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monicfever · 2 months ago

Note

Hmmm hello, could you maybe do - in headcanon style - how it was for the daredevil people fall in love with reader?

Btw I'm loving your blog <3

falling in love 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he falls in love through sound first. it’s your laugh. that’s what stays with him.

the way your laugh catches in your throat like you’re surprised by your own joy. sometimes soft and tired, sometimes wild and unexpected. he memorizes the rhythm of it before he even realizes he’s falling.

he tries not to get used to you. tells himself it’s dangerous. comfort is a trap. but then you show up with coffee just how he likes it, or rest your head on his shoulder without a word, and suddenly he wants to forget how to be alone. that scares him more than anything.

your voice becomes something like home. in the courtroom, on the street, through a half-open window — he hears you. even when you’re not talking to him, he listens. it calms the part of him that’s always spinning too fast. he hears the shift in your tone before you know you’re upset. he leans closer before you ask.

he notices the silence when you’re not around. it’s not just quiet — it’s peaceful. there’s a difference ever since he’d met you. the silence doesn’t press on his chest. it makes him feel like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. he doesn’t realize how loud his world is until you’re in it, softening the edges.

he feels selfish for wanting you. you’re light. steady. you remind him of everything good he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. he keeps his distance sometimes, disappears without warning. comes back with a quiet apology and a bruise he won’t talk about.

he listens more than he speaks. you talk about your day, about something you read, about nothing. he listens. not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he doesn’t want to break the spell. your voice makes things feel less heavy.

he notices how you move through the world. you make sounds other people don’t notice. the way your fingertips brush surfaces absentmindedly, how your keys jingle in your pocket, your breathing when you’re focused.

he starts turning toward you without thinking. even before you speak, even in a crowd. it’s instinct. you come into a room and his body just shifts. like a flower tilting toward the sun. he doesn't fight it anymore. he doesn't even notice he’s doing it until foggy calls him out with a smirk.

your presence is a texture. warm skin. soft fabrics. the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air hours after you leave. your touch is electric in the quietest way — never overwhelming, always grounding.

he never expected to fall in love like this. not with the city screaming. not with his past dragging behind him like a shadow. but you showed up, and you didn’t flinch at the broken pieces. you made space for him. slowly, without pressure.

he keeps finding traces of you on him. a stray thread from your scarf clinging to his coat. the faint scent of your perfume on his pillow. the echo of your laughter in his head when he’s perched on some rooftop, bleeding and tired and aching for the next time he gets to sit next to you in silence.

he doesn’t say it right away.

he’s scared of love. of needing someone. of you realizing what he really is. but one night, when your fingers graze his and he doesn’t pull away, you smile like you know. and maybe you do.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he feels like he’s stepping on dangerous ground. every time you smile at him, or when you simply sit next to him, he’s aware of the space between you, the space he always tries to keep. it’s an instinct to stay distant, to protect you from getting too close. he’s been through too much, seen too many people get hurt because they were too close to him. the last thing he wants is to drag you into his mess.

he keeps you at arm’s length, but he notices everything. frank doesn’t let you get too close, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see you. he notices the way you adjust your coat when it’s cold, the small sighs you let slip when you’re tired, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something that matters to you. it eats at him. he’s terrified of what it means.

keeps the tough guy act, but you’re starting to crack it. when you’re with him he doesn’t let his guard down easily. he keeps a distance, still in control. but then, there are moments — like when you ask him if he’s okay, even after he’s been gruff with you. he won’t admit it, of course, but he’s slowly realizing how much he wants to be something other than broken for you. he can’t be weak, not with you. but in the same breath, he doesn’t want to lose what you’ve given him.

frank’s instinct is always to shield you. it’s not just about protecting you from the world, he’s trying to protect you from him. every time danger crosses your path, he’s there, stepping in front of you, keeping you behind him, telling you to stay out of it. deep down, it’s not just about the danger. it’s about the fact that if you get hurt he won’t be able to live with himself.

he’s strict with you, but it comes from a place of care. won’t let you make reckless decisions, won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way, and he’s relentless about it. you can tell he’s trying to keep things together, keeping his rules in place like armour. he’s afraid to get too comfortable.

he’s never been good at letting people in, and with you, he doesn’t know how to act. there’s this undercurrent of fear that runs through him every time you seem to trust him, every time you get close. the fear that eventually, he’ll destroy whatever peace you’ve given him. he knows the darkness in him is dangerous. it’s only a matter of time before it pulls him away from you.

he’s strict with himself too. frank has learned how to control everything — his emotions, his impulses, his need for connection. with you, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. when you touch him, even accidentally, or when your eyes soften, it’s like a fuse is lit inside him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. he pulls back, hard, and tries to convince himself it’s just a moment. a brief thing. but it doesn’t feel brief.

he’s scared of what you could be to him. he’s used to being alone, to being the one who walks through the darkness without anyone beside him. you’ve brought light into his life without even knowing it, and that’s the part he can’t quite figure out. you make him feel things he hasn’t felt in years. it makes him feel like he could lose everything. he doesn’t know how to hold onto something so fragile, so pure. but god, he wants to.

he falls in love with your silence. it’s not the kind of silence that feels heavy, or suffocating. it’s the kind that comes after a long day, when you’re sitting beside him with nothing to say, and you’re perfectly content.

he doesn’t know when it happened, but you’re his calm. there’s something about you, something steady. when he’s with you, the world outside quiets. the chaos in his mind, the ghosts of everything he’s lost — somehow, with you, he can breathe. he doesn’t trust it at first. he’s not used to feeling safe.

he’s drawn to the way you move. there’s a grace to it, the way you carry yourself, like you’ve seen enough to know what’s worth paying attention to. he never misses when you come into a room.

your kindness is a weight he didn’t know he could bear. frank is used to people needing something from him. demanding things. but you? you don’t want anything but his time. it feels like too much at first. he pulls away, convinces himself it’s easier this way. but when you reach out, when your hand brushes against his, he starts realizing he doesn’t want to let go.

you are his soft spot, even if he doesn’t show it. he has layers of armor built up — physical, emotional, mental — but you slip past them without trying. you don’t force him to talk about the things that haunt him, but you’re always there when he needs to. it’s not that you fix anything, it’s that you stay.

he notices the little things. how you laugh when you’re nervous. the way you drink your coffee, always just a little too hot but never waiting for it to cool. the way you curl up with a book, lost in the world for hours, and he sits in the background, thinking he’ll never understand how something so small can make him feel so at peace.

he wants to be the one to keep you safe. it’s a selfish thought, but when he’s with you, he can’t help but feel like he wants to be the one to shield you from the world, from the violence he’s known, from the things he can’t erase.

he finally admits it, not with words, but in the way he holds you. one night, when the world’s still and you’re lying beside him, he doesn’t pull away. he lets you rest against him, his hand on your back, your breath steady against his chest. it’s a quiet thing, but it’s his way of telling you: you’re the one I need. somehow, in the silence, you understand.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

it happens quietly with foggy, so natural he doesn’t even notice it at first. he starts saving little inside jokes in his head to tell you later, ordering your food just the way you like it without thinking twice, feeling your name sit a little heavier on his tongue when he says it.

he realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his worst jokes — the kind even he knows is awful — and it makes his chest hurt in that sweet, aching way. it’s not fireworks, it’s a heartbeat skipping a step. it’s the way he looks at you and feels like he’s finally home.

he loves the way you listen. really listen. like his words matter. he’s used to being the sidekick, the comic relief - - with you, he feels seen, whole. he loves your messes, your sleepy voice, your texts that don’t always make sense. he saves photos of the sky when it reminds him of you. he notices the way you carry yourself, the way your hands move when you’re talking, the curl of your smile when you’re trying not to laugh.

he gets nervous around you sometimes, still —rambles more, tugs at his sleeves, rehearses what he wants to say and still forgets half of it. he wonders if you notice how often he looks at you when you’re not looking. he loves that you make him believe in good things. soft mornings. safe places. things that last.

