving each other you have many stories to tell to the strawhats.

words count: 2.2k

a/n: I got inspired by the kdrama When Life Gives You Tangerines, I just hope it didn't come out too cringy honestly...

tags: childhood friends, storytelling, bickering, comfort, fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The fire’s warm. The moon hangs heavy above the ship.

Luffy leans back, arms behind his head, grinning “So, how’d you two end up together anyway?”

You blink “Us?”

Shanks smirks, sitting beside you on a crate “You wanna tell it, or should I?”

“Like hell I’m letting you tell it.” you mutter.

Nami leans in, curious. Sanji pours wine for Robin. Zoro pretends he’s not listening. Even Usopp’s wide-eyed. They’ve heard of Shanks the Yonko, but they never thought they’d hear him laughing like this.

You sigh “It started when we were kids.”

“She hated me.” Shanks says.

You shoot him a look “I ignored you.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“She’d walk past me every day like I was just a chair.”

“You sat like one. On the dock. All day.”

“I was watching the sea! I was thoughtful.”

“You were stupid.”

Shanks grins at the crew “See? True love.”

They laugh. You roll your eyes.

You look down at your hands “We were kids in the same village. I liked books. He liked trouble.”

“She liked pretending she didn’t care.” he adds.

“I didn’t.”

“You still don’t.” he teases.

Your voice softens “He followed me everywhere.”

Shanks turns to the crew “Everywhere.”

You smack his arm “Stop making it weird.”

He grins “I’m just saying. If she climbed a tree, I climbed it. If she stole an apple, I stole two.”

“And got caught.”

“I let them catch me so that they wouldn't catch you.”

You scoff “You cried.”

“I was seven!”

Everyone laughs again, but this time it fades slower.

You rest your chin on your hand “We grew up. He left first. Said the sea was calling. I said ‘Good. Don’t come back’.”

“But I did.” he says. Quiet now.

“You always did.” you say.

There’s a pause. The kind that only happens when people are listening too hard.

Nami’s voice breaks the silence “But when did you fall in love?”

You look at Shanks. He’s already looking at you.

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe when he stopped being an idiot.”

“So never.” Luffy says.

Shanks chuckles “I knew before she did. I was always waiting.”

You swallow. Your voice is barely a whisper “I was afraid.”

“Why?” Luffy asks.

“Because he was everything I didn’t want to need.”

Shanks leans back, watching the fire “And I was just waiting for her to look at me the way I looked at her.”

Zoro snorts “That’s depressing.”

Robin smiles “It’s real.”

You toss a tangerine at Shanks. He catches it, grinning.

“You’re still annoying.” you say.

“And you still love me.” he says.

You don’t answer but you don’t deny it, either.

You throw another tangerine at Luffy. He dodges it, laughing with his mouth wide open.

“Why are you asking so many questions, huh?” you say, pointing at him “You’ve heard this story a million times.”

Luffy shrugs, still grinning “Because I love it!”

You squint at him “You didn’t even listen the first hundred times.”

“Yeah, but I remember all of it now,” he says “When I was a kid, I used to look up at Shanks like he was the sun. Strong. Loud. Impossible.”

Shanks rubs the back of his neck “Don’t make me sound too cool.”

“But when he was with you,” Luffy continues, softer now, “or talking about you… he changed.”

You blink. The fire crackles again.

“It was like you were his captain.” Luffy says.

Everyone goes quiet. Zoro pauses mid-drink. Nami watches you closely. Robin’s smile grows just a little.

Shanks doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Luffy’s voice drops “And that always made me feel like… maybe the Shanks everyone fears... wasn’t that scary after all.”

Shanks finally glances at you. There’s no teasing in his eyes now.

You don’t know what to say to that.

Because it’s true. All those years he was off sailing, getting stronger, louder, more famous... he’d write to you like nothing had changed. Like he was still that barefoot boy chasing after you in the mud.

You hated those letters. You kept every single one.

“He never stops talking about you.” Luffy adds.

Shanks groans “Luffy—”

“No, really! He’d be telling us about a fight or a treasure, and then... bam ‘That reminds me of her’ or, ‘She would’ve laughed at that’ or—”

“Luffy!” Shanks throws a cork at his head.

You hide a smile behind your hand.

“So,” Sanji says, leaning forward, “who confessed first?”

You and Shanks speak at the same time:

“He did.”

“She did.”

The crew erupts.

“What?!”

“Liar!”

You point at him “You kissed me first. And you were obvious since you were 6.”

“Yeah, but you said it first.” he counters.

“Only because you were dying.”

“I wasn’t dying!”

“You had a spear in your shoulder!”

“A tiny spear.”

“You fainted.”

“I was tired!”

Nami shakes her head “You two are a mess.”

Robin sips her wine “A beautiful mess.”

Luffy lies back on the deck, hands behind his head again “I just knew you two would end up like this.”

“You weren't even there... But yeah,” you say quietly as you look at Shanks, and he’s already watching you “I think deep down… I always knew too.”

“So you didn’t join Shanks on the sea from the start?” Usopp asks, still wide-eyed like he’s listening to a bedtime story.

You snort “No. I didn’t want to.”

“She followed me anyway.” Shanks says, puffing his chest like a proud idiot.

You roll your eyes “I studied. For years. Maps. Languages. History. Ship mechanics. All of it. I worked harder than anyone.”

Robin tilts her head “So you could sail?”

You pause “So I could stand next to him without being a burden.”

Shanks turns to you, slower now, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment “You never told me that.”

You pick at the edge of your sleeve “Yeah, well. You never shut up long enough to hear it.”

The crew laughs, but it’s gentler now.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, turning back to Luffy “The first time I met you, you looked at me like I was your mom and Shanks used to make fun of me.”

“What?” Luffy blinks.“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did,” you say “You followed me around, asked if I had snacks, and called me ‘Miss Cool Pirate Lady’ for three days.”

Shanks throws his head back, laughing “I remember that!”

“You sat in the corner and drew me with a sword,” you add “And then said I was cooler than Shanks. And you called me mom by mistakes multiple times.”

“I WAS FIVE!” Luffy yells, red in the face now.

You smirk “Still true though.”

Shanks puts a hand over his heart “He used to blush like crazy everytime he realised he called you mom.”

There’s a quiet moment as the waves lap softly against the ship.

“Going back to that question... I didn’t plan to go to sea at first,” you admit “I wanted a small, quiet life.”

Shanks smiles, listening.

“But then he left,” you say, eyes on the stars “And I couldn’t stop wondering if he’d die without me.”

“That’s romantic,” Sanji says, dreamily.

“No,” you shake your head “That’s just the truth.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.” Shanks says softly.

“No,” you nod “You didn’t have to.”

You turn back to the Straw Hats “I joined the crew two years after he left. I showed up with a packed bag and told Benn, ‘Don’t make a big deal’.”

“And I immediately made a big deal.” Shanks grins.

“You tripped running down the dock.”

“I was moved, okay?”

“You fell into a crate of bananas.”

“It was an emotional day!”

Everyone’s laughing again. The air is full of warmth now, wine and fire and stories wrapped around the mast like wind.

Luffy lies on the floor of the Sunny, staring up at the sails “You two were the first people I ever saw who felt like family.”

You go still.

He says it so easily, like it’s always been true.

“I didn’t understand it then,” Luffy goes on, “but… when you were together, it felt safe. Not boring. Just… safe. Like home.”

You glance at Shanks. He’s not smiling now, not in the big, cocky way. This one’s smaller. Quieter. Like he can barely hold it.

“I guess I raised two idiots” you mutter, wiping your nose.

“You did,” Shanks says “And somehow, we both turned out okay.”

“Debatable.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours “Speak for yourself. I’m perfect.”

“You’re loud.”

“You love it.”

You don’t answer.

You just lean into him, just enough.

Luffy’s snoring now. Flat on his back, mouth open, arms spread like he owns the whole ship.

You nudge him with your toe. Nothing. Just louder snoring.

“I guess storytime’s over.” you say, standing and brushing off your pants.

Shanks stretches, groaning a little too dramatically “Guess that’s our cue to go.”

“Yeah,” you nod, already turning to leave “Let’s let the kids sleep.”

“Wait—WAIT.” Nami’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You freeze “What?”

“You’re not leaving yet,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips “You haven’t told us the best part.”

You sigh “Oh no.”

“How did he propose?” she grins.

“Oh no...” you repeat.

Usopp leans forward “Did he cry?”

Sanji fans himself “Was it romantic?”

Chopper is bouncing now “Did you say yes right away?!”

Franky still crying over your romantic stories.

Robin smiles “You must share. We’re invested now.”

You turn slowly toward Shanks.

He looks like a man standing in front of a cannon.

“We were supposed to not to tell anyone” you whisper.

He grins sheepishly “I didn’t!… Yet.”

You groan into your hands “You’re a menace.”

“But a charming menace.” he adds, winking.

“Don’t wink at me. I’m still mad.”

You face the crew with a deep sigh.

“Fine,” you say “But it wasn’t romantic.”

“Yes it was!” Shanks says.

“No. It wasn’t.”

“I tried to make it romantic.”

“You proposed during a storm.”

“It was dramatic!”

“We were sinking.”

“That’s memorable!”

Robin’s eyes sparkle “Please continue.”

You sit back down, crossing your arms “Okay. So. We’re in the middle of this horrible storm, waves taller than the ship. I’m tying down barrels, he’s yelling commands, the usual chaos.”

“And she looks amazing.” Shanks adds.

“Drenched.” You glare at him “Hair stuck to my face, one boot missing, and I’m yelling at the crew.”

“Very commanding... and sexy...” he says dreamily.

“And then,” you continue, ignoring him, “this idiot climbs the main mast with a ring in his mouth.”

Gasps around the fire.

“You didn’t...” Nami whispers.

“I did.” Shanks says proudly.

“And he screams... screams ‘WILL YOU MARRY ME?!’ while lightning is literally striking the ocean behind him.”

“You said yes.” he grins.

“I said, ‘GET DOWN BEFORE YOU DIE, YOU LUNATIC!’”

Robin is laughing quietly now. Chopper is wide-eyed. Usopp is trying not to cry while Franky is bawling.

Sanji puts a hand on his heart “That’s the most pirate thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zoro raises a brow “So when did you actually say yes?”

You sigh “Two days later. Calm seas. Clear skies. I was brushing my hair.”

“She just looks at me and goes, ‘I guess I’m stuck with you now’.”

“And then I threw the ring at him.” you say.

“You missed.”

“I aimed for your face.”

Everyone laughs again. The fire’s burning lower now, but no one wants to move.

Shanks wraps an arm around your shoulders, casual. Warm.

“And you still married me.” he says.

You glance up at him.

“You forgot the ring at the wedding.”

“It was in my other coat!”

“You don’t have another coat.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh, shaking your head, but you’re smiling now. Soft. Quiet. Real.

“He’s a disaster.” you say.

“She’s the reason I survive it.”

The fire’s nothing but glowing coals now.

Luffy’s curled up like a kid. Most of the Straw Hats are asleep, heads resting on arms, backs against barrels, dreams thick in the night air.

You and Shanks sit side by side, knees almost touching.

He’s quiet now. Not laughing. Just watching the waves.

You look out too.

Then he says, softly, “You never really wanted this life.”

You don’t look at him “I didn’t.”

“You wanted quiet.”

You nod “I wanted peace. Soft mornings.”

“And you got storms. Blood. Chaos.”

You smile, just a little “And you.”

He swallows “Sorry.”

You shake your head “Don’t be. I said yes.”

Shanks looks at you “Even after everything?”

You finally meet his eyes “Especially after everything.”

The ship rocks gently.

“You know,” you whisper, “when we were young, I thought you were the kind of boy who would burn the world just to see what was under it.”

“I was.” he says.

“And I thought I’d spend my life trying to stop you.”

He smiles faintly “Did you?”

“No,” you say “I ended up helping you light the match.”

You both laugh, soft and low.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a candy.

Shanks raises an eyebrow “You still carry those?”

“I always do, they're my favourite.” you say. You hand it to him.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leans into you, warm and steady.

And in the quiet, in the dark, with the sea all around you and stars blinking like old friends overhead, you think:

No, I didn’t get the life I planned. But I got the one I chose.

And more importantly, I got him.

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tojisteddy · 2 days ago

Text

Meanie!simon who thinks the little attitude is cute until it isn’t.

cw: 18+ mdni, oral (m receiving), throat fucking, brat!taming, daddy kink, dad bf!simon.

Doesn’t know where you got it from, but that harsh click of your designer heal to the hardwood floor, string of blasphemous curses and a cute scowl. the brutes brown eyes twinkle and he gobbled it up. Loves the idea of you taking on some of his traits.

But you were pushing it, now atleast. Simon doesn’t mind giving you what you want. Hell, you don’t even ask most of the time, the man will just get it because he knows you so well. But lately, you’ve been storming off with a stomp of your foot mid conversation, rolling your eyes, pouting when you didn’t get that record you’d been pleading with God to get.

Simon can only let it fly once or twice till hes gotta correct it himself.

He’ll let out that deepest sarcastic chuckle known to man, eyebrow raised this time, watching you with your face all screwed up, your own eyebrows furrowing, fists balled up—

“Yor reallly cute doll, trust me.” He bellows, circling around the car with the brand new tire in his hand. “Keep the attitude act up though, I’ll fix your problem f’ya.”

It only makes you more annoyed, you dip your toes in untouched waters— “I don’t have a fuckin issue, it’s you who’s got the stick up your ass. I don’t even ask for shit, I want that damned record!”

you should’ve just shut your blabber mouth. Just this once.

You’d have you on your knees, your mouth as wide as it can, hand gripping your curls, and ramming his cock into your tight little thoat. He starts slow, let’s you take his member into your mouth till your nose is kissing his pubic hairs, then plunged back into you, till you’re unthinking,

“Daddy’s alllllways gotta teach you to watch that fuckin mouth, thoa’ I taught ya better than tha’ luvie.”

He almost never gives you time to breath, your hands gripping the back of his thigh as he uses you, his cock pulses and grows larger at the sight of you. You’re nothing but a mess, his cum mixed with your spin dripping down your chin, tears running down your face, mascara smudged, and those gorgeous brown iris’ staring up at him— oh you’re the prettiest thing known to man in this moment.

“Been fuckin bitchin at me when you just needed to put this slutty mouth t’ use. Come on baby, take it.” He groans as you moan around him, you squirm on the ground, your clit pulsing in your soaking panties.

He roughly pulls out, still gripping your hair. You coughing up a storm, panting and trying to catch up he pumps his dick in his hands, he grunts “Suck it kitty.”

You don’t have to be told twice.

And maybe it’s from the oxygen not all the way to your brain yet, but you’re completely dazed. Taking his aching red length into your hands and slapping the tip on your tongue. Your plump lips wrap around the head, sucking and slurping and taking every inch you can, deep, until you’re choking. Stroking whatever you couldnt fit in your mouth. You let your tongue follow the veins around him and then pull your head back and forth till you’re out of breath. Ditzy smile on your lips.

“Thaaaa’s it baby, look at you bein a good. fuckin. girl.” he curses, fucking your face again, throwing his head back at how warm you are around him, till you feel cock twitch, hot cum filling the depths of your throat.

“What’d’ya say?”

You hiccuped, wiping wash your tears, swallowing his release as the blonde stands you up, “Thank you daddy.”

His chest moves up and down, slowly becoming regular again. He brushes your hair out of your face, “Gonna respect your pa from now on? Yeah?”

You nod your head, eyes fluttering, your voice nothing but ragged. “Yes, sir.”

He gives a slap to your ass, sending you stumbling back into the house. Thinking, maybe he’d get you that fuckin stupid record.

The man couldn’t help but spoil is precious baby. The exact reason you acted up every now and then.

a/n: this was sloppy but 🤷🏾‍♀️ it was on my mind

most recent masterlist

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse @dollfwn @mims900 @lillybunni

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chromehoney · 3 days ago

Note

Hey really like your writing and I was wondering if could do more smoke and stack black!fem!curvy/plusize!reader. I do think this will go well with the nerdy/girl next door or the independent baddie type of reader. But you make her personality and lifestyle whatever you want.

aweee thank youu!!! and ofcccc , this is a little rushed since i just wanted to get atleast one request done today so excuse errors!!!

You was tired. Tired of them twins—Smoke and Stack—playing in your face like they didn’t want you. Like they ain’t watch your ass in every room, talk about “that damn dress,” whisper in your ear at family functions, make you cream off one look. They’d tease, flirt, touch your thigh in the truck, but never make a real move. And the second you put a little distance? Act like they owned you.

So tonight, you said fuck it.