he’s the kind of guy who buys two toothbrushes when he’s out just in case you forget yours, who always puts the fluffiest towel on top of the stack because he knows you like the soft ones best. he remembers the weirdest little things you’ve ever mentioned in passing, your childhood cereal, the movie you always watched when you were sick — and they just start showing up in your shared space like magic.

saturday mornings become your thing. he makes pancakes too thick and always burns the first one, but he gets this proud little look when he flips one perfectly, like it’s a win worth celebrating. you sit on the counter in his shirt, coffee in hand, and he bumps your knee with his hip like you’ve been doing this forever.

his place starts to feel like your place. there’s a mug you always use, your book left open on the couch, a hoodie that mysteriously became yours (he lets you steal it without saying anything, but he absolutely notices). foggy loves slow things with you. grocery store dates. late-night reruns of shows you’ve both seen a hundred times. trying new recipes and failing spectacularly, then ordering takeout and laughing until your cheeks hurt.

he talks about you like you’re already part of his future. “we should go there next fall,” or “you’d love this,” like there’s no version of his life where you’re not in it. he doesn’t say it to impress you — it just slips out easy, like breathing.

he loves you in the kind of way that feels like sunday light through old windows, like warmth that lingers, like home. falling for you, for him, feels like putting the final piece in a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been building. when it clicks into place all he can think is oh.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen falls in love like she’s afraid of it. like it’s a secret she’s not ready to tell herself. it starts in the small moments — your hand brushing hers, the way you say her name, how you always seem to know when she needs someone to just stay.

she realizes she’s in love late one night when you're both sitting on the floor, eating takeout straight from the containers. you say something kind without thinking, something that hits a little too deep, and she just stops. looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she can’t believe you exist in the same world as her.

loving you scares her because it feels too good, too safe, and safe hasn’t always been something she trusted. but you never rush her. never demand more than she can give. she loves how you talk about your passions, how your eyes light up when you care. she listens so carefully, so fully, like she’s collecting every version of you in her mind and holding them all close.

you make her laugh in a way that feels like sunlight after too many cloudy days. she catches herself smiling at texts from you, rereading them when the world feels too heavy. she starts leaving little things at your place. a book she thinks you’d like. her scarf draped over a chair. she never means to — it just happens, like her heart choosing to stay before she even realizes it.

she brings you coffee just the way you like it and always pretends it was “on the way” even if she went out of her way to get it. she’s not good at grand gestures but she’s incredible at the small things — remembering your schedule, checking in on hard days, knowing exactly what to say when the world feels like too much.

she always wants to share things with you. a bite of her food, a song she found, a line from a book that made her pause. she’s constantly turning to you with soft eyes like, can i give this piece of my world to you? will you hold it with me?

there’s always a softness to her when she’s around you, like she can finally exhale. she leans into you on the couch with her head on your shoulder, listens to you ramble about your day, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your arm.

when she finally tells you, it’s not dramatic. no music swelling in the background. just her, a little nervous, looking at you like she’s been waiting her whole life to find someone she could trust with her whole heart.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

it hits her like a knife to the gut. deeper. she doesn’t realize she’s in love until she catches herself watching you sleep, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, and she feels scared. not because she doesn’t want it, but because she does. because you make her feel soft in ways she swore she buried.

she falls in love the same way she fights — intense, precise. but she stays in love in quiet, careful ways. brushing your hair out of your eyes, leaving notes where only you’ll find them, guarding your safety with devotion.

she remembers the exact moment she knew. it wasn’t dramatic. it was a bad day. she came home bleeding, aching, angry — and you just held her. no questions, no judgment, just steady arms and a warm voice. and she realized she could collapse into you and still survive.

she loves how you look at her like you see her. not the weapon, not the chaos. just her. the girl who once dreamed of softer things, the woman still learning how to want them again. she’s not always good with words, but her actions scream i love you. she keeps your favourite snacks in her apartment, buys you things and pretends they’re “for fun” even though they’re always exactly what you needed. she’d burn the world for you, but she also sharpens her knives a little more carefully if she knows you’ll be waiting at home.

she brings you with her to the edge of her world. into the dark corners, the chaos, the shadows she never lets anyone else see. not because she wants to scare you, but because she trusts you to love her anyway. she tells you stories late at night, low, words carefully chosen. not all of them are beautiful. some are ugly, violent, sad. but she tells you because you’re the only one she thinks might understand. or at least try to.

she calls you darling when she’s teasing, but your name — your real name — always leaves her lips like something holy.

you ground her. not by caging her—never that. but by letting her fly and knowing she has somewhere to land. someone who won’t flinch when the world turns sharp.

loving you doesn’t make her weaker. it makes her braver. she finally has something worth surviving for, something worth coming back to.

you make her laugh in a way no one else can. real, unguarded laughter, head thrown back, hand gripping your thigh like she doesn’t want to fall. like you’re her gravity. she sleeps best with her hand wrapped around your wrist, your chest rising beneath her ear. no one touches her like you do, like she’s something worth holding, not just something sharp and dangerous.

when she kisses you it’s deliberate. she pulls you in like she’s starving, like you're a secret she’s been dying to keep. sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always real.

she’s still learning how to stay. but with you, it’s getting easier. loving you doesn’t feel like losing control, it feels like finding it. like maybe this, you, were the only thing she ever really wanted to protect.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he loves you like a loaded gun loves a steady hand. like you’re the only thing keeping him from spinning out. there’s worship in his gaze when he looks at you, like you hung the stars just for him, like you're the one true thing in a world that never made sense.

he knows he’s in love when you touch his face for the first time. gentle. unafraid. he holds so much violence in his bones, but your fingers? your fingers make him feel human, like maybe he’s more than what he’s done.

he doesn’t know how to be casual about you. everything is everything with dex. he memorizes the way you speak, the things you love, the clothes you wear. he keeps mementos without even realizing it — your receipts, your notes, the smallest scrap of your existence. not in a creepy way (mostly). his version of domestic love is quiet but obsessive. he notices what soap you use and buys it in bulk. he learns your schedule so he can cook your favourite dinner on the nights you always come home tired.

knows your schedule by heart. not because you told him but because he watched. memorized the way your day flows, where you go, the train you take, how long it takes you to get home. he needs to feel close, even when you're far.

he goes still when you’re not around. like the world presses pause until he hears your key in the door, your voice calling his name. he’s not himself without you. it’s like you carry the part of him that makes him human. when you're in the room, no one else exists. his eyes never leave you. even if you’re across the bar, even if he’s mid-conversation, his body always tilts toward you, like instinct, like a weapon waiting for your call.

gets needy when you’re distant. emotionally, physically, even just distracted. he’ll try to play it cool but ends up pressed against you like a shadow, murmuring things like you still like me, right? and i'm good for you, aren’t i? like he needs you to say it over and over just to keep breathing.

he remembers everything. the first thing you ever wore around him. the way you said his name that one time with your voice half-broken from laughing. the exact moment he realized he'd burn the world if it meant keeping you safe.

stalks your socials when you’re apart for too long, even if you’ve only been gone a few hours. he zooms in on blurry selfies like they hold clues to how you're feeling. he rereads old texts.

he has trouble saying i love you. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he feels it too much. like the words might break open something inside him. when he does say it, it’s always a whisper, like a secret — murmured into your hair, your collarbone, your heartbeat.

he doesn't like people getting too close to you. even friends, especially strangers. he doesn’t cause scenes, but the way he stands too close, stares too long, it’s a warning. he’s jealous in ways he tries to hide. you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, and his eyes flash before he looks away, jaw clenched. he never blames you. he just doesn’t know how to share. he’s never had anything worth keeping before.

he adores your voice. your laugh. the way you say his name like it means safety and not danger. he starts to crave it — like a lifeline, a tether. you ground him. you save him. over and over again. he’s terrified you’ll see the worst in him; the cracks, the blood, the past. the first time you tell him, i’m not afraid of you, he breaks. not loudly — just this soft, shaky exhale, like you just handed him forgiveness.

if you ever tried to leave him he’d break. and then he’d follow. quietly, obsessively. not to hurt you, because he can’t let go. not of you. not of the only person who’s ever made him feel like he’s not a monster.

ben doesn’t fall in love gently. he falls like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. it kind of is.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

billy falls for you in a way that feels wrong to him. he’s not used to needing anyone, not used to wanting someone in a way that makes him feel like he’s losing control. he tells himself you’re just another distraction, that this is a temporary thing, but every second with you proves him wrong.

he’s clingy in the most subtle way. not in the overt, obvious way. no, he keeps it under wraps at first. doesn’t want to seem too needy, but he texts you way more than you think he would, checks in at the weirdest hours, and always notices when you're upset. tries to act like it's no big deal but his heart races when you don’t reply immediately.

deep down he knows how much he wants your approval. your affection, your attention. but admitting that to himself would feel like weakness, and weakness is something billy russo has never allowed himself. so he hides it, but the truth slips out in small, desperate ways— like when he pulls you a little too close, hands gripping you a little too tight.

he gets so caught up in wanting to be perfect for you that he ignores the fact that his attachment to you is slowly consuming him. if you don’t love him back the way he needs, if you don’t give him what he craves, validation, it’s like his whole world starts to fall apart. he needs to be the one who matters to you, needs to know you see him. he craves the moment you make him feel like he’s worthy. but then, the other side of him: the side that’s broken, that knows attachments make you weak, that tries to distance himself because he doesn’t want you to see how much you’ve broken through his walls. when things get too close, too vulnerable, he pulls back. cold. distant.

he loves you with precision. he makes it look effortless, but it’s calculated. strategic. flowers when you’re stressed, your favourite wine waiting at home, gifts that are too perfect to be casual. he studies you, and you don’t even realize it until later — how much of you he’s already claimed.

he keeps tabs on you. not in a sweet checking in kind of way, more like he needs to know where you are at all times. your location's on, your building's watched. not in an invasion sort of way, just in the im making sure no one breaks in while i’m not there way.

there’s this constant struggle in his head. one part of him wants to be the perfect version of himself for you, the kind of man you can depend on, who can take care of you in ways he never thought possible. the other part of him knows that needing you like this, being dependent on you for his sense of self-worth, is his undoing.

his place starts looking like yours fast. your clothes in his closet, your skincare in the bathroom, your playlist on repeat. you don’t even remember when you started leaving things there, he just started keeping them.

he doesn't say i love you like it’s fragile. he says it like it’s a warning. like, you don’t get it. i’d kill for you. i’d ruin myself for you. i’d go back to every violent part of myself if it meant keeping you safe.

and god help anyone who tries to come between you. he’ll be smiling, charming, polite. and then he’ll be gone. and so will they.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

when she first realizes she’s in love with you, it’s all business at first. you were someone she could rely on, someone who made sense in the chaos of her life. at first, she thinks it’s just an attachment. something comfortable, someone to trust in a world of lies. but then, one night, she catches herself staring at you a little too long, her chest tightening for reasons she can’t explain. this is more than just trust. this is something else.

she doesn’t do relationships the traditional way. she never has. she’s used to keeping a distance, staying professional, protecting her heart from everyone who might use it against her. but with you, there’s something different. you slip through her walls without even trying. she hates how easily you do it. and she loves you more for it.

she’s tough on you, not because she doesn’t love you, but because she does. she believes in pushing you past your comfort zone, in making you face your weaknesses. it’s her way of showing you that she cares. by holding you accountable, by expecting you to rise to the occasion. when you slack off, when you let things slide, she’ll be the first one to call you out. her voice is firm, but it’s never cruel — just a no-nonsense tone that says, you’re better than this.

dinah’s version of love isn’t always soft. when you mess up, when you get lost in your own head, she doesn’t sugarcoat it. she doesn’t tiptoe around your feelings — she’ll challenge you. "what’s going on with you?" she’ll ask, not out of judgment, but because she knows you can do better. she doesn’t want to hear excuses, just results.

she’s not afraid to push your buttons. when you want to give up, when things get too hard, she won’t let you back down. she’ll make you face the tough stuff, sometimes in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. but it’s her way of making sure you don’t settle for less than you’re capable of. when you rise to the challenge, meet her expectations, she’ll be there, quietly proud, like she knew you could do it all along. she has high expectations, not just for herself, but for you too. if you ever doubt your own abilities, she’s the first to remind you what you’re capable of if you put in the work. she’ll test your limits, make you prove yourself, because she wants you to be the best version of yourself. sometimes you’ll resent it. sometimes it’ll feel like she’s being hard on you for no reason. but deep down you know she’s pushing you because she cares.

dinah’s love is protective, intense, and unyielding. she won’t show it in sweet, gentle ways. she’s not going to buy you flowers or write you poems, but when you need her, she’ll drop everything, no questions asked. she’ll shield you from harm with the same precision she takes down threats, and in those moments, you see how much you truly mean to her.

she’s not good at vulnerability — not with anyone, but especially not with you. it’s hard for her to let you see how much she needs you. she shows you she loves you through actions: a firm grip on your hand when she’s scared; a quiet, almost invisible smile when you’re together; pulling you close when things get rough, even if she doesn’t admit why. the words are harder for her.

when she’s in love, she’s all in, but with the weight of fear in her chest. she’s terrified of losing you. that would break her in a way she doesn’t think she could recover from. so she clings to you in ways you might not even notice, always checking on you, always making sure you’re safe, making sure nothing could hurt you.

she’s a fighter, and she loves the way you stand by her, not just through the victories, but through the losses. you’re the person who makes her feel like she’s doing something right, even when everything else is wrong. when she’s at her most vulnerable, when she’s exhausted, when the walls come down just enough for you to see the cracks, she’ll let you hold her. she’ll let you be the one who takes care of her.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

it’s more like a discovery than a realization. muse doesn’t exactly fall in love the way most people do; his emotions are tangled with his delusions and obsessions. he sees you and suddenly you’re the canvas for all his thoughts, his desires, and his fixations. it’s almost as though he becomes consumed with the idea of you, idealizing you in a way that is all-encompassing. for muse, love is about capturing someone, about making you the center of his world.

his love is possessive and suffocating. he doesn’t see you as a person with your own autonomy; he sees you as something to be owned. when you’re with him, he’ll be obsessively attentive, needing to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with.

you’ll start to notice that he manipulates every situation to keep you close to him. muse is intelligent, charming, and deeply persuasive when he wants to be. he knows how to make you feel special, how to convince you that you’re the only one who truly understands him; because, after all, you’re his masterpiece. he might start doing little things to charm you or draw you in, but as soon as you’re hooked, he’ll tighten the grip.

when he’s affectionate it’s intense. he doesn’t understand boundaries — he’ll be all over you, physically and mentally. he’ll touch you obsessively, but in ways that are still strange and uncomfortable, because he sees every part of you as something to be explored. his kisses are deep, hungry, as if he’s trying to possess you, and when he’s not physically with you, his thoughts will haunt you. expect him to watch you, follow you, and find ways to be where you are, no matter what it takes.

if you try to break free, if you even hint at being done with him, his obsession will turn dangerous. he doesn’t understand rejection in a healthy way. To him, it’s an affront to his creativity, his passion — you are his masterpiece, and no one walks away from a piece of art. he’ll find ways to draw you back in, perhaps through threats or manipulation. he’ll never let go willingly.

he won’t give up on you easily. if you ever try to move on or set boundaries he will find ways to blur the lines. can turn into a creeper — lurking in the shadows, watching your every move. his love feels suffocating, and he believes that the only way to truly love someone is by completely enveloping them, controlling every aspect of their life. he might not understand why you’d want space or independence, and to him, that only reinforces his belief that he’s the only one who can give you what you truly need.

he’s incredibly manipulative. if you ever show any resistance, muse will use guilt, charm, and emotional manipulation to make you feel like you’re the problem. he might try to gaslight you into believing that you’re the one who’s making things difficult, that he’s just trying to love you in his own way. he’s dangerous when he feels threatened. If someone else gets too close to you, or if he feels like he’s losing control over you, he’ll react with violence or threats. he’s not afraid to hurt people (or you) to maintain his control over you. this could mean anything from threatening your friends or family to going to extreme lengths to make sure no one takes you away from him.

he’ll be highly critical — almost like he’s sculpting you into something that fits his vision of what you should be. it’s not malicious in his mind; it’s about improving you, making you into someone who can be worthy of his love.

he loves your vulnerability, and he’ll try to uncover every layer of you to feel like he knows you, better than anyone else. this might manifest in seemingly innocent questions or constant probing of your past and emotions, but for him, it’s a way to build a deeper connection — an almost predatory sense of closeness that makes him feel like he has a claim on you. the more he knows, the more he can control, and that gives him a sense of artistic satisfaction.

his love might feel like being in a gilded cage; beautiful, but suffocating.