Your thick ass was outside at one of your friends parties in a strapless bodycon that gripped every roll and dip like sin itself. Soft pink, and made to make a man stutter. You had on lashes that batted without tryin’, nails long and wicked, diamond studs shining through your wild curly hair as you laughed with your girls. You posted a story before you left the house, of a picture you took of your body in your long vertical body mirror, the dress was thin so the picture got the outlines of your tits and your nipples were poking out, and the picture also showed a lil’ hip. You weren’t playin’ shy no more.

That was until your phone buzzed in your purse.

SMOKE: Bring yo’ ass home.

STACK: Before we come find you.

Your heart jumped.

You swallowed thick. Laughed a little too hard, trying to play it off—until you caught sight of him. Trey. One of Smoke and Stack’s old running buddies. Standing across the bar like he ain’t have a damn drink, arms crossed, eyes on you. No smile. Just watchin’. Close enough to move if needed. That’s when you knew. They had eyes. Ears. Everywhere . Shit, they probably knew what color your panties were before you left the house.

You snatched your keys. Whispered to your girls, “I gotta go. Emergency.” They looked confused, but you didn’t stop to explain. Just shuffled fast in those heels, heart pounding, thighs rubbing, heat blooming between them before you even made it to your car. The house was dark as hell when your car pulled up.

But the porch light was on.

They was waiting. Smoke leaning against the railing, Stack sitting back in the chair beside him, both passing a fat joint between calloused fingers. Lazy, country, smug as hell. They wore black tees that clung to muscle, jeans sitting low, boots tapping against the wood.

You stepped out the car slow.

Their eyes dragged down your body like rough hands. That damn dress clung to your ass like it was made to sin. Stack’s jaw clenched. Smoke exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes low and hot. “Didn’t we say bring yo’ ass home?” Stack muttered, voice thick like molasses and thunder.

“She was tryna show out,” Smoke said, barely glancing at his brother, like he couldn’t take his eyes off you. “Look at her. Lil’ dress tight as hell. Like she want somebody to rip it off.”

“You mad?” you asked, head cocked, lips pursed—trying to keep your bratty edge, even while your thighs pressed tight. “No,” Stack stood up, slow and towering, licking his lips. “We done bein’ mad.” “We done playin’, too,” Smoke added. You ain’t get another word out before you were pushed back against the front door, that joint flicked into the grass.

Four hands. Rough, greedy, mean.

Smoke grabbed your chin and made you look up. “You think you grown, huh? Think you can tease us? Walk around in that lil’ dress and not get fucked like we hate you for it?”

Stack was already behind you, hand fisting the hem of that tight fabric. “You made us chase you. Made us watch you postin’ pics like you single.” “I am—” His hand cracked across your ass. “Say it again.”You whimpered. “I ain’t!…” “Damn right,” Smoke growled, dragging his tongue down your cleavage. “You ours. Say it.”

“Y-Yours—”

And then they was on you. Everywhere. Clothes ripped, dress yanked, lips bitten, thighs pinned wide against the door. You were lifted, filled, devoured. One held your wrists while the other fucked you deeper than breaths. Their mouths left marks on your tits, your throat, your soul. Each thrust came with a growl, a curse, a whisper about how they should’ve claimed you sooner. You cried and came, then cried some more—smeared and swollen, your lip gloss gone and your sass unraveling like lace.

They fucked you like they hated you. But kissed you like they owned you. And when it was over—your body limp and slick in their arms, breath shallow—Smoke played with your curls as he fixed his mouth to speak. “We done playin’, baby.

Stack kissed your neck, slow and possessive. “Time to settle the fuck down.“ You blinked up at them. Mascara running. Cheeks flushed. And all you could do was nod. Because deep down… You knew you weren’t going nowhere ever again.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers!

btw , i got alllll yalls requests done! i’m surprised but i did it. so imma drop em in bulk , another one should be coming out either later on today to tomorrow .. depending on how im feeling!! after they all drop imma give myself a few daysss to rest from writing before i start a new fic.. ‘m thinking maybe annie x fem reader ??? andddd there’s also gone be a new series comin’ out so stay tuned for that.

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holmoris · 2 days ago

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I went to one once as a kid (or rather was dragged; my aunt had a yearly pass to every show the local house put on) that involved a power outage and the gimmick was the light treated as the reverse of reality - if the room lights were off (total darkness) it was treated as if they were on for the play; and vice versa. Everyone took their seats and the theater went pitch dark; you heard some conversation establishing that food was being served at a dinner party and then suddenly a loud electrical buzz and the lights flicker on to the curtains already open with the actors sitting around the table complaining that the power had just gone out. There was a lot of groping around in the 'dark' and tons of physical comedy as two of the characters got more and more angry with eachother only for the power to come back on (lights off again) so they could beat the crap out of eachother in the darkness ending with one of them sprawled over a chair with a black eye when the power went out again, or something to that effect. Plays can be dumb as hell and it's great.

so what do u think about plays

i like how in a theatre time and space are necessarily metaphorical. i don’t like how plays always have to begin with someone walking onstage and talking. too many directors try to work around this by having someone walk onstage and brood in silence for a moment before talking. this is worse.

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dark-night-hero · 2 days ago

Text

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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7spaceace7 · 2 days ago

Text

“So I’m supposed to hit the thing now, right?” Steve says with a furrowing brow as he scans down his character sheet. He was usually better at math than English back in school, but now even the numbers on this page are doing little flips around.

“Yes, Steve, that is the object of this fight: to win.” Dustin’s eye roll is almost more pronounced than his attitude.

Steve jabs his pencil toward him and is about to remind him to watch his tone, again, but Eddie’s voice starts before he does.

“Give him a break, alright? It’s his first time,” His voice is firm, but not unkind, and Dustin surprisingly listens. Steve reminds himself that this is Eddie’s domain, and the dungeon master himself flashes him an encouraging smile. “Go ahead, dude, what’re are you thinkin’?”

“You didn’t give us a break our first time,” Lucas grumbles.

“You little gremlins have years of experience on our esteemed guest here, didn’t think I needed to.”

Mike huffs loudly, “Don’t tell me you’re going easy on him just because you’re dating now, because that’s cheating!”

Eddie’s head snaps toward Mike. The sass from his face drops into fear.

“Wheeler.” He slowly raises a crooked finger, “You dare accuse your,” A hand goes over his heart, “beloved game master of such a heinous crime as cheating?”

Gareth groans. “Now you’ve done it.”

“The integrity of this table—my integrity!—at stake here and judged by a child,” The dramatics are in full swing, as are his arms that wildly slam against his chest as if he’s been shot. His head drops and his expression sneers at Mike. “I didn’t realize you’d so quickly forgotten who exactly caused the last near-TPK of this group.”

Steve doesn’t know what the hell a tee-pee-kay is, but judging by the boos now resounding around the table, it seemed very serious. Even Dustin is giving Mike the stink eye.

“I’ll still never forgive what you did to Bastian.”

“Oh come on, he was remembered as a hero!”

“You FED him to the ENEMY!”

“That wasn’t my fault, the soldiers tricked me and the dragon’s AC was—!”

“SILENCE!”

The room stiffens. Dustin and Mike shamefully retreat into their seats once more as Eddie narrows his eyes in their direction.

Steve blinks. Blinks harder. Looks anywhere he can that isn’t directly at his boyfriend. He shifts in his seat as memories of a certain moment in Reefer Rick’s boat shack flood his mind.

No, no, he will not be thinking about that in front of the kids.

“Good. Now, if I recall correctly…” Eddie turns to Steve with the sweetest smile reserved only for him, like he didn’t just command the entire room into shutting the hell up, “Steve’s initiative is higher than both of yours and it is still his turn. Go ahead, sweetheart.”

The jock’s face burns bright red all the way to his ears. His brain racks itself to try and think of something—does he attack? Does he roll? What’s his weapon again?

“Well um. I guess—”

But all he can do is stare right back at Eddie’s brown doe eyes that are still trained on his own.

“Uh…”

Jeff shakes his head. “Great job, man, you broke him.”

#stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #dustin henderson #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #steddie headcanon #i wrote this in a day and it was supposed to be a lot shorter whoops

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hearts4hughes · 2 days ago

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OK HEAR ME OUT BUT LIKE SOMETHING WITH THIS TIKTOK BROO IT NEEDS TO BE WRITTEN and u’re rhe first author that came to mind😣🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Link:

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSk7dosHa/

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe punching jj for you

it’s not jealousy. well, that’s what you keep telling yourself. it’s not jealousy—it’s just rafe. he’s always been like this. too protective. too intense. always hovering near the edge of something darker. but he’s also the one who carries your drunk ass home, who leaves snacks in your passenger seat, who remembers every tiny thing you’ve ever said like it matters. he’s your best friend.

you say that a lot lately. mostly to convince yourself. you were on your way into tannyhill when you heard the two voices. rafe invited you over for a movie night—a tradition between you two. although, he seems to have overbooked his plans. jj’s out there; rafe too.

you pause on the last step of the porch. you stand in the shadows, observing from afar. rafe’s hair is touseled and messy, eyes dark and bloodshot with whatever drug he’s snorted. his hat is thrown on the ground—most likely from jj’s antics. jj stands across from him with a smug smirk, sunglasses on even though it’s well past dawn, and arms crossed like he owns the grounds.

“what do you mean?” jj’s voice, light but cautious.

“i mean like,” rafe huffs, running a hand through his hair. “you didn’t kiss her or anything.” rafe’s, flat. no smirk or hint of amusement.

your breath catches. they don’t know you’re here, but blood still rushes to your cheeks. jj snorts. “no.”

rafe nods fast, eyes glued to the ground. “right.”

“absolutely not, no.” jj adds. maybe to egg on rafe or maybe to convince himself he didn’t want to kiss you in the first place. you should leave. you really should. but your feet stay planted, heartbeat thudding like a dare.

“did you want it?” rafe’s voice cuts through the air. he’s staring daggers into poor jj. like no matter what answer, he’s going to react the same way.

jj doesn’t answer right away. and that pause is too long, too telling. then, he chuckles, throws his head back and says, “oh yeah. totally.”

the hit comes fast—rafe was waiting for it. crack. jj stumbles back with a strangled grunt, clutching his jaw. “dude—what the fuck?” both of them are silhouetted by the dock light. jj’s laughing through the pain like an idiot. rafe’s standing like a statue, fists still clenched, breathing uneven. “what the hell is wrong with you?” jj spits, wiping his mouth. “you asked-”

“don’t fucking talk about her like that.” rafe’s voice is thin. he doesn’t want to waste his time with this pogue, but he’s never been too good at controlling his emotions. especially when it came to you.

jj scoffs, still smiling. “jesus, man. she’s not yours.”

“she is.” he growls, lips curled and fists clenched again. he’s ready to punch every tooth out of maybank’s head when they hear a noise.

you flinch hard enough that the porch creaks. they both turn. rafe sees you first. his expression doesn’t change, not really. but something in him tightens. like he’s bracing for you to run. he’s expecting you to look at him like he’s a monster, just like everyone does.

you don’t move or yell. you just stare. “you hit him,” you say, voice barely above the breeze.

“he deserved it.”

jj groans behind him, still hunched, still bleeding. “you’re psycho, dude.”

“and you’re an opportunistic little bitch,” rafe snaps without looking at him. “you think i didn’t see the way you look at her?”

you step forward slowly, like you’re approaching a wild animal. “rafe.” he turns toward you fully. the anger’s still there, but it’s buried now under something worse—something softer, needier. “he’s not your problem,” he says, too quiet. “i handle what’s mine.”

what’s mine.

you should correct him. you should. but the truth is that you’ve always let him talk like that. part of you has always liked it. your silence says more than anything else. rafe watches the way you look at him, blood still on his knuckles, and something in his gaze flickers. it’s ownership, devotion, and something that should scare you. but doesn’t. not nearly enough because instead of tending to jj, you grad ahold of rafe’s hand.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey

#bsf!rafe cameron #bsf!rafe #rafe cameron x bsf!reader #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank

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lazysoulwriter · 21 hours ago

Text

dial drunk, love sober - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff overload, clingy drunk!reader, protective softie!pedro, phone call panic, established relationship, reader is a very dramatic lil mess

Pedro’s phone rings at 1:38 a.m. He’s already half-asleep, sprawled sideways on the couch with the TV on low volume, wrapped in the hoodie you keep stealing from him.

When he sees your name flash on the screen, he picks up immediately.

“Amor? Everything okay?”

He hears your voice before anything else. Loud. Slurred. Sniffling.

“Peeeeeedrooooo…”

His body goes rigid. “Mi amor, are you okay? Where are you? What’s happening?”

You hiccup. “I miss youuuu… I love you and I’m— I’m wearing your flannel and it smells like you and I think I might die about it.”

He’s already grabbing his keys. “Where are you, baby?”

“At Jess’s birthday,” you mumble, sniffling harder now. “But everyone is kissing and drunk and annoying and you’re not here and I’m so in love with you it’s like... offensive.”

Pedro stops cold in the middle of putting on a shoe. “…You’re not hurt?”

“What? No, I’m drunk. Devastated, but, like… emotionally.”

He exhales, almost falls over from the wave of relief that hits him, then starts laughing, because of course. Of course you called him sobbing because you miss him too much. You ridiculous, clingy little angel.

“I’m coming to get you,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “Do not move, stay exactly where you are. And keep your location on.”

“Pedrooo…” your voice breaks through the phone again, dramatic as hell. “I just want to go home. With you. Your chest is my bed now. Your hoodie is my identity.”

He’s laughing again, even as he jogs out the door. “Okay, okay, bebita, I’m on my way.”

—

By the time he gets there, you’re sitting on the curb outside, hugging your knees, his flannel nearly swallowing you whole. You look like a sad little cryptid who wandered out of a fairytale.

“There’s my baby,” he calls softly.

You turn, gasping like it’s the most shocking thing in the world. “Peeeeedroooooo,” you squeal, launching into his arms like a koala. “You came!”

“Of course I did.” He cups the back of your head and kisses your temple. “You sounded like you were being kidnapped by your feelings.”

“I was,” you sniff. “They got me.”

He’s still holding you when you start rambling.

“I was gonna dance but then this guy tried to talk to me and I was like ‘no way, I have a Pedro’ and then everyone was all like ‘where is he’ and I was like ‘don’t worry about it’ but then I got sad because I didn’t have your nose on my neck and your hand on my waist and I wanted to cry. So I did.”

Pedro kisses your forehead. “You’re so dramatic. I’m obsessed with you.”

“You better be,” you pout. “Because I’m, like, in love with your whole essence.”

He opens the car door for you. “Get in, my essence and I are taking you home.”

—

Once you’re wrapped up in bed, water on the nightstand and makeup wiped from your cheeks, you cling to him like gravity. One leg over his hip, arms around his neck, your cheek mushed to his chest.

“You’re so warm,” you mumble. “I missed you even when I was kissing you goodbye earlier.”

Pedro strokes your hair gently. “You don’t have to cry to get me to come hold you, you know?”

“Yeah, but it works,” you whisper, and he laughs into your hair.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m the cutest. And drunk. And yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses your hair. “Forever. Even when you’re clingy and wasted and crying about missing my chest.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

And he means it. So much more than you even realize.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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seitmai · 15 hours ago

Text

Many thoughts

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

Adorable!

You spot it from across the room. You've been watching him on and off all night. Not in a creepy way— At least, you hope not. Just in a way that's...careful. Curious. Quiet. Like you always are with Bob. Because if you let yourself feel it too hard — the pull, the fondness, the way he talks with his hands when he's excited — you might never stop.

I wouldn't stop either 🤭

Because you've had a thing for Bob Floyd since the first day you saw him fiddling with the collar of his flight suit, too quiet for the room but, damn, if he didn't hold his own in the air. Because he always remembers how you like your coffee. Because he asked how your dog was doing after his surgery, even two weeks later. Because he makes you feel seen.

To be loved is to be known 👀

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

Of course Hangman says stuff like that lol

The drive to his is short but pleasant. Well, if it wasn't for the scent of beer slowly sinking into his shirt and your car seat. The windows are rolled down and you can feel the wind on your face. Neither of you talk but it's a nice silence, like the two of you are just content in each other's company. You like it that way. Like you don't have to fill the silence to be comfortable; you can just co-exist.

Being able to be comfortably silent with someone is something special!

You like the relationship you have with Bob; it's easy and natural. You just feel...at home with him, like you don't have to pretend to be social or talkative. But there's always that warmth that buzzes just below the surface when he catches your eye or when he smiles. Or when he laughs. Or when he fiddles with his glasses. Or when he does literally anything.