★ a / n : p.s. im glad you love it. <3

started 4.25.2025. finished 4.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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comatosebunny09 · 7 months ago

Text

— cw: kidnapping, torture, sedatives, abuse, mentions of r*pists, p*dos, & murder, angst, helplessness, heavy subject matter all around, language, mdni

— notes: a continuation of this blurb. something a little darker than what i usually write. please be mindful that there's some heavy stuff ahead. if i forgot to tag anything, please let me know in the comments. thank you for reading!

— now playing: dusty room - evgeny grinko

An insistent dripping draws you from the inky embrace of unconsciousness.

It always does. It’s been your alarm clock for the past…three days? Four? Week? You’re not sure anymore. Time moves differently when you’re in captivity, and your mind is constantly invaded and warped.

At first, you could glean the passage of time by the moon or sunlight seeping through the small window in the corner—your captors had shoved you into a spacious room of rotting metal walls and only one entry point. It reeked of mildew and sweat, and you’d nothing but the creak of metal and that ceaseless dripping sound to keep you company.

But your senses are no longer reliable. They’ve poked around your mind so much that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to gauge the difference between reality and fiction.

Only a few things remain constant during your stay here: the henchman of the day comes in to administer you a dose of something potent with a syringe. Something to ease the ache of your limbs, to curb the hunger gnarling in your gut. But it’s also to keep your Evol tucked in the furthest reaches of your mind. To keep you at their mercy.

Next, two more men trickle in, sinisterly laughing as they deprive you of food and warmth and keep you lucid. And one of them constantly probes your mind, manipulating it to see and experience things that aren’t always real. Dredging up memories you had compartmentalized after taking up this new life, furthering your torment.

You would be impressed—their ability is almost on par with yours and would certainly make a man clad in red and black whistle with appreciation—if you weren’t already clinging to your sanity by a thread.

Your captors have been surprisingly generous, only hitting you a few times when you get mouthy. You’d once heard them say to each other they had to keep you alive long enough to lure your boss from the shadows. Still, you’re sometimes their human punching bag, suspended from the ceiling by chains rubbing your wrists and ankles raw.

They learned their lesson when they first brought you to this prison. When you’d called them pussies and, with what little strength you could muster, took three of them down before they subdued you with stun batons and a heavier dosage of whatever cocktail they’d been pumping you with.

Each time they enter, they ask you more questions. Interrogate you about Sylus and the inner workings of Onychinus. Splash you with frigid water to wake you, inject more serum, and sink their claws into your psyche when you display an inkling of resistance. All in an attempt to bring you to the brink of insanity. To break you.

You’re a little worse for wear. Bruised and battered. It hurts to breathe when the medicine wears off. You’re constantly shivering, constantly blacking out. You’re sure they’ve shattered a rib or two. And you haven’t much strength left, stripped of nourishment and proper blood circulation for God knows how long.

You have one good eye, the other swollen shut from their previous assault. Your lips keep splitting, so goddamn dry. They could’ve done much worse. Could’ve violated you in unspeakable ways. So you’re grateful the illusions are seemingly their most potent form of torture.

No matter how many levels of hell your captors subject you to, you don’t cave. You’re still as haughty as ever. Piss them off whenever you can, fighting back with your tongue in a way that your body can’t. Anything to distract you from the unyielding torment and pain. From your thoughts creeping in, from your mortality looming over your shoulders.

“He won’t come for me,” you bitterly laugh each time your captors taunt you. “He doesn’t care about me. You’ve got the wrong person.” To which they heckle like hyenas, looking at you as if you’ve said the most absurd thing.

They tell you you are the right person. That it’s only a matter of time before your ‘boyfriend’ comes sniffing you out. You’re more valuable than any treasure, any amount of money. But you always push those words to the back burner. Those empty attempts to give you a flicker of hope.

He’s subjected you to danger numerous times before. Thrown you to the wolves on several occasions. What makes this time any different?

One thought reigns supreme in your mind each time they torture you. Each time they fill your head with trickery, visions of him, and memories of past misdeeds.

If he wanted to save you, he would’ve already come.

The truth hurts, but it’s somehow comforting. Sylus will never find you like this. Never see how far you’ve fallen from grace, breaking apart at the seams, slowly succumbing to the cold and delirium. He’s got more important things to worry about—more important people to occupy his mind.

You’re disposable. You’ve known this from the start.

The notion only rooted itself deeper the moment a certain Hunter disturbed the monotony of your lives.

It was merely a matter of time before one of Onychinus’ most revered assassins was wiped out.

In a way, your captors are doing Sylus a favor, ridding him of your presence so he doesn’t have to lift a finger to do it himself. You’ve always worried he would no longer find a use for you. Knew you couldn’t always be at his side. And now that he has someone else to play his bait, to bat their lashes at him and tug at those little heartstrings, you know you don’t stand a chance.

Savagely, you laugh, your face turned up at the silvery moonbeams sinking in through the window. And it hurts, your throat dry like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper. Unbidden tears scorch down the sides of your face. Whether they’re heralded in from agony or hysteria, you don’t know.

Your solitude in this room is as much of a reprieve as it is a cage. Sure, you’re free to collect what little coherent thoughts you have left before your captors are back at it, shocking you to hell and tearing your mind at the seams. But you’re also left with nothing to do but stew in thoughts of your inevitable demise.

Maybe this is your punishment. All the lives you’ve taken. All the innocents you displaced when you were a fiery-eyed killer fueled by rage and fear. Murdering coldly, killing because you were told—forced—to.

No matter how far you ran, the past always snuck up on you. But shielded beneath Sylus’ wings, you were able to delay its descent onto your shoulders.

Sylus had taken you away from it all. Redirected your ire, your revenge, onto the scourge of humanity. No longer were you a gun for hire, taking out high-profile figures because your very life depended on it. No. Instead, you wiped the most vile men from the face of the planet. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers. And you supposed that served as enough repentance for your life before.

Still, no amount of justification will support what you’ve done. What you continue to do. And all for the love of a man who will never see you as more than a rook. A chess piece, lazily dragging across the board for use at his disposal.

The single door to your prison groans open, dispelling the nebula of your thoughts as a blinding stream of light pours in. You wince against its brilliance, your bruised lips canting up in a sardonic smile.

Once the new presence clears the entryway, a shock of white greets you. And it’s followed by a wash of scarlet, moving through the bleariness. You huff a painful laugh as the figure nears you, agony swelling in your chest. This trick again. Weren’t they getting bored of using it?

Finding your voice, you grit out, “You’ve tried this one already. It’s getting old. Gonna have to do better than that.”

But your tormenter doesn’t err in their steps. Instead, they hasten their approach until the warmth they carry wades over your skin. And through the dank scent of your entrapment, you make out familiar notes of amber and sandalwood. As convincing as the illusions have been lately, they’ve never smelled this vivid before.

Searing hands curve around your cheeks. Angle your head back until your vision fills with red. Red eyes nestled beneath brows knotted with anguish. Pink lips parted with the effort of breathing. As you fully take in your tormenter’s harrowed features, you slowly realize that maybe you’re not hallucinating this time. And a thick film of tears washes over your good eye, the world blurring and bending.

“You’re getting better at this,” you sob-slash-laugh, still disbelieving. There’s no way he could be the real thing. There’s just—

—no way. Could he? Could it…

Suddenly, the metal chains of your shackles rattle and loosen. And you’re freefalling, loose-limbed and weightless, heading for the ground along with your restraints. But a pair of virile arms spread like wings beneath you, cradling you against a rigid chest, and a ferocious heart beats a war cadence beneath your cheek as you press further into it.