Mood 🤭😍

"C'mon, let's get you inside, mister." He leans against you as you walk up to his house. He's so warm and he smells good, despite the spilt beer. He's wearing that aftershave his mom got him for Christmas again. It's citrusy and sweet but still masculine and fresh. He smells amazing.

Bob smells amazing is canon to me

"Upstairs, first door on the left." He points vaguely towards the stairs before continuing to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off and pulling off his undershirt. He's always so conservative with his clothes; never wearing anything too revealing. Hell, even at the beach, he wears a shirt when the rest of the squad is more than happy to run around half-naked. You look back from the stairs to find him shirtless and it's almost impossible to look away.

What the change for him 👀

God, he's gorgeous, almost to the point where it's at odds with his sweet, boyish smile. Strong shoulders, perfect biceps, broad chest, narrow hips; he could be carved out of granite and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference— You shake the thought from your head before it can take root.

Valid lol

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

Not sure if that would only make my fingers tingle 🤭

You stand by the door, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his bedroom. There are certificates lining the walls and pictures of him and his parents at birthdays and holidays. It makes your chest feel tight. He walks over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through to pick out a pair of loose sweatpants. As he pulls out a pair, the towel comes undone from around his waist and pools on the floor. Your eyes go wide and you jerk your head away but not before getting a perfect view of his round, peachy ass. This is cruel and unusual punishment but you're too weak to complain.

His perfect, biteable ass 😍

Once he's pulled on the sweatpants and slid into bed, his hair still damp against the pillow, he takes off his glasses, folds them up and places them on the nightstand before looking at you as you linger in the doorway, looking awkward and out-of-place. "C'mon." He mumbles sleepily. "It's late and you're tired too." He weakly pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed; a silent invitation. One you want to jump at. But you can't.

I wanna grab her by the shoulders and shake her while yelling: do it!!

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

The cutest 🥹🥰

You eat in relative silence, stealing glances at each other over the rims of your coffee cups and between forkfuls of bacon and eggs. The morning light filtering through the window casts a warm glow over his features. He looks peaceful — content, even — sitting across from you, like this is something you do on the regular. You wish it was regular. You want these quiet mornings with him; sharing coffee in comforting silence, surrounded by the scent of fried eggs, the silence only broken by the soft chirping of birds outside.

Truly a dream

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean." "I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

He truly deserves it!

"You think so?" He asks and you nod. There's a pause before he clears his throat. "Would you— Can I— Can I tell you something?" You nod again, lifting your gaze to meet his as he mutters something under his breath. "Okay..." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I think you're amazing. And not just because of how you were on the mission or taking care of me last night or making breakfast..." He sets his coffee cup down, hands tapping restlessly on the side of the table. "I just think you're amazing. Just...as a person." You just stare at him for a moment before heat creeps along your cheeks and you smile widely. "I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Ahhh finally!!

"So... Hypothetically..." He starts, not daring to look up at you as he picks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "If a guy hypothetically really liked you — like really, really liked you — what would he need to do?" You turn around to lean against the table, looking pensive.

I likee where this is going 👀

"I mean..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "If he wanted to be with you, like, properly. Not just friends or whatever... What would he need to do to make you notice him? To make you...want him?" He asks, voice wavering slightly. There's a flutter in your chest as you stiffen slightly. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Don't fumble this— "Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly. "He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

Awwww rats so cute and perfect for them 🥰

The second you kiss him, he's done. Finished. Over. His heart is completely yours and he never wants it back. Your lips are soft and warm, just like your smile, and he parts his lips slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You take it; slowly inching your tongue into his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the coffee, moaning softly. God. You can't make that sound. His brain short-circuits. That one small, needy sound from you against his mouth has blood rushing south and he stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

That kiss truly sounds life-changing 🥰

"Shh..." He whispers against your mouth, warm hands roaming your body, touching you like he's dreamed of doing a million times. He pulls back just long enough to take off his glasses and set them aside. Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time. It takes you by surprise. You never thought he could be this...passionate. You always figured, if you ever got this far, you'd be coaxing it out of him, bit by bit, encouraging him with little kisses and your fingers in his hair.

I would never let go again 🤭

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds. "When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs. "You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath. "Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

"Wh-What...?" You just stare at him owlishly because, God, if that isn't the biggest cock you've ever seen in your life. Thick, throbbing, leaking... And you thought his body was slightly at odds with the personality of sweet, shy, wallflower Bob Floyd but this? This takes the cake. "You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

Maybe not a casual lunch topic 😅

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm. "Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard. "You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees. "God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

🤤🤤🤤

"I'm...getting real close." He warns you, his voice strained with effort. "If you don't want me to...finish in your mouth, you should probably stop now." Still, his hips are flexing, desperately trying to fuck your hand. You take a moment to decide before flicking your tongue over the head and his hands fly to curl around the seat of his chair, nails digging into the wood. "God...! I mean it... I'm...really close..." He gives you one last warning.

Urgh obsessed with him warning multiple times

When he opens his eyes, he sees your face pressed against his inner thigh as you gently squeeze the base of his cock, gazing up at him adoringly. He runs a shaky hand through your hair, still trying to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes. "That was... Holy shit... I..." You smile and press a kiss to his hipbone, nuzzling his thigh, as he tries to find words in the jumbled mess of his orgasm-addled brain. "You... Bedroom... Yes, bedroom." He manages breathily and you nod, getting up from the floor and letting him tug on his sweatpants again before you eagerly pull him upstairs.

Yes bedroom 🙂‍↕

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..." "I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly. "I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

The cutest man alive

Large hands find your thighs, lifting them until your toes touch the headboard, essentially folding you in half and leaving you completely exposed to him. "God, you're so perfect..." He whispers under his breath, holding you in place as he lines himself up, his cock sliding deliciously against your aching, swollen pussy. "Look at me. Look at me." He urges and you lay your head back against the pillows as he slowly pushes in. He feels absolutely massive but it's not painful; just this pleasant, warm ache that seeps through your body as you stretch around him. You grab onto his biceps for support as his fingers wrap around your ankles, holding your legs up. You're so tight around him, it's almost unbearable. He can feel every swell and curve of your inner walls squeezing around him. Your brows knit as he sinks in deeper, your fingers squeezing his arms.

🥵🥵🥵

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs. "Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes. "I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

Great conversation 😌🤭

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

One of the best headcanons for Bob

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

I have a feeling that this secretly spurs him on 👀🤭

"I know... I'll pull out, promise..." But, even as he says it, he feels the heat mounting and he desperately wants to finish inside you. His hips keep rolling against yours in a deep, steady rhythm. You drag your nails across his shoulder blades, your body clenching down around him, throbbing around him rhythmically because, deep down, you'd love if he could cum inside you, leave his mark. But you can't take that risk.

And he doesn't break a promise more importantly!

He gives you a few more slow deep thrusts before pulling back to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, face flushed. "Gonna pull out now, okay?" He pants out and you nod as he pulls out just in time, sandwiching his cock into the crook of your thigh and grinding against it until he cums, decorating your body with slick, white ribbons that ooze across your skin. You run your fingers through his hair as his orgasm hits, his arms clenching around you, hanging onto you for dear life.

Why is it so hot that he checks in before he pulls out? 1😮‍💨

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his. "Mhm. You?" "Perfect."

Truly perfection 🥰

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." He says softly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't do this kind of thing lightly, y'know? I wanted you and I still want you. But, if you're not on the same page, that okay too. We can still just be...friends, if you want." God, he's too sweet for his own good sometimes.

He truly is the sweetest 😍

"And you don't regret it?" "God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you."

🥰🥰🥰

"I mean, we could do that." He says slowly. "But, if I'm being completely honest, I don't want it to be just that? Friends with benefits implies casual and what we just did? It didn't feel casual to me." You cup his face and run your thumb along his cheekbone. "I like you. A lot." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "But if that scares you off, I understand." Without a word, you lean forward, licking your way into his mouth, kissing him slow and lazy. When you break apart, you're both breathless.

I think the answer is clear after that kiss 🤭

"That sounds perfect. But first..." You roll your hips against his, a gentle reminder that he's been inside you for the better half of ten minutes. "Can we do that again?" He wets his lips and rolls you back over onto your back, leaning down to press kisses to your neck.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen. "Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him. "According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!" "In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

The "please say yes" 🥹🥰

Absolutely 100% yes🙂‍↕

I absolutely loved this! If you ever feel up to it, I would love to read more of these two 🤗

> ENTRY: ITS_ALWAYS_THE_QUIET_ONES

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x afab!reader (mc's call sign is 'pez'.)

EST. READING TIME: 37m 0s

INDEX TAGS: (not actually) unrequited love, cock-warming, friends to lovers, love confessions, masturbation, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, size difference, size kink, vaginal sex

SUMMARY: after the mission with mav, you find bob drunk at the resulting party at the hard deck. as a designated driver, you take it upon yourself to get him home and into bed safely but staying composed proves harder than expected

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The Hard Deck is louder than it's been in weeks. Rooster and Hangman are fighting over the jukebox. Payback's halfway into a dramatic retelling of the mission to a captivated circle of admirers, punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures and Maverick's quiet chuckling. Fanboy's mixing questionable liquors together like he's auditioning for a bartending job no one asked for. It's celebration in full swing. The mission's done. Everyone's alive. Everyone made it home.

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

He doesn't look it at first. But you can see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the soft pink in his cheeks, the vague squint he gives the bottles behind the counter like he's trying to read through a fog.

You've had a drink; just the one. You're a designated driver tonight. That and watching Bob lose his balance trying to sit on a barstool has very effectively sobered you up. You finish your water, nod to Phoenix and move across the bar like the world isn't tilting just a little because he's looking at you now.

Why?

"Hey." You say gently, sliding into the space next to him. "You good?" He blinks at you. Then his face lights up; not like a flash but a slow dawn that warms everything it touches.

"Pez." He says, soft and too fond for how casual he tries to sound. "You're here." You smile.

"Been here the whole time, Bob." He looks at his drink like it's betrayed him.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

You glance him over. His collar is a little crooked and his glasses are ever-so-slightly askew. His usually neat hair is slightly mussed and there's a half-moon mark on his palm where he's been gripping his glass too hard. He's not swaying. But he's definitely drifting. You rest a hand lightly on the edge of the bar.

"How many have you had?" He frowns.

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

"That doesn't sound right." Bob leans closer and squints at you.

"You smell like mint."

"That'd be the gum I've been chewing instead of drinking." You reply, amused. "Come on. Let's get you out of here." He straightens. Sort of.

"I'm fine."

"You're adorable." You correct. "But also definitely tipsy and I'd rather you didn't fall asleep like last time."

"I didn't fall asleep, I—"

"You nodded off against the jukebox for twenty-three minutes." He considers this.

"It was playing Fleetwood Mac." You arch a brow.

"That's your excuse?" He almost looks offended.

"I like Fleetwood Mac." He mumbles. You can't help it; you laugh. And, across the bar, the other Dagger Squad pilots exhale in collective relief like finally. It goes unnoticed by you.

You help Bob off his stool, a drink forgotten in his hand, and he goes to steady himself on the edge of the bar but misjudges the distance. In trying to recover, the remnants of his last beer spill all over his uniform shirt, making it cling to him like a second skin.

"Woah!" You grab onto his shoulders. "You okay?" He stumbles slightly as he tries to catch himself, hands reflexively reaching out to hold onto your arms for support. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he feels the cold beer seeping into his shirt, looking down at the mess with embarrassment.

"Sorry..." He murmurs and you haul him upright.

"Don't apologise." You glance across to see Phoenix chuckling and shaking her head. "I think I need to take you home though." He laughs nervously, pushes his hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten his glasses.

"Yeah... Yeah, that might be a good idea." He leans against you for support as you start helping him to the door. You yell over your shoulder that you're taking him home, wishing the rest of them a good night. Some of the Dagger Squad murmur something you don't quite hear as you reach the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool sea breeze.

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as you help him out to the parking lot. You open the passenger-side door for him and he near-collapses onto the car seat. "Thanks for doing this." He says softly, looking up at you with those sweet, grateful eyes. You watch him fumble with his hands as he tries to buckle himself in.

"Stop being so damn polite." You smile, shutting the door and rounding the hood to get in the driver's seat.

Safe to say, you like him a whole lot; pretty much since you were brought on board for the Dagger Squad.

But you don't want to say anything because what if it makes things weird between you? What if he's not into it and everything just gets awkward? What if you accidentally gush about how gorgeous he looks in his uniform and he thinks you're an absolute creep for admiring the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and the way his pants hug his ass perfectly? He probably already knows and just pretends not to for exactly the same reasons. He probably knows and has also made up his mind that you're not really the one for him. He would've said something by now if he was into you but he hasn't so he probably isn't. It's not something you like thinking about.

Finally, you pull up to his house and park outside. You get out, open his door and stand there, just in case he needs the support again.

"I'm fine. I'm good." He starts to protest before immediately losing his balance and grabbing onto your arm. "Actually..." Rolling your eyes, you hang onto him and close the door.

When you haul him up the short flight of stairs and reach the front door, he digs his hand into his pocket and struggles to get his keys out for a moment. He must try to insert the key into the lock a good three times, each time stabbing the door just shy of the lock.

"Can't seem to..." He mumbles and you gently place your hand over his, guiding the key into the lock with a satisfying click, turning it and opening the door.

"There we go." You smile warmly and he stares at you for a moment, swallowing hard, before grabbing onto the door frame and stepping inside.

Once inside, you turn the light on and close the door behind you. He kicks off his shoes and pats down his chest. His uniform shirt is still clinging to him, now sticky from the spilt beer. His nose crinkles as you unlace your shoes and place them on the rack.

"Gotta shower..." He slurs softly. By the time you stand up to look at him, he's already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Your eyes flick down over the angles of his collarbone and, before you can look further, you avert your eyes.

"Okay, which way's the bathroom?" You ask a little too quickly.

He tosses his shirt on the floor and yawns. "You don't have to wait for me or anything." He says and you bring yourself back to the present, your eyes flicking back up to his face. You just pray, in his inebriated state, that he didn't just catch you eyeballing his bare chest.

"No, I don't need to go to the bathroom, Bob. I'm taking you up because I don't trust you on the stairs." You tell him and he protests weakly but you help him up anyway.

When you reach the bathroom, he leans against the sink for support and you have to look away as you notice the veins in his arms and hands become more pronounced from the pressure. Maybe that one drink you had was a little stronger than you thought. God, what would those fingers feel like in your mouth? Or in your— "You gonna be okay in the shower?" You ask him and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mhm. I'm not that drunk." He assures you. "You can go watch TV or something." He reaches down to unbuckle his belt and you pin your gaze to the floor.

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Alright." He reaches down for his belt and you almost slam the door shut, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. You let out a slow exhale. You're heart's going a mile a minute.

Distraction. You need a distraction; something — anything — to get your mind off what it would feel like to have your lips on his or your tongue on his neck or your hands on his chest... Heat pools in the pit of your stomach; a desperate, deep-seated ache. You pull out your phone and start flicking through your socials, trying to find something else to focus on but it's no use.

You hear the shower hiss to life and you can't help but think about what he'd look like if you poked your head in for just a moment; shiny from the water, dripping with soap suds and wreathed in steam. Goddamn... But you couldn't breach his privacy, betray his trust, like that, especially while he's drunk and vulnerable. Even thinking about it feels like a betrayal but you can't get the thought out of your head and the aching between your legs only grows stronger.

Maybe you should've let someone else bring him home.

Eventually, the shower turns off and the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as Bob steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. His skin gleams in the low light of the hallway, flushed pink from the hot water, damp hair falling in front of his face. He's being unknowingly, impossibly cruel.

"Better?" You manage, somewhat breathless.

"Yeah. So much better." Thankfully, he doesn't seem capable of noticing your — very obvious — attraction to him right now. He positions his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as you push off the wall and onto your feet, your own knees slightly weak.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?"

"You don't have to baby me, Pez. I'm sobering up now." He responds softly but lets you guide him anyway, his hand dwarfing your own. He's still a little unsteady on his feet as you reach his bedroom.

He's drunk and not thinking straight and you don't trust yourself. Not that you'd touch him; never that. But you're devastatingly wet and you already know you need to take care of that and you can't do it next to him. To take your mind off that thought, you grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom sink before placing it on the nightstand.

"I'll sleep downstairs. Just yell if you need anything, okay?" You tell him and he nods, a flicker of disappointment flashing across his face.

"Okay... Thanks for taking care of me." A smile curves at your lips as you brush a couple of damp locks out of his face. It brings you some modicum of relief, just that little bit of tender skin-to-skin contact.