Weakened by your time in captivity, you feel something prodding around inside your head. Something warm and feather-light creeps through the folds of your mind, chasing away the darkness. It’s a voice—an inherently masculine voice reverberating in your head, working like a soothing balm over your psyche.

I’ve got you, it soothes, dulling the ache in your bones, the maelstrom in your head. And its familiarity is enough to bring a smile to your lips. More tears pour in rivulets down your cheeks, and you cling to the silk of his shirt, unconsciousness pulling you under. He came for you. He really—he actually—

—came.

And as you succumb to fatigue, hypothermia, and hunger, two sentences pierce through the darkness like a lighthouse beaconing through the storm.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.”

#tw: kidnapping #tw: torture #tw: abuse #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus angst #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #limerence maybe

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inseobts · 5 months ago

Text

Threaded

trafalgar law x strawhat!reader

all you two do is bickering but maybe that just hide something else

a/n: this is one of the first I’ve written so I’m sorry if it’s not that good

tags: enemies to lovers?

word count: 1.6k

masterlist // ko-fi

The first time you met Trafalgar Law, you wanted to punch him.

You weren’t sure if it was the smug look on his face, the way he stood just a little too tall and confident, or how easily he’d dismissed you during a skirmish between the Heart Pirates and the Strawhats.

“Stay out of my way, Y/N-ya” he’d said coolly, not even sparing you a second glance as he used his Room ability to whisk his crew to safety.

Ever since then, your encounters with him had been a mix of competition and thinly veiled insults. You’d fought alongside and against him during chaotic battles, always at odds but somehow never truly harming each other.

And, annoyingly, the others loved to tease you about it.

“I think Law likes you” Nami said one night on the Sunny, smirking as you glared at her.

“Yeah, right” you scoffed, crossing your arms. “He’s just arrogant and annoying.”

“And yet, every time he shows up, you look very interested” Zoro teased, earning a laugh from the crew.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring their laughter as you stared out at the sea. The truth was, Law was interesting. Infuriating, yes, but undeniably clever and powerful. And every time he faced you in battle, there was a flicker of respect in his eyes that made your heart skip—though you’d die before admitting it.

The next time you crossed paths, it was during an ambush on a Marine base. Both the Strawhats and the Heart Pirates had the same idea: raid the place for supplies and information.

“Of course you’re here” you muttered as Law appeared beside you in the chaos, his Room ability slicing through Marine reinforcements.

“Likewise” he replied, his tone flat.

You rolled your eyes, summoning your energy to blast a group of Marines into the wall.

“Try not to slow me down, Surgeon” you taunted.

Law smirked faintly, his sword flashing as he neutralized another group. “I should say the same to you.”

The two of you moved in sync, your powers complementing his precision as you cleared the room. By the time the dust settled, you were both panting, but victorious.

“You’re not as bad as I thought” you admitted grudgingly, glancing at him.

“Likewise” he said, his tone softer than before.

For a moment, the tension between you shifted into something else—something quieter, almost… tender. But before either of you could speak, a loud crash from outside reminded you that the crews were still fighting.

“Back to work” you said, brushing past him.

After the raid, you didn’t expect to see Law again so soon. But a week later, the Heart Pirates docked near the Sunny, ostensibly to exchange information about the Marines.

“Sure, information” Sanji said annoyed as you watched Law step aboard. “More like an excuse to see Y/N.”

“Shut up” you hissed, your cheeks heating as you crossed your arms.

Law ignored the whispers and teasing from both crews, his gaze sharp as he walked toward you.

“Y/N-ya. Where’s your captain?” he said simply.

“He’s resting” you answer with a cold tone, trying not to question why he asked you out of everyone.

He nods, holding out a piece of parchment.

You raised an eyebrow, taking it. “What’s this?”

“Details about a Marine operation near here,” he replied. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Why are you helping us?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He shrugged. “Your interference benefits me. Simple as that.”

But the faint smile tugging at his lips told a different story, and you couldn’t help but smirk in return.

“You’re lucky I don’t blast you off this ship” you teased, summoning a flicker of energy in your hand.

“And you’re lucky I don’t cut you in half” he replied, though there was no malice in his tone.

The crews watched the exchange with barely concealed glee, their whispers growing louder.

“They’re so into each other” Nami said, smirking at Robin.

“Think they know?” she asked.

“Not a chance” Nami replied, laughing softly.

Over the next few weeks, your encounters with Law became more frequent. You worked together to take down Marine operations, often bickering but always falling into a rhythm that felt almost natural.

And slowly, the tension between you began to shift.

It was during a quiet night on the Sunny, after a mission, that you finally confronted the elephant in the room.

“Why do you keep showing up?” you asked, finding him standing alone at the edge of the deck.

He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Maybe I enjoy the challenge.”

“Of working with me or putting up with me?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Both,” he admitted, a faint smirk on his lips.

You blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. “Wait, are you—”

“Don’t overthink it, Y/N-ya” he said, finally turning to face you. “But for what it’s worth… I don’t hate having you around.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you fought to keep your expression neutral “Well, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it” he said, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

The crews, who had been secretly watching from below deck, erupted into cheers and whistles, ruining the moment.

“JUST KISS ALREADY!” Luffy shouted, earning groans and laughter from everyone else.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “They’re never going to let us live this down, are they?”

“No” Law said, his smirk widening.

And as the chaos around you grew, you couldn’t help but laugh, realizing that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind being stuck with him.

It happened during one of those rare, quiet nights when the sea was calm, and the crews were resting after yet another skirmish with the Marines. The Heart Pirates and the Strawhats had docked together on a small, remote island to regroup. The two crews were enjoying a bonfire, their laughter echoing through the night, but you found yourself wandering away from the group, your thoughts racing.

As much as you hated to admit it, Law had been on your mind far too often lately. His sharp wit, his calm demeanor, the way his gaze lingered on you during battles—it was maddening.

You sighed, sitting on a rock overlooking the ocean, when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Y/N-ya” Law’s voice called softly.

You didn’t turn around, but the corner of your lips twitched. “Stalking me now, Surgeon?”

“I could say the same about you, wandering off to brood” he replied, stepping beside you.

“Brooding is your thing” you shot back, finally glancing up at him.

He smirked faintly but said nothing, his silver eyes scanning the horizon. For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the sound of the waves filling the air.

“You’ve been quiet tonight” he said finally, breaking the silence.

“Just thinking,” you admitted, resting your chin on your knees. “About… everything.”

Law raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”

You hesitated, debating whether to speak your mind. But something about the way he was looking at you—calm, patient, as if he already knew what you were going to say—made you want to be honest.

“About you” you said softly, meeting his gaze.

Law’s eyes widened slightly, the smallest crack in his usual composure. “What about me?”

“You’re infuriating,” you began, standing up and pacing in front of him. “You’re always so calm, so smug, like you know everything. And you drive me crazy because you do know everything half the time. And yet… you’re the one person I can’t stop thinking about.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you froze, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

Law was quiet for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he stood, stepping closer to you.

“You drive me crazy too, Y/N-ya,” he said, his voice low. “Your recklessness, your power… the way you always throw yourself into danger without thinking.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That sounds more like an insult.”

“It’s not,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Because for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could reply, a loud crash sounded behind you.

“DAMN IT!”

You whipped around to see the Luffy fall from a nearby tree, covered in leaves, turning to the others who were poorly hidden.

“What the hell?!” you shouted, your face burning.

“We weren’t spying!” Usopp says as the rest of both crews scrambled to hide behind trees and rocks.

“Yeah, totally not spying!” Luffy shouted, laughing loudly.

“Let’s just leave them alone!” Nami groaned, smacking Luffy on the head as the crews retreated, their laughter fading into the distance.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m going to kill them.”

Law chuckled softly, his amusement breaking the tension. “They’re persistent, I’ll give them that.”

When you looked up at him, his usual calm had returned, but his silver eyes held a warmth you’d never seen before.

“So… about what you said” you began awkwardly, your cheeks burning.

Law took a step closer, his hand brushing against yours. “If you’re done yelling at the audience…”

You laughed nervously, but the sound faded as he leaned in, his expression serious.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his lips brushed yours. The kiss was soft, slow, and far gentler than you’d expected from someone like him.

When you pulled away, your power energy flickered around you, uncontrollable as your emotions surged.

“Sorry” you muttered, trying to rein it in.

Law smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It suits you.”

From the distance, you heard muffled cheers and groans, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“They’re never going to shut up about this” you said, shaking your head.

“Let them talk” Law replied, his voice calm but firm “I don’t care.”

And for the first time, neither did you.

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mononijikayu · 2 months ago

Text

what was i made for — gojo satoru.

You paused. “Even if that means you’re technically with someone else’s wife?” “Baby, I’m with you. Not your paperwork. Not your status. Just you.” He grinned, leaned across the couch, and kissed your cheek. “And besides, if I ever feel insecure, I’ll just buy you a vacation home to stroke my ego.” You rolled your eyes, but your heart softened anyway. “I already have a vacation home.” “And?” He raised a sly brow. “You can have another one. Again, I’ll buy you one. Pick whatever you like.” You become flustered. “You’re ridiculous.” “Yeah, I know. But you love me.” “.....That I do.”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: nsfw!, r-18, afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, falling in love, long-term relationship, separation, healing, age gap, emotional, relief, doubt, profanity, drama, doubt, explicit, sexual intercourse, making out, scratching, biting, multiple orgasms, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, fingering, creampie, praising, bodily fluids, mention of bodily fluids, mention of trauma, mention of cheating, mention of sexual innuendos, depiction of sexual activities, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 18k words

NOTE: this is probably the happiest chapter in the story. which means that something else will happen with time. there's about two or three chapters in this part of the story. toji's is almost finished too, but that takes time. we're about to see the end of the cheating au!!! thank you so much for reading it and loving my work and writing!!! i love you all so much~ see you in the next chapter!!! <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

THINGS MOVED ON SO FAST IN A BLINK OF AN EYE, YOU COULD HARDLY CATCH THEM. It’s been four years since you and Gojo Satoru began… whatever this beautiful whirlwind was. Love, romance, partnership, a second chance.

Many people can call it what they will, those who know behind the scenes. But you were certain that these few years were the best years of your life.

At first, it felt strange, even unfair that you were living these experiences without a care in the world. It was all like you were stepping into sunlight too soon after the storm. Yet the more you saw the smile on your face blossoming, the more your hand was warmed by Satoru’s own, you started to think that the strange feeling was gone.

Your amicable separation from your estranged husband Nanami Kento had been quiet, civil and weirdly calm. There were absolutely no fights.

There was no betrayal of confidence in that table, sitting across from each other in the home you once shared together. This was not what you expected for yourself after being married to him for nearly three decades. But that was just what it was.

You two were just people who grew apart, slowly and inevitably, like leaves falling from the same tree but drifting in different directions. Two miserable people who can’t bear to be miserable together any longer. This was for the best. At the very least, you both weren’t going to kill each other like that anymore.

Before long, you both were sitting in front of your lawyers and discussing everything. A legal agreement, a legal separation in a sense. Not yet divorce. That was what Kento and you had talked about at length that morning, after not seeing each other for a long time.

It wasn’t sentiment, exactly. Well, at least that’s what you like to think. Perhaps it was practicality, perhaps with a thread of stubborn care. Nanami Kento insisted on it. Even if you didn’t want anything to do with it at all.

“Kento, I do not want your money.” You shake your head at him. “The kids can have it.”

“Look, the law states that if something happens to me, as my spouse, you’re entitled to half. All of it!” Kento jabs a finger at the paper like it personally offended him. “To be honest, you have more entitlement to all of it than anyone else.”

You scoff. “That doesn’t mean I want it. I’m not some fortune-hunting widow-in-waiting. You knew that when we got married.”

“I do know that.” he snaps back, exasperated. “That’s exactly why I’m giving it to you.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Your Royal Highness.” you mutter. “Shall I curtsy, or do we just skip to the part where you fake your death and live in a cabin in Norway?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You still want to keep your little charity empire alive, right?”

“Yes, of course I do—”

“Well, surprise!” He cuts in smoothly, that old lawyer–glint returning to his caramel eyes. “The money for that comes from the fund tied to this account”—he wraps the page with his knuckle—“which, might I remind you, was created by us, for you. The only way it keeps going is if you take the damn money.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. But we’re only selling the main house. Not the summer or winter homes. The kids still love those. They’re the only places where no one cries during dinner.”

“That’s a done deal.” he says too quickly. “But I’m giving you the full sale from the main house. All of it.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Why does this sound like you’re trying to bribe me into being your ghost–wife?”

He sighs and crouches in front of you, resting his arms on your knees like a man about to confess a war crime. “Because I’m thinking about the long term. When I die—”

“Don’t say it like you’re ordering takeout, gosh.”

“—you get half of everything.” he continues, unbothered. “The kids get the other half. I’ve already set it up.”

There’s a beat of silence before you say flatly, “That’s a very unsexy way to say you still care about me.”

He grins, crooked. “I stopped trying to be sexy when we started arguing about hedge funds in our pajamas.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You’re a pain in my ass, Nanami Kento.”

“And you’re the reason my accountant drinks.”

“Are you sure it’s not because of you?”

“I give him gifts.”

“I do too. That’s why you pay him double, don’t you?”

“Only because he likes you more than me.”

You both fall quiet in that moment, still looking into each other’s eyes. You could feel all of the tension shifting, even just slightly. A mutual understanding weaving through the sarcasm and legalese like it always has.

Finally, you sigh. “Fine. We’ll sell the main house. You keep your weird death–plan. I’ll take the fund. But if you die on me in the next five years, I am haunting you.”

“That’s fair.” He nods solemnly. “You’ll probably be a very stylish ghost.”

“Oh, I will be in heels.”

“Gosh, that blue eyed bastard rubbed on you too much.”

“I can say the same thing about your new play thing.”

“It’ll be over in five months. Don’t be ridiculous.”

You snickered at him. You let yourself sit back, arms crossed, legs tucked under you like a queen on her crooked little throne. “After all that and the cheating, Nanami Kento…..You and I really are better as friends.”

He flinches, just a little. Enough for you to notice. “You’re not gonna let that one go, huh?”

“Oh, I’ve let it go. That’s why I’m fucking your co–star.” you reply coolly. “Well, not all of it. There’s still some anger. Right into the bonfire of my dignity, along with your cufflinks and that hideous espresso machine your secretary picked out.”

He presses his lips together like he’s deciding between biting them or biting his own tongue. “That machine cost three grand.”

“And couldn’t even steam milk right. Fitting, really.”

Kento lets out a huff of something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “You know, it’s weird how you can make me feel guilty and impressed at the same time.”

“I’m gifted like that.” You tilt your head at him. “But you know I’m right. We were always better when we weren’t trying so hard to be something... storybook. Friends with a shared mortgage and matching towels was a lie we told ourselves to make brunch less awkward.”

He nods slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. Friends who actually like each other, instead of married people tolerating each other’s toothbrushes.”

“Exactly.” You pause. “No one tells you how quietly devastating that kind of cohabitation is. One day you’re in love. Next, you’re arguing about throwing pillows and whose turn it is to pretend they’re happy.”

Kento’s eyes soften. “I did love you. I hope you know that.”

You smile. It's sad and dry and a little crooked. “I know. I loved you, too. Just… not enough to live in a sitcom with a laugh track made of resentment for the rest of my life. Not after Satoru loved me so well.”

“I know.”

There's silence again, but it's the calm kind this time. The “I see you” kind. The kind that only comes after the worst of the storm passes and you’re standing in the wreckage, somehow still upright.

“So…” he says after a beat. “Do I still get to crash at the winter house when the city drives me crazy?”

“As long as you don’t bring any dates there.” you reply. “That’s the only ground rule. I won’t bring Satoru either. It’s just for us and the kids.”

“Deal.”

“And if you break that, I’ll have the kids hide your socks in the freezer. Actually, throw you in the river.”

He grins, standing up and offering you his hand like it’s some kind of truce. “You really are a menace.”