"No problem." You sigh longingly, almost ruefully. "Night, Bob." You turn on your heel to leave the room and he catches your wrist with a hand, making you stop in your tracks.

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He looks up at you, eyes lidded with exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours slightly and you feel your pulse racing.

Finally, his fingers loosen on yours as his eyes drop shut. You let out a soft sigh, releasing his hand and rising from the bed. You watch him for a moment, considering, before leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight, Bobby."

You turn off all the lights and head back downstairs. You set up a little bed for yourself on the couch and slip out of your uniform, laying back against the couch cushions in your t-shirt and underwear.

After a moment, you find your hand drifting down between your thighs, pressing your fingertips against the gusset of your panties. It's absolutely sodden. You sigh in defeat, sling one leg over the back of the sofa and push the gusset of your panties to one side, sliding your fingers inside yourself with a sigh, pressing your thumb to the hood of your clit and working in slow circles. With your free hand, you grab a pillow and press it over your mouth to muffle the soft moans that fall from your lips despite knowing that Bob is probably dead to the world right now.

You finish yourself off quickly; imagining it's his fingers buried inside you, his tongue drawing slow, languid circles around your clit. The only sound is the buzzing of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft whines you try to drown out behind the pillow pressed against your face.

As soon as you're done, you pull your underwear back on properly and collapse onto your side, huddling into the blankets, cheeks flaming with heat. You're a mess for him but he can't know that, even if the rest of the Dagger Squad does.

Finally, the sun rises and you pack up the blankets and pillows you'd used before pulling on your pants from the day before. You yawn and stretch before heading into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Your stomach rumbles. After all, you haven't eaten since before the party last night.

Looking up, you check the clock above the fridge. About 10 am. Not too bad.

While rummaging around for the creamer, you stumble across a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon about to go out of date. Pulling them out, you grab a skillet from a nearby rack and set out to make some breakfast.

Upstairs, Bob rubs the sleep from his eyes and replaces his glasses, the glass of water from the night before thoroughly drained throughout the night. He pulls back the covers, swings his legs over the side and pulls on a t-shirt before heading to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he pads down the stairs, drawn toward the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you flip the bacon over, the eggs growing crispy around the edges but the centre staying soft and jammy. You notice Bob leaning against the doorframe out of the corner of your eye, staying quiet as he watches you work. It's domestic, comforting and you find yourself wishing you could do this for him every morning. Finally, you turn to face him and he smiles warmly. Thankfully, he doesn't seem hungover.

"Morning." He says softly, voice a little lower and scratchier from sleep.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a brick." He responds with a small smile, pushing away from the doorframe and walking further into the small kitchen. His voice drops to a more serious tone "Thanks for taking care of me last night. And for making breakfast." He pauses by the counter, looking at you appreciatively. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." You reply simply. He pauses before he quickly looks away, grabbing some plates and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers.

"Need any help?" He asks gruffly, setting the plates next to the stove.

"No, I'm nearly finished here." You turn off the heat and plate up the bacon and eggs before setting the empty skillet on the cool side of the stove. "Order up."

You carry the plates over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Bob digs in eagerly, making appreciative noises between bites. The food is simple but perfect; exactly what he needs after shifting a good amount of alcohol the night prior. You set a couple of mugs down on the table and pour the coffee before sitting down to tuck into your own breakfast, humming in satisfaction.

"Thanks." He says again. "For everything."

"Really, it's fine." You laugh softly, clearing your plate and setting it to one side with your cutlery. He does the same, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee.

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean."

"I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

"I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly.

"And...what else?" He asks and you turn your head to look at him. He looks so open and vulnerable but not in the way he was last night. This is open and honest and completely aware. Suddenly, it dawns on you; he wants this just as much as you do.

"He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

He lifts you onto the dining table and you loop your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Bobby..."

Instead, his hands are firm on your waist, tugging up your shirt just a little to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, as he kisses you like it's all he's ever wanted to do. It steals the breath from your lungs and it has confessions falling from your lips between deep, hungry kisses.

"You don't know...what last night...did to me..." You murmur breathlessly against his mouth and he groans, hands sliding under your shirt.

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds.

"When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath.

"Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

He's losing his mind, control slipping. He steps between your legs, pressing closer, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He feels perfect; pressing against your thigh desperately. "Bobby..." You move to whisper in his ear. "I need my mouth on you."

"Jesus." It comes out as a soft hiss. "You want to..."

"Please."

You— You don't have to..." He breathes but he's already reaching for the tie of his sweatpants. He wants you to. He wants you to want to.

You push him back gently so you can push off the table, guiding him back into his chair.

"I know I don't have to." You kneel on the worn linoleum between his feet, rubbing your hands along his thighs. He's straining desperately against the front of his sweatpants. "I want to." You tug at the tie of his sweatpants before curling your fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. He lifts his hips and you pull them down and off but, when you sit back to look at him—

Holy Mother of God.

"You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm.

"Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard.

"You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees.

"God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.

You run the flat of your tongue from root to tip and a sharp intake of breath stutters in his throat.

"Ohh, my God..." His hands instinctively grab onto your hair but he doesn't pull, just resting there, as you lick along the underside of his shaft. When you reach the top, you swirl your tongue languidly around the head before taking it into your mouth. "Sh-Shit..." His head falls back against the chair with a soft thud.

He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

You take more of him into your mouth, tentatively testing how much you can take. He groans lowly at the sensation of your tongue sliding along the underside, watching you with lidded eyes as his thick cock disappears between your lips. You press your head down until you feel the tip touch the back of your throat and you gag slightly before pulling away. You're panting, lips wet with saliva, and just watching you sends a shiver down his spine, toes curling against the lino. "Do that again... Please..." It's almost a beg and you can't deny him or yourself.

You lean back in, sliding down until it hits the back of your throat. Now you know how far you can take him, you cover the rest of his shaft with your hand, easing the slide with more spit as you work him over. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, only to keep him tethered to the moment. He can feel every inch being worshipped by your greedy mouth and talented hands and his hips start to thrust upward involuntarily. "God, just like that..."

You fall into a steady rhythm, peering up at him through your lashes, and you feel another spurt of pre hit your tongue as he meets your gaze, completely mesmerised. It's almost embarrassingly clear how much you love having him in your mouth; his cock hot and thick and pulsing on your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth and the sight of his cock sliding between your lips are driving him wild and he can feel that familiar feeling deep in his core. He gives your hair a gentle tug. "Hey..." You pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Mhm?"

"Do it." You tell him, dragging your tongue along the cleft at the underside of the head, still stroking along his shaft, your fingers slick and shining with a mix of precum and saliva.

That's all it takes.

With a deep groan that rumbles from deep in his diaphragm, he cums hard, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his eyes roll. You lean back to watch with satisfaction as thick shots of white spurt from his cock, making your hand slicker as you stroke him through his climax. "That's it, Bobby." You encourage him softly as he unloads onto your hands and his stomach. He's panting heavily, his body shaking, as the last few shots of cum ooze down his shaft. Your gentle praise and the feeling of your spit-slick hand only intensify the pleasure.

On the way up to his bedroom, you pull off your jeans and underwear before collapsing onto his bed with an excited giggle. Bob quickly joins you; pulling off his shirt and stained sweatpants, his body hovering over yours. You bite your lip, running your hands appreciatively over his body as you sit up slightly to kiss him, finding warm, firm muscle under your palms. He deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue and exploring your mouth hungrily. But, before he can get too lost in the moment, he pulls back, heavy breaths making his chest heave.

"Wait—"

"Mhm...?" He looks sheepish.

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..."

"I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly.

"I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

"B-Bobby!"

"God, it's so good..." His eyes drift shut as he tosses his head back, starting to move slowly, deliberately rocking his hips against yours. The position is just perfect; hitting all the right spots all at once with every deep, purposeful stroke.

Strong fingers dig into your ankles as he slowly starts to pick up the pace. "You like this?" He asks, sweat beading on his brow as he looks down at you. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a breathless whine. "Fuck, you're so tight..." He huffs through his nose as he targets that sweet spot inside you over and over, drawing these adorable, breathy whimpers from you. Your back arches, hands moving to claw at his broad shoulders.

"Please... Feel good... Feels so fucking good..." You pant out and he nods, his hips snapping forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, rutting against you desperately.

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs.

"Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes.

"I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

"You like them big..." He repeats and you nod, whining as he hammers your sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy.

"Mmhmmm... I didn't...think you'd be so...big... O-Ohhh... It's so fucking good, Bobby..." You manage and he wraps your legs around his waist, coiling his arms under the small of your back, hugging you against him. His thrusts turn shallow but stay deep, your bodies pushed together from shoulder to hip. You hook your arms over his shoulders, nails raking red lines up his back.

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

You nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of him; yesterday's aftershave lingering on his skin, sweat breaking out all across his body. "Love having you like this..." You murmur in his ear and he nods.

"Mhmm... I love it too..." His thrusts grow slower but no less deep; each movement designed to draw out the pleasure, make it last. He stretches you out and fills you up perfectly, holding you through all of it, eagerly soaking up every moan, plea and whimper you give him. He's rubbing up against the deepest part of you now, the crown of his cock sliding perfectly against the swell of your cervix.

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

Finally, his body goes slack. He's panting heavily, tilting his head up to claim your lips again in a soft, slow, lazy kiss. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him so you're lying on top of him. He's still semi-hard against your thigh but he's given you all he can for now so you sit up and sink back down onto him before curling up on top of him, enjoying the feeling of having his huge, softening cock nestled inside you. He lets out a low groan, gathering you up in his arms, fingers drawing idle patterns along the small of your back. "Gonna keep it in?" He asks softly and you look up at him.

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his.

"Mhm. You?"

"Perfect."

A soft silence settles over the room, almost jarring after the slamming and slapping and moaning from just a few moments ago. But you aren't complaining.

You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his face.

"You wanna talk about what just happened?" You laugh softly before sobering. "And where we go from here?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like the 'was this a one-time thing' talk? Or the 'do you regret it' talk?" His thumbs rub the small of your back soothingly.

"Both." He takes a breath and you feel his chest rise beneath you.

"And you don't regret it?"

"God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you." He swallows hard, finally meeting your eyes again. "So where does that leave us?"

"Like friends with benefits or...?" You trail off and he makes a noncommittal sound.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen.

"Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him.

"According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!"

"In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

"I'd like that a lot."

"Thank God." His arms squeeze tight around you. "Should I take you out properly sometime? Coffee, dinner, all that stuff?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"It'd be nice, yeah." You reply and he gives you that sweet, beaming, boyish grin.

"Then it's a date. How about tomorrow night? We can grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie if you're up for it?" You nod and ruffle his hair lightly.

"Mhm. As many times as you want."

Bob's call sign may be just 'Bob' but, in your head, it's 'Tripod'. Sweet, shy Bobby 'Tripod' Floyd.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

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mononijikayu · 1 day ago

Text

505 — gojo satoru.

At 5:05 a.m. in this beautiful mourning morning, Gojo Satoru finds himself standing outside your apartment door. Well, at least he remembers that it was 505A. The last time he was here, it was too dark to read the sign. He stares at the numbers for a long time, bleary-eyed and uncertain. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's the weight of everything he never said, but they don’t quite look real. Just metal digits screwed into a door that feels both painfully familiar and impossibly distant. The hallway is quiet. The kind of silence that feels sacred, like the world is holding its breath. He’s not sure what he expected from you after all this time. But he has thought about it on the way here. Maybe he needed some kind of clarity, maybe. Or perhaps some sort of jolt, that was full of certainty.

GENRE: alternate universe - canon divergence

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, smut, post-hidden inventory arc, post-break up, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, long-term on and off relationship, profanity, loneliness, emotional distress, emotional trauma, resentment, confessions, toxic relationship, love, hate, longing, pining, emotional, bittersweet, reunion, introspection, sex as emotional release, depiction of sexual acts and scenes, depiction of nudity, depiction of toxic relationship, depiction of emotional distress, depiction of emotional trauma, sorcerer! gojo satoru, former sorcerer! reader;

WORD COUNT: 8k words

NOTE: i know the kayu's playlist usually gets to be the update but ive been so busy lately that i genuinely just have no time to do the fics in order that i want to. but im slowly getting them done, don't worry, you guys!!! thank you for waiting!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

kayu's playlist — side 3000;

HE WAS SO EXHAUSTED FROM ALL OF THIS. Gojo Satoru could feel the shrill of his back against the leather of his car seat. He’s been moving too much lately, perhaps even more than usual.

Everything was easy for him, of course. Yet he was still human at the end of the day. Not everything could be healed. That's just how it was at the end of the day. He had to deal with it somehow.

Gojo Satoru has a license. He's had one for years. He also has a car. It was a good one. It was sleek, obnoxiously fast, like everything else in his life. Yet he didn’t need them. He just has them at his disposal.

These were little things they didn’t know about him. Things he didn't want them to know about him. But he hardly cared for that and he thinks to himself, no one could care all about it. That was normal, right?

Satoru rarely finds himself behind the wheel for more than a few minutes at a time. He had no time for that, if he was being honest. And that’s not his job anyway. Even without it, he could just take a Shinkansen.

But a ten-hour drive done by him, by his own whim. It was practically unheard of. He doesn’t do road trips. He barely has time for sleep, let alone long stretches of highway and playlists and gas station coffee.

He’s always been too busy for that. There’s far too many missions, too many students that need him, too many responsibilities on shoulders that carry the weight of the world. Driving for the sake of driving just isn’t his thing. He has better, faster ways to get where he needs to go.

And yet, here he is.

Ten hours, give or take. It's a ridiculous decision, by all accounts. He wouldn’t do something like this. Not for a vacation. Not for a friend. Hell, not even to go save the world again. He’d teleport, fly, bend space before ever touching the brake pedal on some remote country road.

But when it comes to you?

That's a different thing altogether.

He likes to do everything for you the hard way.

It started small, back then. A forty-five minute drive to your apartment just outside Jujutsu High when you were younger. It didn’t seem like much at the time. Just enough distance to make it feel like an effort, like a choice. Then came the seven-hour flight. All of that crossing borders, crossing oceans just to see you for a weekend that felt like seconds.

And now, it’s this. This stupidly devoted ten-hour drive. No cursed spirits, no mission orders, no duty. Just him, the open road, and the need to see you. After all this time. And somehow, it’s worth it.

It’s you. It was always going to be worth it.

He doesn’t even remember when the distance stopped being a hassle and started feeling like a promise, like proof of something. That no matter how far you were, he’d find a way to reach you. That no amount of space could stretch his feelings thin.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t take the usual shortcuts this time. No warping space, no flashy entrances. Just the slow, deliberate pace of a man who wants every mile to mean something. The road hums under his tires, the kind of white noise that lets his thoughts get louder.

He wonders what you'll say when you see him. If you’ll laugh, call him crazy. If you’ll pretend you’re not surprised, even though he knows you will be. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting, like he has. Quietly. Stubbornly. Holding out hope in the stillness of days that feel too long and nights that echo too much.

There’s something sacred about driving this far. Something uncharacteristically human about it. He’s used to existing above the ordinary, untouchable and untethered. But this? This makes him feel real. Every sore muscle, every roadside diner, every hour crawling by—it grounds him. It reminds him he’s still allowed to want things. Not just to protect, or to fight for, but to have.

And he wants you, more than anything in him. Not in the abstract sort of way. Not in the maybe-someday sense. He was sure it was in the tangible, aching, you’re-right-there-and-I’m-holding-you kind of way. He always has. And perhaps he always will.

The sun’s setting by the time the city creeps into view, its lights blooming on the horizon like a sigh of relief. His long fingers tighten on the steering wheel all together. He takes a breath for a moment. He’s almost there.

Ten hours is nothing, really. Not when it’s for you. Not when it means he finally gets to see you again. Not as a memory, not as a voice on the phone but as fully human, fully you. In the doorway, or waiting on the porch, or maybe still inside, not even knowing he’s just minutes away.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when you see him. He hasn’t seen you in two years, after all. You’ve moved yourself from the urban cities and into the far flung countryside, unwilling to be perceived or known to the people you once knew to be the closest to your heart. Including him.

You left Jujutsu Society quietly. No press release, no goodbye drinks. You packed your things in the middle of the night and vanished before the sun could rise. A shadow slipping out the side door.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Not after Suguru.

Not after Nanami.

Not after Haibara.

Each loss had carved something out of you, something essential. You told yourself you could bear it, that you were built for this. But Suguru's defection had broken your faith. Nanami’s quiet departure shattered your sense of order. And Haibara… he was the one that cracked your heart clean in two.

You stayed after that, longer than you should have. Longer than your sanity could have ever allowed. You stayed for him, he knew that. You stayed until grief started living in your bones and sleep became a luxury you couldn't afford. What finally broke you wasn’t death. It was Gojo Satoru.

“You’re still her.” he had said one night, finding you on the steps outside the dorms, half a cigarette burning between your fingers. His voice was low, almost surprised. “Thought you would��ve left by now.”

You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Maybe because the real answer was sitting next to you, all cold shoulder and infinity, and you couldn’t say you back to him. You just couldn’t. It was a different thing that he knew it, but it was even more different when you said it out loud. That was going to be worse.

In the absence of words, there is the ability to ignore, to pretend that the world you lived in was the same. But when you say it, you wouldn’t be able to pretend. He wouldn’t be able to let it pass as it was, not when he needed you.

Goojo Satoru knew it all too well, reading behind the lines. He started to see how that was killing you Killing you in it with Suguru. But he took your word for it. And now, he couldn’t handle it, seeing it unfold. Not again. Especially not with you. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Everyone leaves eventually, you know that right?” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’m getting used to it.”

That was the thing. You didn’t want to become another name on that list. To be another loss of his life. But loving him was exhausting, staying here is making you feel like death was the better option.

It was a war between what you needed and what he couldn’t give. He was always halfway in, always too much and never enough. And still, a part of you ached for him. That was the part you hated most.

You remembered your voice, brittle like glass that night. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He had glanced at you sideways, something unreadable in his eyes. “You mean the work?”

You shook your head slowly. “I mean all of it.”

His silence then was the loudest thing you’d ever heard. It settled between you like a storm cloud, heavy and electric, thick with all the words he wasn’t saying. Maybe he should’ve said something else. Maybe he should’ve tried.

Something to anchor you.

Something to pull you back in.

Something—anything—that sounded like stay.

But Gojo Satoru has never been good with the words that matter most. He’s good with bravado, with jokes, with control. But not this. Not you, broken and unraveling before him. Because he was selfish. God, he was so selfish.He wanted you.

He wanted all of you, even the pieces you’d lost. Even the parts of you buried under grief and exhaustion and anger. He wanted to hold onto you, to keep you by his side like he always had. As if loving him could be enough to carry the weight of everything else.

And yet, he loved you too much, too. Too much to chain you to a life that was slowly killing you. Too much to pretend he didn’t see the way you were disappearing before his very eyes. Too much to be the reason you stayed, when staying meant dying in degrees.

He told himself that. That he was letting you go out of love, not fear. That he wasn’t just watching you leave because he didn’t know how to ask you to stay. So he said the worst thing he could think of.

“Why don’t we break up then?” he said, finally. His voice was too steady, too quiet. A man ripping his own heart out with surgical precision.

“Satoru—”

“You’d be free of me.” he added all too quickly, not giving you a chance to say anything. “Free of all of this.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You couldn’t. You just stared at him like he’d slapped you. Maybe he had. Because you hadn’t said the words. You had only said you couldn’t do this anymore. You had only needed something from him. A reason. A promise. A fight. But all he gave you was an exit.

You nodded, eventually. What else could you do? The moment fractured something in both of you. You got up from those dorm steps and walked away. Not just from him but from the world you once fought so hard to protect.

He let you go. And he told himself it was for your sake. Even if it shattered him. And so you left. Not because you stopped caring but because you cared too much. Because you couldn’t breathe in that place anymore.

Because every hallway was a grave to you now, a grave with wailing ghosts you can never dispel. Because looking at him, just looking at him, felt like pressing your hands against an open wound and pretending it didn’t hurt.

At 5:05 a.m., this beautiful mourning morning, Gojo Satoru finds himself standing outside your apartment door. Well, at least he remembers that it was 505A. The last time he was here, it was too dark to read the sign.

He stares at the numbers for a long time, bleary-eyed and uncertain. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's the weight of everything he never said, but they don’t quite look real. Just metal digits screwed into a door that feels both painfully familiar and impossibly distant.

The hallway is quiet. The kind of silence that feels sacred, like the world is holding its breath. He’s not sure what he expected from you after all this time. But he has thought about it on the way here. Maybe he needed some kind of clarity, maybe. Or perhaps some sort of jolt, that was full of certainty.

But all he feels is the ache in his back, the stiffness in his legs, the ringing in his ears from hours of the road and too many thoughts he couldn't turn off. He exhales slowly and lifts a hand, hesitating before his knuckles meet the wood.

What if you're not here? What if you moved out months ago and he just never found out? What if someone else opens the door and a stranger with no idea who he is or who you were to him?

What if you are here? What if you open the door and look at him like he’s nothing more than a ghost of a life you buried? What if you don’t want to see him? What if it’s too late?

But still, at 5:05 A.M., he gathers the courage that was needed. And then he knocks. Three soft raps. Hesitant. Uncharacteristically gentle. He could’ve warped into the room. He could’ve forced the lock, peeled away the door with a flick of his fingers.

But no, this isn’t a mission. This isn’t a battlefield. This is something far more terrifying. This is you. So he waits, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other shoved in his coat pocket, fingers twitching slightly from exhaustion and nerves.

He’s never been this tired. Not from fights, not from cursed spirits, not even from death itself. But standing here, outside your door, unsure if you’ll open it. He feels like the most fragile version of himself.

Still, he’s willing to take the risk. Because it’s you. Despite everything, after everything, he still hopes. He still wants to believe you might open the door. And maybe, just maybe, you haven’t stopped waiting for him either.

The knock fades into the hush of early morning. Stillness settles around him like dust. He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Seconds, minutes. Long enough for doubt to start clawing its way up his spine.

And then, a soft shuffle behind the door. A click. The sound of a chain sliding back. His breath catches. The door opens just a crack at first, cautious. A sliver of warm light spills out into the hallway, brushing against his face like a memory. And then, slowly, it opens wider.

And there you are. Bleary-eyed. Hair tangled from sleep. One sleeve of your shirt slipping off your shoulder. You look like the past few years have lived in your bones, too. You blink once, twice. Like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s really standing there.

“Satoru?” Your voice is hoarse. Barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat tight. “Hey.” he says softly. His voice almost breaks on it. “Sorry. I… probably should’ve called.”

You don’t say anything. Just stare at him like a ghost’s walked back into your life. His bright blue gaze flicks down, he sees the faint tremble in your hands, the way you hold the door like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. And yet, you don’t close it. You don’t shut him out.

“I didn’t know if you still lived here still.” he says. “But I had to try.”

You let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sob. “You drove here?”

“Ten hours.” He tries for a smile, but it’s weak. “Well. Nine and a half. I got lucky with traffic.”

Silence settles again, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The last time you saw each other. The way it ended. The way it never really did. You look at him like you’re still waiting for the punchline.

He shifts on his feet. His shoulders slump a little. “I’m not here to make things harder for you, not at all.” he says to you. “I just… I wanted to see you. Even if it’s just once.”

Your eyes flick over him, taking in the exhaustion carved into his features, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands won’t stay still. And then, softly, you ask him, “Are you going to stand in the hallway all morning?”

He blinks. And then, you open the door the rest of the way.

Just enough for him to step inside.

Just enough to let something back in.

SATORU TAKES IT ALL IN LITTLE BY LITTLE. But he was thinking too fast, too much that he didn’t know how to truly handle this. After all, this was the first time he’s seen you in a long while. He stepped inside, and the first thing he truly, honestly, felt after all that overwhelming sense wasn't relief. It's a shame.

Because he’s done this before. So many times over the past ten years, he’s found his way back to your door. Sometimes with apologies. Sometimes with silence. Sometimes with nothing but his presence and the weight of everything he couldn't bring himself to say.

And every time, you let him in. That’s the part that kills him the most. Because this, this thing between you and him, it was never healthy. Not really. There was love, yes. But love doesn’t mean safety. Or relief.

Love doesn’t mean good. And what you had with him was so tangled up in grief and guilt and need that he can’t separate it anymore. Can’t tell where his feelings end and yours begin. Can’t tell if coming back was ever about you, or just his own inability to let go of the one place in the world he could feel something other than pain.

He watches you move through your apartment, in the unfamiliarity of your space, your life and the familiarity of it guts him. He shouldn’t still know the way your shoulders hunch when you’re tired. Shouldn’t still know which cabinet you keep the tea in. Shouldn’t feel like this place is a page from a chapter he refuses to close.

This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is so fucked.

Because this isn’t love anymore. Not the way it used to be. It’s a cycle. It’s him leaving, and you letting him go. It’s him returning, and you leaving the door open just enough.

And he tells himself every time that it’ll be different. This time, he’ll say the right thing. Stay longer. Try harder. Be better. But it’s never different. It always ends the same way, with you breaking apart in front of him and him too afraid to hold the pieces. Or worse, clinging so tightly he crushes what’s left.

He sits down at the kitchen table, the cup of tea warm in his hands, and says nothing. Because what can he say to you? That he missed you? That he’s sorry? That he still dreams about you brushing your teeth and yelling about socks in the sink?

He almost laughs at himself. It’s pathetic, really. The strongest sorcerer in the world, chasing after a ghost he keeps resurrecting for his own comfort. You sit across from him in silence. Just like always. As if the two of you are playing your roles in a scene that never ends. All too quiet, tired, full of ghosts.

He looks at you and wonders how you do it. How you still let him in. Maybe you’re just as broken as he is. Maybe that’s why it’s always been so easy to come back. Maybe that’s why he keeps doing it.

Not because it’s love, but because it’s familiar. Because it’s the one place where he doesn’t have to be Gojo Satoru, The Strongest. Just a man. Just yours. Or what’s left of him, anyway. He leans back in the chair and stares at the ceiling, exhaustion settling into his bones.

“We’re really bad for each other, aren’t we?” he says suddenly, voice quiet.

You don’t flinch. You just nod, eyes down on your cup. “I know.”

Somehow, honesty feels heavier than all the lies you’ve ever told each other. He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, and for the first time in years, he wonders if maybe this really is the last time he’ll ever walk through your door. And if it is, would that finally be the kindest thing either of you ever did?

The sun begins to bleed through the blinds. It casts long stripes across the floor, across the table where your hands rest, unmoving. It catches on the rim of his teacup, half-empty, long gone cold. Neither of you touches it.

The silence stretches, not hostile, just hollow. Like a house no longer lived in. Gojo Satoru watches you from across the table, eyes heavy-lidded, but alert. Always alert. That’s part of the curse, isn’t it? Even in this fragile moment, even in your home, he can’t stop watching. Can’t stop bracing.

You look up at him finally, and your voice is soft, but not unsure. “So why did you come here?”

He exhales. It’s not frustration, not defensiveness. Just… tired. “I don’t know if I’m going to be honest with you….Maybe because I missed you. Because I’m selfish. Because I thought maybe I could fix something.”

You nod slowly, like you expected that. Like you’ve heard it before. “Or maybe…..” you say quietly, eyeing him. “You just needed somewhere to feel less alone.”

The words don’t stab, they sink. Like a stone dropping into still water. You’ve always seen him too clearly. Even when he made himself impossible to reach. Even when he wore a smile like armor and a blindfold like distance. You always saw him.

And that more than anything might be the reason he keeps coming back. Because you were the only one left that could ever touch that barrier that he had set long ago. Satoru rubs his face with both hands and lets out a long, ragged breath.

“This thing we have, baby.” he says slowly. “It’s not love anymore. Or if it is, it’s the kind that hurts too much to be worth anything.”

You nodded back at him, in some ways agreeing. You don’t fight him on it. You don’t cry, either. That’s how he knows you’ve thought the same for a long time. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“I used to think…” he trails off, then laughs, bitterly. “I used to think the strongest thing I could do was keep going. Keep holding on. Keep you here.”

“And now?” you ask.

He looks at you for a moment.

There’s no shield in his blue eyes.

No glasses, or any mask to hide it away.

Just a man stripped bare, finally.

“Now I think the strongest thing I can do is leave, or at least I think that’s it.” he says, smiling almost too bitterly, too sadly than anything you could comprehend. “And never come back.”

You look at him for a long time. Long enough for a thousand memories to pass between you in silence. All the nights spent curled around each other like lifelines. All the mornings after fights. All the wordless apologies. All the doorways he stood in. All the times you let him stay.

You reach out then. Of course, not to pull him back, but to set your hand over his, gently. It’s the softest you’ve touched him in years. The most honest way, you had in a long while, too. Everything about it burned as much as it comforted.

“I loved you, Satoru.” you whisper. “Far too much for my own good.”

“I know that already.” he says to you, all too knowing. “I loved you too. In all the wrong ways.”

You both sit with it. That awful, beautiful, human thing. The sun shifts again. Warmer now. Higher in the sky. No longer a suggestion of morning, but a quiet declaration of a day beginning. Whether or not you’re ready for it.

It spills across the floor in golden slants, brushing over dust motes, stretching across the table, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the delicate bend of your wrist, the rim of the teacup that’s gone cold and untouched. A relic of another ritual that once meant something.

You don’t let go of his hand right away. There’s no tightening, no grasping, just stillness. You hold it not like someone holding on, but like someone making peace. Between you is not a plea, not a prayer. It was just the soft shape of a goodbye neither of you can say yet.

Your weary eyes stay on the light dancing across the floor. It feels symbolic, ridiculous, almost theatrical. But you don’t look away from him. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t help it, if you were being honest.

“I think I stopped being myself when we started falling apart, Satoru.” you say quietly. The words don’t shake. They land with the solemnity of truth, a truth long overdue. “And I didn’t even notice until there was nothing left but pieces.”

It’s not an accusation. You’re not blaming him. You’re not even blaming yourself. You’re just stating a fact, like reading the last line of a book you’ve read too many times. One that always ends the same. He squeezes your hand once. It’s small. All too human. It trembles just slightly.

“I noticed that too well too.” he murmurs, eyes down. “I just didn’t know how to help without ruining what little we had left.”

His voice doesn’t carry anger. No resentment. Just resignation. The dull ache of someone who tried even clumsily, wrongly, desperately and still came up short. Someone who held onto the hope that loving you was enough, even when he knew love couldn’t stitch together something that was already fraying at the seams.

You let go first. And it’s the bravest thing you’ve done in years. Braver than walking away. Braver than staying. Braver than every time you cracked open the door and let him back in, convincing yourself maybe this time would be different. This time, you let go, and you mean it.

He stands slowly. Like someone coming out of a long coma. His spine protests. His knees creak. There’s a heaviness to him, not just in body but in soul. Like gravity has finally caught up with him after years of pretending he was above it.

You watch him glance around the apartment. And you know what he’s doing. He’s archiving it. The crooked photo on the wall, taken years ago, before everything fell apart. The chipped bowl on the counter you always swore you’d replace but never did.

The blanket on the back of the couch still carries traces of both your scents. The stack of books he never read but always asked about. This wasn’t just where you lived. It was the life he almost had. The version of him he could’ve been. The future that never quite formed.

And then he turns to you, still standing in that patch of sunlight, the light now softening the sharp edges of his face. Somehow, it was making him look younger, sadder, more human than he’s let himself be in years. The god for a moment was off the pedestal.

“I’m going to try.” he says, voice low, eyes fixed on yours. “To stop coming back.”

It hits like a soft thud in your chest. You don’t speak right away. Your throat is tight, your heart louder than it should be. You want to say something back to him. Anything. But there’s nothing left that won’t undo what you’ve both finally started to build: distance, clarity, peace.

So you nod. You nod like it’s the only language you trust yourself to use. “I see.”

“I want you to be happy.” he adds, almost too hesitantly. “Even if I’m not there to see it.”

It’s the most generous thing he’s ever said to you. Because you both know: he won’t be there to see it. He can’t be. That’s the whole point. Still, he means it. At least he tries to make it so. And you�� you believe him.

You look at him then, really look. Like you’re trying to memorize him in return. The slope of his shoulders, the tired set of his mouth, the way he still stands like someone bracing for impact, even when there’s no one left to fight.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Even if you’ll never see me again?”

The question hangs in the air between you, raw and trembling. It’s not meant to guilt him. It’s not meant to beg. It’s just the truth laid bare, like everything else this morning. He swallows hard. Something shifts in his expression. Something deep and reluctant and vulnerable. His mouth lifts, but it isn’t a smile. Not really.

He laughs, bitter and broken at the edges. The kind of laugh that tastes like regret. “But I’m not strong enough to admit that.”

There it is. The crack. The fault line that’s always been there between the two of you. Because for all his power, all his strength, Gojo Satoru was never good at losing. Never good at walking away without leaving the door cracked open, just in case.

And all of this, all that could ever be, and most of all, you? Letting go for good? It scares him more than death ever did. You let the silence stretch again. Not to punish him. Not to demand more. Just because this is the last silence.