“And you dear fool….” you say, taking it. “You are tragically still in love with your ex-wife who has better taste in furniture.”

“Touché.”

You both laugh ever so earnestly, honestly. It was a sharp, honest, tired laugh and for the first time in a long while, it feels real. You knew it was. That was the last time you met him in a few years.

The kids see him still, to be sure. But not enough. They still aren’t on the best terms, after all. Though your estranged husband sends greetings and gifts, he keeps himself busy with project after project. But perhaps that was for the best.

Even after your paths diverged, he did as he promised and still funds your charity work. In fact, doubling what he has given over the years. And gave the money from the sale of the house. No questions asked. No comments. The wire transfers came in like clockwork. It was always clean, quiet, and consistent.

Gojo Satoru found out about it early on. You’d braced for a reaction. Almost anything from jealousy to disapproval. But he’d just blinked, snorted, and said:

“Well, it’s the least your absentee husband can do. Dude skipped out on being your soulmate, the least he can do is pay rent on your greatness.”

You laughed, surprised at how easily the tension melted away around him. “You’re not even the slightest bit weirded out?” you asked him once, months into your relationship.

Satoru glanced up from his phone, where he was reading something with that smug, unreadable look of his. “What, that your ex is still investing in your humanitarian ambitions? Please. If anything, I respect the hell out of that. He knows you’re worth betting on.”

You paused. “Even if that means you’re technically with someone else’s wife?”

“Baby, I’m with you. Not your paperwork. Not your status. Just you.” He grinned, leaned across the couch, and kissed your cheek. “And besides, if I ever feel insecure, I’ll just buy you a vacation home to stroke my ego.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart softened anyway. “I already have a vacation home.”

“And?” He raised a sly brow. “You can have another one. Again, I’ll buy you one. Pick whatever you like.”

You become flustered. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I know. But you love me.”

“.....That I do.”

There were days when guilt stirred quietly in your chest, especially when you caught yourself smiling at Satoru in the middle of an ordinary day. Just cutting vegetables in the kitchen, waiting in line for coffee, brushing your teeth side by side. That deep kind of joy felt… undeserved, sometimes.

But Satoru never made you feel like you owe anyone an apology.

He had a way of grounding you without anchoring you. He never demanded explanations. He never needed to be assured that he was loved. He just… was. He was everything you could ever dream of and more.

He was steady and unshaken. So sure that whatever you gave him. Your time, your touch, your quiet little smiles—it was more than enough. And maybe that was what made you love him more fiercely than you ever expected.

One morning, you stood at the stove in one of his oversized shirts, stirring miso soup while he wandered in half-awake, hair a chaotic mess of white and pillow–pressed waves. He slid behind you without a word, arms slipping around your waist. His face pressed into the crook of your neck.

“You smell like tofu and betrayal, baby.” he mumbled.

You laughed, leaning back into his warmth. “Betrayal?”

“I was supposed to wake up before you and impress you with breakfast. Now I have no choice but to pout dramatically for the next hour.”

You turned in his arms, spoon in hand, raising a brow. “We both know you were never going to wake up first.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his heart like you'd wounded him. “I could have. If I believed in myself. And if you hadn’t drugged me with your love and a weighted blanket.”

“Maybe I’ll drug you again tonight.”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “Now that’s romantic, baby.”

But behind the jokes, the little routines, the comfortable touch of familiarity, you knew he saw it too, that quiet shadow in your eyes on some nights.

The way your tender gaze drifted just a second too long when Nanami Kento’s name was mentioned on the news. The stillness in your shoulders when letters came in with his name on the envelope.

You never talked about it much. Well, at least not directly. You found yourself curled up on the balcony with wine and a blanket between you, Satoru carefully nudged your knee gently with his. He looks at you with stars in his eyes, with love in his eyes.

“You don’t have to feel bad.” he said, not looking at you. “For loving someone who loved you well. That’s not a wound. That’s just… life. And you don’t have to tuck it away for me.”

You swallowed, the knot in your throat rising too fast, too suddenly. “I never wanted it to feel like I was splitting myself between you two.”

“You’re not, baby.” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re here. With me. That’s all I need. What you shared with Nanami doesn’t take anything from what we have. If anything, it just proves you know how to love deeply. And I’m lucky you chose to do it again.”

Your eyes blurred, and he let you fall against him, his hand smoothing over your hair as if keeping you from falling apart entirely. “I didn’t think I could have this again.” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You can. And you do.”

And somehow, you believed him.

IT WAS A LOT, LEARNING HOW TO BE INDEPENDENT AGAIN. At that time, you bought your first apartment in a long while. It was supposed to be liberating—exciting, even.

A fresh start, a space all your own. But no one warns you that real estate hunting in the city is just emotional roulette with better lighting. The search was insane.

Open houses felt like war zones. Every place you liked had at least one dealbreaker: too exposed, too small, too haunted by the spirit of bad interior design. And the ones that ticked all the boxes? Snatched up in seconds by people with deeper pockets or better poker faces.

You were melting down daily. The need for privacy, for a place that didn’t come with a paper-thin wall and neighbors who fought like they were auditioning for a reality show.

It all felt like too much. You’d walk into listings and walk right back out two minutes later when you realized the "third bedroom" was actually just a glorified closet with a weird smell.

Enter: Satoru’s mother, Gojo Sasaki.

A force of nature in kitten heels, wielding real estate knowledge like a weapon of divine intervention. She insisted on tagging along “just to make sure no one sells you a shoebox and calls it a penthouse.” and thanked every deity you half-believe in that she did.

She brought snacks. She brought printouts. She brought energy. She fought brokers with a smile that could freeze lava and charmed doormen into giving her the real scoop on the building. And despite your initial protests, you were grateful. Deeply, surprisingly grateful.

You were sitting cross-legged in the back of yet another overpriced studio with water stains on the ceiling, staring blankly at the fake marble countertops when you sighed. “If I die here, tell the coroner I wanted better flooring.”

“I told you we should’ve skipped this one, sweetheart.” Satoru’s mother said, arms crossed, sunglasses still on indoors like she was ready to assassinate a broker if necessary. “That listing said ‘charming’ which we both know is code for ‘run.’”

You cracked a tired smile. “How do you always know these things?”

“Sweetheart, that’s simple.” she said, linking her arm with yours, “I survived three housing markets, two recessions, and your boyfriend’s rather stupid ‘minimalist’ phase. I know things. Now come on, we’re getting coffee and pretending this didn’t happen.”

You had no idea how you would've survived that apartment hunt without her. Satoru was off filming with Suguru for their big duo project. It was some morally ambiguous, slow–burn, guns–and–gloves drama where both of them looked like trouble and sin on-screen.

Which meant you were left with a string of missed calls, loving texts like “you find a place with a bathtub yet? asking for my muscles” and a FaceTime from a desert set where he looked like a mirage with eye bags.

So yeah, you were mostly on your own. Except... not really.

“Let me guess.” you said after touring a third apartment that day, this one with a layout that made no architectural sense. “They called this one something like blah blah blah modern oasis. Or something like that.”

“Open-concept disaster is more accurate, sweetie.” she replied, flipping through her printouts with a level of judgment only a mother–in–law could wield. “Also, did you notice the neighbors? That man with the parrot who said he sings at night?”

“He does. I heard him through the vents.”

“That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

You laughed, even as you leaned heavily against the hallway wall, overwhelmed. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

She looked at you then—not with pity, but with that calm, razor–sharp gaze Satoru inherited. “Yes, you can. You’re just tired. And stressed. And madly in love with my idiot son, who thinks sending you something called memes is emotional support.”

You choked on a laugh. “You noticed that too?”

“Oh honey. He sends me the same ones. I’m quite confused about them, but all the same it’s what it is.”

Eventually after a long search, you found it. Tucked on a quiet street, the sixth place on what had become your no chance in hell sort of day. A sunlit living room, solid walls, a balcony just big enough for four chairs and a wine night. You stood in the middle of the room, blinking like you'd been hit by soft light and maybe.

Satoru’s mom placed her hand on your shoulder. “This is the one.”

You swallowed. “Really?”