The last time you will sit across from him and feel every version of yourselves folded into the space between you. Every argument, every kiss, every time you swore you'd never do this again and then did it anyway.

You inhale slowly, and your chest feels too full and hollow all at once. He doesn't move. Still standing there, a man made of contradictions. The strongest sorcerer alive. The loneliest man you’ve ever known. A boy who never learned how to stop reaching for things already slipping away.

You rise to your feet, slowly. There's no drama in it. No chase scene. Just a tired kind of grace. You walk toward him, not to stop him, not to plead. Just to stand with him for a moment longer.

You pause beside him, just barely close enough that your shoulders almost touch. You don’t look at him when you speak. “Then I’ll be the strong one, for the both of us.” you say.

He closes his bright blue eyes for a moment. He did so like the words hurt. Like they’re mercy and cruelty in equal measure. You reach for the doorknob before he can. It’s gentle, but decisive. You open the door for him.

The hallway is flooded now in the morning. Golden, blinding. The kind of light that makes you squint, makes everything look a little softer than it is. You don’t know if it’s kindness or illusion. He hesitates at the threshold.

You don’t. You step back, just enough for him to leave. And he does. Slowly. Like a man walking out of a dream he doesn’t want to wake from. He turns to go. He even takes a step, just one, all toward the open door.

But he stops. His hand flexes at his side, caught between impulse and restraint. And then slowly, deliberately, he finds his body acting on its own. Fully now, he finds it all comes too suddenly. He turns back to you.

You’re still standing where you were, barely a pace away. Your eyes meet his, and something shifts in the air between you. A tension that has lived there for years, never fully named, never fully released. It hums now, sharp and quiet, like a held breath.

He steps forward. One step. Then another. Until he’s right in front of you. Towering over you like he always does, all height and presence and gravity, but somehow more fragile now than you’ve ever seen him. Like the armor has finally worn through. Like he’s not sure if he’s here to say goodbye or beg for one last moment.

You look up at him, and your throat tightens. Because you know that look. It’s the look he wore the first time he kissed you. The look of someone who already knows the ending but chooses the beginning anyway.

There’s so much he doesn’t say.

He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t make promises.

He doesn’t tell you he loves you.

Not again, not now, when it’s too late for it to change anything.

And still, he leans in as close as he could, little by little. Slow, hesitant. His eyes search yours, asking a question without words, one last time. You don’t pull away. You don’t stop him. And when he kisses you, it’s not passionate. It’s not heated or desperate.

It’s soft. Devastatingly soft. Like a goodbye dressed up as something sweeter. As something more sinful, something more deadly than poison, something more despotic than desire. His mouth moves against yours with reverence, not possession.

There’s no rush. No hunger. Just aching tenderness. Like he wants to memorize the way you taste in the light of morning, the way you feel when there’s no one left to lie to. Not even yourselves.

When he pulls back, he lingers. He lets his forehead brush against yours. Both your eyes shut. Breathing the same air like it’s the last thing you’ll ever share on this earth ever again. Because it is. He liked to believe it is. And maybe, he’d convince you too.

He steps back, but then something inside him shifts. Maybe it’s the years of unsaid words, the moments stolen and lost, the weight of all the things he wishes he could take back. Without hesitation, he leans in again.

This second kiss is quieter, softer. Less a demand and more a confession. His lips brush yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, as if he’s trying to press every ounce of his regret, every fragment of love, into this single, fragile moment.

The world around you fades. The sunlight slanting through the blinds, the chipped bowl on the counter, the silence filling the apartment. All that disappears beneath the gravity of his touch. Time folds in on itself, drawing you into the eye of something quiet and devastating.

Satoru’s hands find your waist, fingers trembling with a restraint he doesn’t bother to hide. He steadies himself against you. Not just physically, but as though you are the last true thing left to hold onto in a world that’s constantly slipping from his grasp.

His touch is tentative, reverent, as if he’s half-expecting you to vanish beneath his hands. Your own shaking hands rise before you can think, palms settling against the heat of his chest.

Beneath them, his heart beats strong and steady, a sound that has, for as long as you can remember, both comforted you and carved you open. It’s a rhythm you know too well, a rhythm that once meant safety, and now, carries the ache of everything unsaid.

When he finally pulls away, it’s not distance he creates, it’s pause. His forehead rests against yours, skin warm, breath trembling in the narrow space between. His eyes are shut tight, like he’s memorizing this moment by feeling alone.

The slope of your brow, the hitch in your breath, the shared silence shaped like a wound. He didn’t want to forget it. He didn’t want it all to become hazy in the back of his mind in those lonely nights. He wanted to remember everything, piece by piece, line by line, moment by moment.

“I had to.” he whispers. The words break against you, fragile and raw, heavy with regret. They’re not an excuse. They’re a confession.

“I know.” You nod, eyes closed, anchoring yourself to the weight of him, the weight of what he’s done, of what it means.

Your throat tightens with everything you want to say and can’t. So instead, you offer him the only truth you can bear. You swallow hard and take a step back, not far, but enough to gather what little composure remains.

“You should go, Satoru.” you say quietly.

It isn’t cold words to you. He knew that, you were sure. If anything, it's a tiring tune sung by the other bird in this gilded cage you both made for yourselves, frayed in grievance and need for salvation. A threadbare plea in the face of something you no longer know how to hold.

But he doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable. And then, wordlessly, he leans in again. This time there’s no hesitance, no trembling in his hands. His mouth finds yours like it’s the only thing he’s sure of, like if he kisses you hard enough, time might rewind itself and mercy might bloom in the spaces between what you lost.

You should stop him, you tell yourself.

And somehow, somewhere in you, you don’t.

You don’t know how to do it, not when it comes to him.

You could never deny your god anything he ever wanted.

Not even this, not even relief, not even you.

You fall into him, into the familiar warmth of his mouth. The soft scrape of his teeth, the way his breath hitches when your fingers curl into his shirt. His hands slide up your back, slow, anchoring, and the kiss deepens.

Everything was even hotter now, hungrier, greedier. Not desperate, but perhaps itching close to it. The kind of kiss that makes your knees forget how to hold you, that scrapes every rational thought from your head until there’s only him. His mouth, his breath, the weight of his want colliding with yours.

The world, already far away, vanishes entirely. There's only the drag of his lips, the burn of your need, the ache of history threading itself between kisses that taste like grief and defiance and something you’re too afraid to name.

His hands are at your waist again, pulling you closer, close enough that you feel everything he’s been holding back. And god, you want to hate him for it. But all you do is kiss him harder. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you don’t want it to stop. Not yet.

Satoru lets himself groan into the kiss, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him. He can feel every curve, every inch of you. To him, it's like coming home after a long, lonely journey.

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, the feel of you. His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you meet him stroke for stroke, your own hunger rising to match his.He breaks the kiss suddenly, panting, his forehead pressed against yours.

"Bedroom, baby." he rasps, his voice hoarse with desire. "Now."

He doesn't wait for a response, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you towards the bedroom.He kicks the door shut behind him, then sets you down gently on the bed. He stands there for a moment, just looking at you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with want.

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to unbutton his shirt, his bright blue eyes never leaving yours. Each button reveals more of his chest, the toned muscles, the light dusting of hair, the scars that map his history, his truth.

He shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor, then reaches for his belt, unbuckling it with a slow, deliberate motion. He pauses, his hand on the button of his pants, a question in his eyes. He's giving you a chance to stop this, to say no, to push him away. But you don't. You can't.

You're caught in his gaze, in the heat of the moment, in the tangled web of your past and present. You shake your head slightly, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. That's all the encouragement he needs. He unbuttons his pants, pushing them down along with his underwear, stepping out of them to stand naked before you.

He's hard, his erection standing proud and tall, the tip flushed a deep red.He climbs onto the bed, crawling over you, his hands braced on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with desire and something deeper, something that makes your heart ache.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, then another to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He nuzzles aside the neckline of your dress, kissing the swell of your breast. He looks up at you, his voice a low rumble.

"Can I, pretty?" he asks, his fingers toying with the strap of your dress.

He's asking permission, giving you the chance to say no, to maintain some semblance of control. But you're past that.You're past thinking, past reasoning. There's only him, only this, only the burning need that consumes you both. You arch into his touch, a silent plea.

Satoru takes that as consent, his fingers deftly unzipping your morning dress. He peels it off slowly, revealing your skin inch by inch, his eyes darkening with desire at the sight of you. He tosses the dress aside, leaving you in your underwear.

He would remove those too, but he pauses, drinking in the sight of you laid out beneath him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your lips parted, your eyes heavy-lidded with want. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your stomach.

His massive hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts through the lace of your bra. He thumbs your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He looks up at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You're beautiful, baby." he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "So fucking beautiful."

He hooks his fingers under the straps of your bra, pulling them down slowly, freeing your breasts. He pauses, admiring the view. Your breasts are full and round, the nipples a dusky pink, hardened into tight buds.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the valley between them, then another to each nipple, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin. He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.

His hand kneads your other breast, his fingers plucking at the nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He switches sides, giving the other breast the same attention, his touch driving you wild with desire.

You arch into him, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him against you. He releases your nipple with a pop, looking up at you with a wicked grin. He slides down your body, kissing a trail across your stomach, his hands hooking into the waistband of your panties.

He looks up at you, his eyes questioning, seeking your permission to continue. You nod, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching for his touch. He slides your panties down slowly, his fingers trailing along your thighs, your calves, until they're completely off.

Satoru tosses them aside, then settles between your legs, his shoulders pushing them apart. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of you, bare and open to him.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, slowly working his way up. He pauses at the apex of your thighs, his breath hot against your core. He inhales deeply, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

"You smell so good, baby. So so good." he murmurs, his voice strained with want.

He presses a kiss to your folds, his tongue flicking out to taste you. You gasp, your hips jerking at the sudden contact. He groans at your taste, his tongue delving deeper, exploring your folds, circling your clit.

Satoru licks and sucks, his movements slow and deliberate, building the pleasure inside you. He slides a finger inside you, curling it upwards, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. He adds another finger, pumping them in and out, his tongue never stopping its assault on your clit.

Your hands fist in the sheets, your back arching off the bed, your hips grinding against his face. He looks up at you, his eyes locked with yours, watching as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

Your blue eyed lover increases his pace, his fingers moving faster, his tongue flicking harder against your clit. He knows you're close, can feel you tightening around his fingers. He doubles his efforts, determined to push you over.

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you, drowning you in pleasure. You scream his name, your body convulsing, your hips bucking wildly against his face.

Satoru doesn't let up, his fingers and tongue continuing their relentless assault, drawing out your orgasm. He wanted you until you're a trembling, oversensitive mess. He always has. You cry as you feel it.

Only then does he slow, gentling his touch, bringing you down from the high. He kisses your inner thighs, your stomach, your breasts, his way back up to your mouth. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your hearts beating in sync.

Your godly lover pulls back, his eyes searching yours, a question in their depths. He's asking if you're ready for more, if you want him to continue. You nod, your hands sliding down his back to grip his ass, pulling him closer. You're not done with him yet. Not by a long shot. And nor is he.

SAME OLD STORY IS YOU BOTH ENTANGLED IN THE WORST OF YOUR BOUNTIFUL COMPLEXITIES. Morning comes softly, slipping through the curtains like it doesn’t know what it interrupted. The apartment is still, heavy with the scent of sleep and skin, with the echo of things you didn’t mean to let happen again.

You’re lying face to face in your bed, tangled in sheets and silence, still bare from everything you gave each other last night. There’s no space between you, not really. But the distance between you could be felt everywhere. It is just as much present as your love. Perhaps even louder.

It felt almost like it didn't need to be this noticeable and yet it was. All too well, all too unspoken. And yet you didn’t want to let it go. This little selfish moment for you, this wanting, this desire that you just can’t help. You think about it too often, all too much. And you hated it, as much as you loved it.

In the way your fingers don’t move to trace his cheek. In the way his eyes search yours like he’s already bracing for the end. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him. Minutes, hours. Time feels like it’s holding its breath.

His hand rests near yours on the pillow, not touching, but close. And god, it would be so easy to reach out. To stay. To pretend. But you can’t. You exhale slowly, eyes fixed on him like this might be the last time you allow it.

“You should go.” you say, quieter this time.

Not like last night, not with the heat of everything still pulsing through you. This is softer. This is sadder. A truth shaped like surrender. His bright godly eyes don’t flinch. He nods, barely, his voice a whisper against the space between you.

“I know.”

It breaks something in you, the way he says it. Like he’s been expecting it since the moment he touched you again. Like maybe he wishes you’d asked him to stay. But neither of you say that. You never do.

You lie there for a few seconds longer, facing each other, your hearts still humming in sync from what you shared. And then, slowly, like peeling off a memory, he slips out of bed, starts gathering his clothes in silence.

The rustle of fabric is the only sound in the room. His shirt slipping over his shoulders, the zip of his pants, the soft scrape of denim against skin. You don’t move. You just watch the ceiling, your throat tight with everything you won’t let yourself feel.

He hesitates by the edge of the bed, uniform shirt still unbuttoned, hands stilled at his sides. The air between you is heavy, unspoken things crowding into the morning light. He doesn’t know how he can look at you right now. He can’t. Not like this.

“I didn’t come here to hurt you, baby.” he says quietly.

You close your eyes, feeling the tears fall from your eyes. But you hide it as much as you can. You can’t show it to him. Not now. You know that he crumbles completely when you cry. And he didn’t need that. Not when he’s wanting to whisper goodbye.

“I know.” you say to him. “I know it all too well.”

A pause. You can hear the way he breathes, sharp and careful. “I just…” he trails off, then tries again. “It felt like something real, again. Last night.”

You open your eyes and look at him then, really look. His luscious white hair is in a horrible mess, his bright eyes tired, his mouth still soft from sleep and kisses that should’ve never happened.

“It was real, you know that.” you say to him in a whistled whisper. “That’s the problem.”

He swallows hard, looking away like he can’t bear to hold your gaze. “I don’t know how to stop wanting this, [name].”

"Satoru, stop."

"I want you." he admits. It jarred you. How easily it tugs your heartstrings when he says your name. How easily he can draw you back. “I want….I want this.”

“You don’t have to stop wanting it, Satoru.” you say to him, not wanting to look at him either. “You just have to stop coming back.”

That lands between you like a bruise. His jaw tenses. His hands curl into fists, then relax again. “I’m sorry.”

You nod once. “I know.”

He stands there a moment longer, like he wants to say something else. Like maybe this time he’ll stay. But he doesn’t. He buttons his shirt slowly. He finds his shoes. He walks to the door. And just before he opens it, he speaks to you. Soft, barely audible.

“Satoru?”

He turns. The morning light catches the edge of his profile, all gold and ghost. A boy you once loved. A man you can’t quite forget. You don’t ask him to stay. You can’t do it. Not when he will never be the man you wanted him to be.

“Next time, don’t knock.”

His expression falters. Something almost shatters in his eyes. “There won’t be a next time……At least I hope not.”

Your breath catches, but you manage a hollow laugh. “We always say that.”

He leans against the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, head bowed, languid fingers gripping the handle like he’s trying to convince himself to turn it. He didn’t even know he was holding his breath.

“I keep thinking if I leave fast enough, I’ll stop coming back.” he says to you. “But I never do.”

You shift under the sheets, pulling them tighter around your chest even though you’re not cold. “Because you know I’ll let you in.”

His silence is answer enough.

You sit up slowly, arms wrapped around yourself.

He stays there, hoping for more in the bitterness.

“You want me to be the one to end it for good. That way you don’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. You almost wish he would. You almost wish he’d lie. Instead, he glances back one last time, eyes soft, mouth parted like there’s something more he could say if it would make a difference. But nothing will. So you give him a tired smile. One that’s more pain than peace.

“Go home, Satoru.”

A beat. Then he nods, opens the door, and steps out into the hall. You hear the soft click of it closing behind him. And when he’s gone, really gone, the weight of everything sinks in. You lie back down in the space he left. You wanted to capture it all, what is left of him.

His side of the bed is still warm, still smelling like him, like last night, like all the nights before that you swore would be the last. You press your fingers to your lips, like maybe you can still hold the memory there a moment longer.

And then, quietly, to the ceiling, to no one in particular, “I hope not, too.”

But you know better.

You always do.

He will come back.

And you’d let him in.

193 notes · View notes

wrotebymii · 21 hours ago

Text

EVERYTHING HAS A PLACE | Date Everything x Autistic!gn!reader

Summary: How life is with the objects and their autistic homeowner.

Warnings: Fluffy, minimal angst, reader doesn’t know their household necessities are sentient at first, I’m autistic but low-functioning so a lot of what I wrote is how I go about my day/how I act. Not edited. Reader is also slightly demi-romantic coded. Lost the plot a few paragraphs in I’m sorry I’m sleep deprived.

Timothy, Penelope, and You are like three peas in a pod. Using each keeps you relatively relaxed for the upcoming day or eventual break in your neatly put together schedule—which gets increasingly difficult to think about when said break comes.

Sorry, Sam, but your hang session is place obscurely in our data monthly pin board since it’s pushing too close to workout and the everything shower. —Signed Penelope

They all try to accommodate your needs; Kopi making the coffee the exact same every time, Freddy keeping the fridge nice and cool so your comfort foods don’t spoil just yet, Teddy being found under your bed when you’re having a difficult time regulating, even Lux and Barry collaborating reluctantly together to find the perfect hand lotion that doesn’t give you sensory headaches.

Everyone thinks you’re charming, not in an infantilizing way. Every single person adores you but with respect and understanding.

Most of them love that you have a routine you stick by, it’s easy to remember and gives them chill periods in between. Its a nice break because they too can get tired, so when there’s a detour in the schedule that wasn’t place advanced. They worry.

Koa and Mateo would immediately be there with you, letting you curl in the comfort of your bedding and focus on yourself. While Telly puts on a rerun of your favorite show.

But this time it’s different. An immediate change in your entire routine when you got the Dateviators. Forcing yourself to ignore the urge to clean the broken glass of your door window because a drone had so rudely forced the box in. You picked them up, they were cute a little tacky but cute nevertheless. Internally, you were still freaked out that an unknown person knew your address and sent you a pair of sungla— holy shit.

You put them on and you’re not sure how it happened but there was a very beautiful smiling pinked haired stranger standing a few feet away from you. She was practically buzzing in excitement as she explained what was happening. Causing you to…

Quickly take the glasses off and pace.

You couldn’t believe it, almost didn’t want to believe it. Within the comforts of your own home every object, appliance, knicknacks, and the literal embodiment of concepts are all sentient. It made you feel all types of ways wrong that you quickly took laps around the house before collapsing on the floor of your living room.

…this could be a good thing? You mean…it could help with your social skill and facial recognition. Hell, maybe you’ll get a friend out of this?

Slowly you put them back on, your world being brightly lit up by rose tinted specs. It hurts your eyes. Though, Skylar shows up again, looking down at you with a strained smile and wave. Easying you up without touching you to your feet and continuing what she was saying. Before another bomb shell hit you.

Dateviators…dateables

The whole point of these glasses was to date multiple of your household items which freaked you out more. However, you were truly thankful that you met Dorian first. His announcement that friendship was also an option made it less daunting on you.

Thus began the 102 way to get everything to be friends with you!

Sure, the first few days was stressful and near exhausting but long talks with Timothy and Pen helped greatly. They helped with creating an entirely new schedule color coded as well that allowed time for your humanly needs and getting to know everyone.

Jerry and You got along great, earning his friendship fast when you told him to up-cycle.

Lux was easy to hate, but with your inability to know when you’re being insulted you became their unlikely friend they hurt your eyes.

Teddy was amazing, you were little embarrassed that he knows deeply about your breakdowns but the silly advice and stories made it go away.

Barry is probably your best friend, you help him with his memory by saying he can use things he’s interested in to aid him in keeping track of things.

Chance is your second bestie, nearly tackling him in feral hyper fixation so you could yap his ear off about the game you both like. He’s the most likely to fall for you. Besides Wallace.

However, the best place is Break Box Club, but only when it’s after hours. You can only sit through terrible act before you want to put cotton in your ears. The club is soothing at closing, lights dimmer Volt and Eddie do that just for you and you get to drink a lot of mocktails Eddie teases you.

You do your share, of course. Not wanting to free load off the two. You have knowledge on the breaker box because you were frantically cleaning one day and found the manual which you spent the next hour reading through and forgot the cleaning which you regretted later.

Currently, you’re seated at the bar working on a project you and Jerry are doing while chatting to Eddie about a new dateable, questioning the person initial reaction to you. Volt was to your right.

“They were flirting…” He said, cleaning a glass with a shake of his head. The corner of his lips turning up. You give him a once over and hum in thought.

“Nah” You say flatly, not believing it.

“The hell you mean nah?” He raised an amused brow. You shrug and sit up straight, gathering your words.

“They seemed…rude? And pushy” You concluded.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t…” Eddie pauses and places the glass down, rubbing between his eyes like he has a headache.

“Sometimes…insults can be meant in different ways, live wire.” Volt says, chuckling. They aren’t teasing you for your like of awareness but amused by the conversation overall.

“But, that’s not how it’s like in Betty’s books” You say, maintaining strict eye contact with Eddies hands as the wipe down the counter. Enjoying the rhythmic nature of it.

“How was it shown in these books?” Volt asks with more interest.

“Flashy, and oddly poetic. Like you’d sing a ballad if you saw your lover in front of you” You say remembering the way Betty gasp and sigh wishfully when she read it out loud. You thought it was pretty, and by definition romantic, but not something you think you’d like.

“Ah of course, lovey-dovey shit…” Eddie mumbles, he leans on the bar his hands on the counter supporting his weight. Volt hums.

“Betty is the overtly romantic type.” Volt looks at you, multitasking on the project and the conversation.

“-what about you?”

“Huh?”

“What is your romance like, your love language?”

“You don’t have to answer, tap your fingers twice if you want me to stop him” Eddie teases, his voice drowning out with Volts as they banter back and forth.

What is your romance like? Love language? You aren’t sure, but you know you like foundation a connection to someone. Similarities but not too many.

“I think I like just being near someone…we don’t have uh-don’t have to speak or do anything but just be there in each other presence, I enjoy that. Looking up and seeing that they’re there and I get to be there with them…” The room is silence, it’s not awkward but settle.

Then it’s broken.

“I enjoy the firey and beautiful passi-“

“You ruined it” Eddie huffs.

“Oh-ho I did not, I’m merely adding onto-“ Volt defends himself, electricity tingling over his arms—the zapping noise of it pleases you.

You giggle as they continue, adding the last bit to the Jerry project. Watching as Eddie and Volt blabber on as Eddie begins to walk away from the conversation to go on and do workaholic things.

You might not fully understand where you are in romantic relationships but you’ll take anything if it meant being in the presence of any object within this house. If they’re flirty, hateful, passive, aloof.

You don’t mind, being around them is enough for you.

#date everything x reader #date everything #character x reader #x reader #gender neutral reader

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multi-fandom-imagine · 15 hours ago

Text

The Light Between || Jinu ||

You hadn’t planned on telling him tonight.

Not when his knuckles were still scraped from him making his way back to you, still wrapped in bandages you’d replaced just this morning. Not when his jaw was clenched the way it gets when he’s trying too hard to keep everything in. Not when he’d barely looked at you in three days except in those brief flashes—like he thought you were going to vanish if he stared too long.

But you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Not when it fluttered inside you like something sacred, something real.

You find him alone in the training room—just past midnight, sweat-drenched and shirtless, pounding into the heavy bag like he was still stuck in the other world. He doesn’t notice you at first. He never does when he’s like this.

You don’t speak. You just wait.

Eventually, his breath catches, and his fist stills mid-air. He knows you’re there. He always knows.

“Can’t sleep?” he mutters, not looking at you.

“Can’t think,” you answer softly.

That gets him. He turns, gaze flicking to yours—and for once, he doesn’t hide the storm there. The worry. The fear. The ache.

You walk toward him, slow and steady, like approaching a wild thing you don’t want to startle. When you’re close enough, your fingers find his wrist. His pulse thrums under your touch—fast, electric.

“I need to tell you something,” you say, and your voice cracks just a little.

His shoulders tense as he opened his lips then rolling his shoulders. "If it's about me trying to contact your mom about me coming back-."

“It’s not,” you interrupt. Your free hand brushes against your belly, the motion unconscious. Protective.

It’s then his eyes drop.

Not in shame. Not in deflection.

But because he feels it. Something shifting. A ripple in the air. A tug on his soul.

“Jinu,” you whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, nothing moves. Not even him.

And then he takes a step back like the words hit him physically. Like they sunk into his skin and shook something loose.

His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You’re… Are you sure?”

You nod, tears threatening now, not from fear but from relief. “I went to a doctor a few days ago and I took a test twice. I wanted to be absolutely sure before I told you.”

He’s staring again. But this time it’s not distant.

It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks. Like the fog of everything—blood, fire, guilt—clears just enough for him to remember what he’s fighting for.

“You…” His voice breaks, and he steps closer, hand hovering like he’s afraid to touch you. “You’re carrying my kid?”

You laugh—soft, watery. “Pretty sure it doesn’t belong to anyone else.”

That’s when he finally touches you. One hand ghosts over your abdomen. The other wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you in until your foreheads meet.

“God,” he breathes. “You should’ve told me.”

“You’ve been hurting,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn’t want to add more to it.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if anchoring himself to you. “You didn’t add anything. You reminded me why I’m still alive.”

You let out a quiet sob at that, and his thumbs catch the tears before they fall.

Then—so softly you barely hear it—he says, “I’ve always wanted to be a dad.”

Your breath stutters.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips—gentle, reverent, alive—and finally drops to his knees in front of you. Both hands cradling your hips now, eyes closed as his forehead rests against your stomach.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “To either of you. Not even hell’s worst.”

You thread your fingers through his damp hair. “We’ll protect them together. Like we always do.”

He nods once against your belly, then looks up, smile blooming slowly—tender, boyish, a little awed tears swelling in his eyes as he dug his fingers into the fabric of your shirt.

“I already love you both more than my own life.”

And you believe him.

Because he’s Jinu.

And he’s always fought with his heart full of fire.

Now, he fights with something even stronger.

Hope.

#drabbles #drabble #jinu kpdh #Jinu #jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu x reader #jinu saja boys #jinu x you #kpdh #kpdh x reader #kpdh x you #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x you

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azullumi · 18 hours ago

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IN THE DESCENT OF MADNESS CALLED LOVE !!

premise — he’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair that mirrors falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you; alternatively, phainon is everything warmth and kindness embodies, and when he stumbles upon you, a person who just wants to get out of this very hell but can’t, the both of you get caught up in the mess created by your very own hands. content tags and warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | alnst!au, kind of a toxic relationship, graphic descriptions of death, wounds, and blood, cynical and hater reader meets golden sunshine boy, a lot of physical touching and intimacy, religious themes and metaphors, love is cannibalism, some things about anakt garden is up to assumption, comfort/fluff if you squint, rocky start but they get bad before they get better then worst, angst, not proofread | wc: 5.0k

note from me — i did not write this with a sane mind at all but its fun exploring this kind of dynamic lol also this week i learned that i have scoliosis ?

i.) cast the flames and shatter your heart, you are nothing without the ache of your hands

Anakt Garden is ugly.

It’s suffocating and abhorrently quiet despite the echoes of laughter and feet stomping and stumbling on the grassy grounds. It’s detestful how some humans treat it as paradise when it actually is a warm embrace before death takes you, a preparation for something equally repulsive as the lights on stage or the collar on your necks.

You’ve stopped caring about it, about everyone else.

You’re a few minutes into your granted free time, and you’ve decided to sit by the trees near the lake—not a lot comes here, after all, so you can finally have some peace.

You’re halfway through sketching a single fish when a shadow looms over you. You don’t look up, disregarding the presence as another measly child who is simply too curious.

You finish the sketch, take out the crayons, and begin coloring. Minutes pass; you hear some shuffling and rustling, then finally, a voice, gentle and clear as the crafted melodies you have sung.

“Can I color too?”

You look beside you where the sound came from, where you see a blur of blue and white. It’s a boy—there’s a boy sitting right beside you and peering over your sketchbook and you cannot see his face.

Either he had mistaken you for a close friend of his or it’s normal for him to be this friendly to a total stranger.

“No.” You simply answer, before scooting a little away from him and resuming your work. You add details to the fish on the left, adoring it with sparkles and a reddish pattern.

The boy follows and keeps the same distance.

“Why not?” You don’t answer, so he pursues like a relentless fire. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

This time you finally look at him and you see it—hair, the reflection of snow, and a pair of eyes that holds the skies within. It’s a beautiful blue, adoring and soft; the kind of hue you have heard your provider tell you when she mentions this place called ‘ocean’. You’re sure you can see yourself in them too as he keeps his gaze on yours.

“It’s not about ruining it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know you.”

Not like you know anyone here, though. You’ve always kept your distance from everyone, nothing good is going to ever come out of making bonds in this grand play of life and death. You look back to your artwork.

Silence falls in the small space between you and him, in the gap between that can be easily closed if he were to push a little closer, but he seemingly abates and you’re about to let out a sigh (of relief?) when he speaks once more.

“I’m Phainon.” He beams a grin at you when you look at him again. “Nice to meet you!”

It feels like there are floating flowers and stars surrounding him when he speaks, and you’ve come to realize and accept the fact that this stubborn child is not going to give up. So you simply just relent and give him the boxes of crayons, bringing the sketchbook closer to him.

You don’t see him but you feel it—the sparkle in his eyes and the utter warmth that clings to his smile. You think you never want to see it.

“Ah, you smudged it.”

“Oh, wait. Let me fix it quickly.”

“You ruined it even more!”

“Oops, sorry.” He looks at you while scratching the back of his head, his somewhat insincere face completely rendering his apology useless.

“Don’t look at me like that. We can just do this,” he picks up a different crayon, one that stands out from the background, and begins doing whatever he is planning while you watch. It’s not like you don’t have the energy to stop him—and maybe you actually do—, but curiosity triumphs over you as your eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Ta-dah! I present to you: Fishnon!”

There’s another fish standing beside the one you have drawn now, except this one looks a little messier—mixed in the blur of colors and blue, laid on top of the hues like a coveted stain, but it stands out in the array of pigments, nevertheless.

“Fishnon…?” You don’t know why you question it nor what you are even questioning for, but your eyes are glued to the paper, specifically to the newly-added fish with a sword. Oh, and the two fishes are now holding hands.

“Yeah, Fishnon! It’s Phainon and Fish combined.”

He’s rather enthusiastic. And it’s stupid. Like extremely stupid.

Phainon’s art skills are not much developed compared to yours and his fish persona looks ridiculous standing beside the one you have drawn. But for some reason, the tight knots in your chest eases just enough to make you breathe again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding it.

“It looks just like you.” You say, adding details to Fishnon.

“As it should.”

And somewhere between here and there, in this moment under the carefully drawn skies, he calls for you in a kind tone (you don’t recall ever telling him your name) and you can feel something shift deep within you. Something soft, warm, slowly unraveling itself.

It’s high time in noon, meals are being served, and it feels like a curse has been cast on you.

Ever since then, your eyes betray you—always seeking blue, and whenever you find it, it’s already gazing back.

The thing that has you scratching your head and wishing to slap yourself is that it always follows with that stupid smile—that stupid grin with that dumb face and those annoying eyes that crinkles into crescents.

You stab your fork harshly on the pea that it scratches against the plate’s surface. It bursts under the tines, its guts smearing the porcelain. The poor vegetable colony probably cripples in fear of being the next victim.

“Is this seat free?”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. His voice is unmistakable—honeyed and light, like the choir’s song before they curdle into screams.

“Yes.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

This is why you never try to know anyone. Not only is it a waste of effort but it will do nothing but harm. Bonds here are rotten fruit born from a splendid tree, dangling from a branch just to be plucked and crushed underfoot. The Garden’s love is a slow poison, and Phainon gulps it down like communion wine. You’re not sure who to blame here, but is there really anyone to do so? Was this a sin?

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:

“Go ahead.”

It all feels so foolish. Like pull-your-hair-out stupid, what-the-hell-did-i-get-into foolish. Despite averting your eyes away, your gaze only returns to him soon after like a pair of magnets that can never be separated—and perhaps he simply was just like that, how irritating he may be even if doing nothing. There was a certain fascination in how he can remain rather optimistic and happy despite the circumstances he is in.

Your gaze drags back to him. Always to him.

Phainon eats like someone who still believes food is a gift, not fuel. He peels the crust off his bread, arranges his carrots into a smiley face, hums between bites. Alive. Too alive.

“Are you always eating alone?”

You shrug, “I’m used to it.”

He leans in, elbows on the table, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. "Let’s always eat together," he declares, as if it’s that simple.

He’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing but another pretty corpse onstage, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of stolen skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair like falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you.

"Suit yourself," you mutter, but your hand is already stealing a carrot from his tray.

He laughs, bright and startled, and you hate how it settles in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

ii.) let it consume you, it must consume you, allow your body to return to ashes

You’ve noticed this before but Phainon is really well-cared for.

In every moment he had pestered you —leaning into your space with that infuriating grin, humming off-key hymns—and in every moment that you had indulged him, you have never seen him unkempt clothes or tattered fabrics. He appears to be pampered, meticulously attended to and looked after—it almost feels like every joint of his are strung, his movements controlled and calculated. Everything about him is so well-maintained it practically exudes that he is beloved by the aliens.

But not now.

Not with the bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a stain, not with his shirt torn at the collar, rust-brown blood smeared down his chin, dripping on his pristine-white shirt.

Your eyebrows knit into one, “What did you get yourself into?”

He had never struck you as someone who would get into meaningless squabbles.

Earlier, whispers slithered through the halls: A scuffle near the dorms, a group of boys throwing punches against one another, a chorus of gasps. You ignored it—until you couldn't and you found yourself with your hand on his wrist and running away with him. And so here you are, inside one of the vacant art rooms—your art room, the one reeking of turpentine and stolen solitude—tending to his wounds with a careful efficiency like handling a porcelain vase.

You dig through the kit that you retrieved from your room: half-dried alcohol, cotton balls pilfered from the infirmary, bandages fraying at the edges. Supplies you’d hoarded for yourself, for the days when the weight of the Garden’s hymns threatened to crack your ribs open.

You’ve never thought that you were going to use it in this way. I mean, sure, they are eventually going to be used to clean up wounds, cuts, or whatever, but you’ve only done it to yourself.

Doing it for someone is different. This—closeness and something unnamed that sinks into your bones, that engraves warmth in your lungs, that makes your hands tremble—is different.

He laughs—a nervous and embarrassed sound as he darts his eyes to the side. His collar is red. “Let me explain.”

You work in silence, dabbing at the split skin of his lip and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“They started it.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“They called you a freak.” Your hand doesn’t falter, even as your pulse stutters.“They called me one too, but that’s whatever. Then they dragged you into it, said you were—”

You press particularly hard, shoving the cotton into the gash of his knuckles. squeezing alcohol out of it that seeps directly into his wounded skin. He yelps.

“—OW! Okay, okay! Mercy!”

“Don’t do that ever again.”

Don’t make it so easy.

Don’t let them see you bleed. Don’t let them hear you care. But he does, he always does, and that’s what makes it devastating—like a tragedy waiting to be written with the ink of your blood and papers of your flesh.

Phainon’s smile is lopsided, a fractured thing, too bright for this rotting world. Blood is still trickling from his lip. "Worried about me?"

You want to strangle him. You should have let him bleed out on the floor, should have let the surveillance catch him and apprehend him, you could have.

You tape the bandage over his knuckles too tight, relish the way he grits his teeth. "I’m worried you’ll get us both in trouble."

He leans in, close enough that you taste copper on his breath. "Too late for that."

Outside, the tree’s shadows stretch long across the fields, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself loathe him. Loathe the way his lashes catch the light like gilded wire. Loathe the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips, alive and reckless and his. Loathe that he’s here, now, ruined—for you.

He is a cosmic masterpiece carved by the stars themselves.

A divine joke, what a terrible sense of humor the universe has. A boy built from sunlight and sonatas, now bleeding onto your hands because he thought your name was worth defending.

You press your thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, smearing the violence deeper. This is how love feels, you think: like swallowing a shard of glass and calling it sacred. Like watching a god kneel in the dirt and knowing you are the blasphemy that brought him low.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is soft, mingling with your tangled breaths.

“Nothing.” You say, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of the crushing abyss that awaits for your fall.

You will remember the exact shade of red his blood makes against your skin, long after the stage burns his voice from the light.

“Did it hurt?”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, wrenching it aside to reveal the jagged letters carved into his skin. PHAINON—a filthy scar that glares at you, one that should have never existed.

You were subject to an excruciating procedure of having your names burned into your skin, a brand that will forever remain in your being, a foul stain. You don’t like it, you don’t like the pain, the screams that only the walls and machinery can hear; everything about it was disgusting.

Phainon tilts his head back so you can see the engraving better. “Not really,” he simply says, like he’s discussing the weather. “I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“You’re a bad liar, Phainon.” Your thumb gently glides over the engraving and his breath hitches—just once—when you trace the A, the I, the N, as if you could rewrite him with your hands.

“Okay, yeah. It hurt a lot.” A shadow flickers across his face—there and gone, like a fish darting into deeper water. “But it’s just skin anyway,” he murmurs.

Just skin. As if the both of you don’t know that skin is the first thing they take from you.

You release his collar with a sigh, “Whatever.” But he catches your wrist before you can retreat, his hand wrapped around right above where your name is engraved. He smiles, tilting his head like a curious hound: “Why do you care?”

The question hangs between you, sharp as a guillotine. You could lie. You could say it’s disgust, that it’s nothing else beyond the warmth that spreads on your skin that touches his, that it’s fear and repeated nightmares of his blood on your hands.

“I resent you.”

His thumb strokes your inner wrist, right over the vein. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He’s always known.

You resent the way he grins through bloodied teeth, the way he hums and runs around like everything is just a mere game. You resent that he chose you—a hissed sit with me, a crayon shoved into your hand, a thousand tiny violations of your solitude that you allow anyways.

Hatred, you’ve learned, is the closest thing to love this place allows.

This rotten land doesn’t teach you how to cradle someone’s face gently—it teaches you to bite. It doesn’t teach you whispered confessions—only how to carve your devotion into flesh, letter by letter, until the wound never closes.

"You’re disgusting," you say, and your fingers dig into his engraving like you want to peel it off his bones.

Phainon laughs, breath hot against your cheek. "Yeah." His other hand slides up your spine, nails catching on fabric. "You too."

It almost feels like a vow.

You hate him. You hate the way his breath hitches when you claw at his back. You hate how he licks the blood off your skin, how he steals food from the cafeteria trays to leave in your room, how he burns brighter every time you try to push him away.

Most of all, you hate that he’s right—that this is love, here in this rotting cradle.

Love is teeth breaking skin, it is holding someone’s heart just to feel how hard it struggles, it is watching the aliens mark him for slaughter and thinking, Mine, mine, mine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me that day,” you mutter.

“You were drawing a fish,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

The air between you is thick with the scent of something cruel and soft at the same. His grip tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the ridges of his fingerprints like another brand.

“Does yours still hurt?” he asks suddenly.

You could lie again. Instead, you yank your wrist free and press your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. You lightly push him away, glaring, “Yes.”

He exhales, sharp, like you’ve stabbed him. Then he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Good.”

Phainon does not believe in love the way they tell it, in the way endless adoration and worship is tangled into one golden thread that ties you to another person, but he believes in you, in this anger, hatred, warmth, in the way your nails dig into his engraving like you want to peel his name from his flesh and swallow it whole.

It’s ugly. It’s his.

And that’s close enough for him.

(He will adore you for a very, very long time.)

It’s starving, gnawing.

The guilt is a living thing inside you—a parasite with needle teeth, chewing through your ribs, gorging itself on the soft pulp of your shame. It festers in the hollows of your lungs, swelling with every breath, until you choke on the stench of your own rot.

You want to claw it out. You try—digging your nails into your sternum, as if you could peel back skin and snap your bones apart to reach it. But it’s slick with bile, writhing deeper every time you grab hold, leaving your fingers glistening with the proof of your sickness.

Every thought is a crime.

You should have pushed him away harder.

You should have let him hate you.

You should have been cruel enough to save him.

But you weren’t. And now, the competition looms like a guillotine blade, and all you can taste is the sour tang of regret on your tongue, the way it coats your teeth like rust. You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to tear your own skin off if it means escaping the weight of what you’ve done—what you’re still doing—by letting him stand this close, by letting him believe, even for a second, that you can protect him, that he can protect you, that you are safe in this tight space you have molded for yourselves.

“You’re not going to die!”

This was the first time Phainon has raised his voice at you.

It cracks through the air like a whip, raw and desperate, and you flinch like he’s struck you. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling, his knuckles white with the force of it. There’s something wild in his eyes—something terrifying, something alive—and it makes your stomach twist.

"Say it," he demands, stepping closer. His foot knocks against yours and your vision spins as you fall back into your bed, your body welcomed by the soft mattress. He hovers over you, hands caging the sides of your face: "Say I’m not going to die."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

The silence is worse than a lie.

Phainon’s breath hitches, and for a single, horrifying moment, you think he might cry. But then his jaw sets, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact, and he laughs—a sharp, broken sound that scrapes down your spine. It dies like a record slowly breaking down and he pulls you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest, his face buried in the crevice of your neck.

“I can never understand you at all.” His words vibrate against your neck, warm and damp with something too close to tears.

You chew the inside of your cheek until copper floods your tongue, your hands trembling by your side instead of embracing him too. You don’t offer any words of comfort but you allow him to pull you close, let him hold you—you allow this. This fragile, fractured closeness where your shadows merge into one grotesque shape on the wall, a two-headed creature bound at the ribs but never at the hands.

Yet it is not enough, it feels like you’re still far from him, like you could easily slip away from his grasp, and it makes him scared.

“Do you want to leave?”

“But where do we go?” There’s nothing else for you out there. Perhaps there was a time, a spur-of-the-moment decision when you had run away with him, slipping through the cracks to be greeted by crimson skies, vastly different from the perfect cerulean illusion you are used to seeing. You'd run until your lungs burned, Phainon's hand welded to yours, both of you laughing like the world couldn't catch you, but that was it.

“Anywhere.”

“There’s no ‘anywhere’ for us.”

“Then the rebellion, I’ve heard—”

“And what, Phainon? What happens after that?” Your voice cracks like dry earth. "What happens after that? We trade one collar for another? Die faster?"

The words linger between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a storm.

Phainon's fingers dig into your waist, his breath hot against your skin he begins trailing his mouth up your neck, like he’ll eventually meet god at your lips. A salvation, a small prayer.

"We could fight."

"We are fighting," you snap. "Every single day. And look where we are."

The competition looms in three days and you can hear the ringing in your ears, the humming, and you cannot ignore it. You will lose yourselves one way or another, and that is a tragedy, a certainty, that had loomed over you, that had awaited you.

The only thing you could do was to lie there, tangled in each other but impossibly separate, his heartbeat thundering against your chest where yours should be answering.

Phainon's hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer like he can fuse your skeletons together. "Tell me to stay," he breathes.

"Why?"

"So I have a reason not to go."

Your fingers finally move—not to push him away, but to clutch the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric until your knuckles bleach white. The cotton stretches taut between you, threads straining like the last fraying ties to sanity. His warmth seeps through the thin material, burning your palms, but you hold tighter—as if you could stitch him into your skin with just your desperation alone.

"Stay," you whisper.

It's too much. It's not enough.

There’s a wet, broken sound—and suddenly his arms are crushing you against him, his face buried in your hair. You feel the exact moment his resolve shatters; the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders curl around you like he's trying to shield you from the world, from himself, from the inevitable.

You are so terribly, devastatingly alive together.

Alive in the way open wounds are alive—raw and pulsing and too tender to touch. Alive in the way a noose is alive when it snaps taut. Alive in the only way the world has allowed you to be: achingly, horrifyingly, beautifully alive, even as death crouches in the corner.

iii.) until the world stills, until you weave your hands into mine, until death embraces you

Inherently, every human is afraid of dying.

You’ve watched him on the big screen as he performs, as he tramples over every single person he is faced against, as his numbers rise higher and as it declares his win; his victory flashing as he smiles—that brilliant, broken smile—and bows like the good little performer they've molded him to be.

But you always see what they don't.

The way his fingers twitch at his sides when he thinks no one's looking. The barely-there tremor in his shoulders as he walks offstage. The single bead of sweat trailing down his temple that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the knife's edge he's balancing on.

He does the same for you, he watches every single one of your performances with a glimmer in his eyes, like pride and adoration, but something else also stains the hues—fear, anxiety, and everything that makes his fingers tremble and his mind muddled. It’s raw and rancid.

It's in the way his breath catches when you hold a high note a second too long. In the way his lips move silently, mirroring your lyrics like a prayer. In how he searches and reaches for you after every round of yours, his trembling fingers skimming your wrist, your jaw, the pulse at your throat—as if to remind himself that you’re still here and alive, and the knowledge sits between you like a third body in bed.

The screen glimmers, your profile and his beside each other blinks mockingly. It’s like a death sentence. No, it is a death sentence.

The air hums with static as you walk toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. Anakt Garden's constraints had been suffocating, but this is akin to drowning in open air.

You've always thought Phainon would die under these lights. That his blood would be the one to stain the stage crimson, his final note ringing through the speakers as the audience cheered his demise. You'd imagined it so often the scene played behind your eyelids every night—his blue eyes going dull, his snow-white hair matted with red, his hand slipping from yours as the life left him.

Perhaps you’ve changed by now.

The bars of your scores compete against one another, numbers flashing across the screen in a cruel mockery of choice. You’ve cut your lines short, fallen into a note lower than you’re supposed to sing; you'd practiced this for weeks in empty rehearsal rooms—how to make imperfection look accidental, how to falter just enough.

Then you feel it—something cold punching through your neck, sharp and sudden. A gasp tears from your throat as warmth spills down your skin.

Phainon's eyes widen in dawning horror as your fingers twitch in his grasp; you swear you could hear him calling your name out in panic. He sees it before you do, before you even realize what is happening—the dark bloom staining across your clothes, the way your lips part to speak but only blood spills forth. Your knees buckle, and he moves without thought, catching you as you collapse against him.

Oh, you think, distantly amused. You’re dying.

And, oh, you are dying. The realization comes with startling clarity, with something almost like relief, and it feels euphoric like warm honey flooding your veins. It makes your chest ease as if you could ever breathe again—like the time he had shown you his ridiculous art piece with pride. Because you are the one dying, because you are the one bloodied and the crimson staining the stage is yours. You are dying, desperate and violent, but it’s you.

His arms tighten around you, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your temple. The audience's cheers fade to white noise as he presses his forehead to yours, his tears mixing with the blood on your lips. "We're okay," he chokes out, the words a desperate incantation. "We're okay, we're okay."

You can feel his heartbeat where your chests press together, wild and frantic and alive. So alive. More alive than you'll ever be again. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it settles in your bones like peace.

You kiss him instead of answering. His mouth tastes like the candy he stole from the cafeteria, like the salt of your shared sweat, like last chances. And when you pull away, his sob cracks through you like gunfire. You want to tell him it's alright. You want to tell him to run. Instead, your fingers find him, twining together one final time as the world narrows to the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands, the sound of your name on his lips.

You and him could have done so much more if you were on earth, instead of whatever rotten, disgusting stage this is. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as the pain radiating through your chest.

You could have had lazy mornings in sunlit kitchens, his humming drifting over sizzling pans. Could have traced the constellations on his skin without counting the scars. Could have stood before stained glass windows, vows spilling from bloodied lips not in desperation, but devotion.

Instead, you get this: his tears hot on your cheeks, his voice breaking around your name, the metallic tang of your last breath clinging to his tongue.

You don’t want to die, you never wanted to die—perhaps the feeble attempts of not caring whether you’ll end up bloodied either on stage or on dirt were simply just things to lessen the growing void of fear that gnaws at your heart, to make it painless. But it hurts, it hurts so bad, you can feel it; your body feels cold, everything feels cold, your eyes are becoming blurry, and everything around you is fading into nothing. You don’t even feel Phainon’s arms wrapped around yours, gently cradling your existence within his grasp as if you’re going to slip away—because you are.

It all dawns on you. You feel selfish, you’re being selfish. Stupid, reckless, selfish. You’re going to leave him alone in this hell, with nothing but the memory of your blood on his hands and the echo of your voice in his ears. The realization claws up your throat, bitter as bile. You want to take it back. Want to scream. Want to beg for more time—just one more second, one more breath, one more chance to tell him—

“I know,” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering like he could imprint himself there. “You’re not being selfish, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s always known you like the back of his own scarred hands—known the way your bravado cracks at the edges when the lights dim, how your "I don't care" always meant "I care too much." Known that beneath all your sharp edges and bitten-off words, you were always the one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant he could stand in the light a moment longer.

“Please,” You plead for the first time in your life, and it hurts to speak but you still do, fingers tightening weakly in his shirt. “Forgive yourself.”

The both of you had made this decision knowing it won’t end well.

And you murmur it: the three words that have caused all of this mess, the confession that started your slow descent to madness. They taste sweet as stolen sugar on your dying tongue, bittersweet as the candy he used to slip into your palm. His arms tighten around you like he could rewrite fate through the sheer force of his embrace, and he wishes he could.

PHAINON WIN.

BRO IS NOT MIZISUA

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