She nodded. “You already relaxed. You haven’t done that in weeks. Also, the plumbing is from this century. And sweetie, you can afford this. It’s good to lavish on yourself.”

You turned to her. “You think he’ll like it?”

She smiled. “He’ll love it. But more importantly, you do.”

When Gojo Satoru finally returned back to Tokyo, the first thing he did was come to your new home. It was hard to get everything ready by yourself but your kids and Sasaki–san helped out and got everything done just before noon. You wouldn’t have gotten anything done in time if you did it all by yourself.

Your beautiful boyfriend came with his messy white hair, voice still quite a bit hoarse from late–night reshoots. You smiled at him and helped him take off his coat. You put away his coat in the coat hanger as he bothers himself with the slippers you laid on the floor. When he was done, you let your lips pressed to his. He smiles into the kiss, deepening it.

“Well, that’s quite a welcome after a long day.” He whispers against your lips, when you both separate. “Happy about that.”

“Hm, you always are.” You whisper back, smiling back at him. “I’m glad you could come.”

“Of course. Any time with you is precious time spent.”

You giggle. “You always flatter me.”

“My girl deserves nothing but the best, you know?”

“Welcome to your part-time residence, babe.” you said to him, moving to give him his own set of keys. “No parrots from creepy rich old guys. No cursed plumbing. Room for your life–size cardboard cutout of yourself.”

He blinked, grinning. “Wait—you found it? Like this is it?”

“She did, with my mapping, of course.” his mother said, arms folded proudly. She had just come from the kitchen. She was making dinner for the three of you. “You could say this was the diamond in the rough, son.”

Satoru looked between you both, stunned. “I leave for a bit and suddenly she’s your daughter and I’m the in–law?”

“Oh, honey, definitely.” his mother purred. “In my mind, it was when you told me you liked her. That was twenty odd years ago. But I digress.”

“Duh, she’s my mom now, baby.” You snorted. “She’s part of the deal now. You lose me, you lose her.”

“Noted, we switched roles.” he said, pulling you into a kiss before turning to her. “So do I get a closet?”

“No.” you and his mother said in unison.

“Oh, come on! I gotta buy my own?”

“Son, that’s the least you can do.” His mother says as you and her hooked arms into the kitchen. “Pull your weight!”

“You tell him, ma!”

Gojo Satoru shakes his head. “I’m outnumbered now.”

“And don’t you forget it, honey!”

You started hosting dinners there, at first nervously, then with growing comfort. Satoru’s many friends who were loud, messy, chaotic in the best way began to fill your space with laughter, empty bottles of wine, and stories that tangled into the early morning hours.

They weren’t just his friends anymore. They became yours, too. And that has made you very happy. You hadn’t had friends in a very long time. Many had only been countless faces in the sea of your estranged husband’s stardom. Relationships in his world were fast paced. You hated it. But it was not the case with Satoru’s own pride. That you had adored so much.

Geto Suguru always offered to help with dishes, even if he did them all wrong. Ieiri Shoko brought a new dessert every time and left her lighter on your bookshelf without fail.

Haibara Yuu always complimented your cooking with such sincerity it made you blush, and Shoko’s girlfriend, Utahime Iori often stayed behind with you to help clean and vent about her day.

Gojo Satoru would lounge on your couch like he paid rent, socks mismatched and grin ever-present, always somehow finding the softest throw blanket before anyone else. He moved through your space like he belonged there, because he did.

It wasn’t official, not yet. There was no key permanently on his ring, perhaps that’s just going to be the case for a long long time. Yet he does not care. And neither did you. His presence clung to the place like sunlight caught in the curtains. It was warm, familiar, impossible to ignore.

Sometimes he’d show up late, well past midnight, hair still damp from the shower, smelling like hotel soap and whatever cologne Suguru dared him to wear that week. He never made a big entrance. Just a soft knock, or sometimes no knock at all. It was just a quiet door click and the shuffle of his sneakers.

He wouldn’t say much. Maybe just murmured his loving words to you before setting his bag down and collapsing onto the couch like gravity worked harder on him than anyone else. His head would find your lap within minutes. His breathing would slow the moment your fingers slipped through his hair.

“What are we watching?” he’d mumble, half-asleep.

“Something stupid.”

“Perfect.”

And that was it. That was the whole language between you some nights. And it meant to you more than anything in the world. This beautiful shared silence, the hum of the television, the weight of his trust resting quietly on your thighs. This was everything you had dreamed of for all those dark thirty years.

There was still a drawer in your bedroom that held unopened letters from Kento. There was still a part of you that carried the shape of another life. But Satoru never asked you to erase it. Instead, he brought light into the corners you didn’t know were dim.

He never rushed your healing, never tried to step into places that weren’t his. He just… waited. Patiently. Kindly. With that unwavering presence that made you feel safe without ever making you feel small.

Sometimes, in the hush of a Sunday morning, he’d make coffee before you even woke up, padding around barefoot with bedhead and the sleeves of his hoodie covering his hands. You’d find him standing by the window, sipping from your favorite mug like it was his, bathed in soft light, looking at peace.

He never said it, but you knew he liked being there. Not just visiting. You saw it in the way he knew where the sugar went, how he refolded the throw blankets without thinking, how he started bringing over books and leaving them by your bed.

Other times, he brought Sasaki–san with him. Announced only by the scent of pastries or expensive perfume. She’d breeze in with a tote bag full of skincare samples and gossip swiftly declaring to you words she said best.

“You look tired. Lie down. I brought a cooling mask and judgment.”

“I’m fine, ma.” you’d always say, even as she was already applying something that tingles in a concerning but oddly pleasant way. “Really.”

“Lying makes you puffy.” she’d reply firmly. “Come and be a good daughter and let me help care for you!”

When she didn’t bring him, she came alone happily. This was usually after one of his longer shoots. As if she knew the exact moments you needed a little something soft and strange to anchor you again.

She’d brew the fancy tea no one but her understood, talk about vintage cookware, offer unsolicited but accurate relationship advice, then leave like she hadn’t just recalibrated your entire emotional frequency.

There was one evening you found your boyfriend Satoru asleep in your bed, sprawled diagonally, stealing your side like a cat. His mother was in the kitchen, humming and slicing fruit with the precision of a surgeon.

“I go and change his position, ma.” you said, leaning in the doorway. “He’ll catch a cold.”

“Add a blanket, nothing more than that, sweetie.” she replied without looking up. “He only sleeps like that when he feels safe. Let him.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Because he did. He was safe. And somehow, so were you. You stood there for a moment longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand had flopped over to your pillow like he missed you in his sleep.

His socks were still on. Still once more mismatched and rather dirty. One of his feet brutishly hung off the edge like he hadn’t quite figured out how to fit in a bed built for two. “He’s overworked again, isn’t he?”

“He snored loud a little earlier, so that’s true.” his mother added, casual as anything. “But only when he rolled onto his back. Suguru used to throw a pillow at him when they roomed together in their early days in the business. You could try that. Or just pinch his nose and pray.”

You snorted. “He’s lucky I love him.”

“He is lucky, sweetie.” she said, pausing to hand you a slice of apple, crisp and chilled. “But so are you. My son is a storm, but he doesn’t land where he doesn’t mean to.”

You took a bite. Sweet. Cold.

Sharp at the edge, like the things she never said out loud.

“I know.” You whispered to her tenderly. “I’m very lucky.”

Later, when she’d gone and the house had gone quiet, you slid into bed next to him, gently nudging him to scoot over. He murmured something incoherent, squinting one eye open. He looks at you, drooling.

“Mmm… 's it tomorrow already?”

“Almost. You’re on my side, you know.”

“Your side is warmer.”

“Because I warm it.”

He grinned sleepily, latching onto you like a koala. “Exactly.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

You buried your fingers in his hair, resting your cheek against his. “Yeah. I really do.”

He looked at you softly. “You know, I used to think home was a place. But now I think maybe it’s just wherever you are.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

Because what do you say to something like that?

You’d stopped believing in forever a long time ago. But maybe this wasn’t about forever. Maybe it was about now. This sliver of time where you were both here, both whole, both willing to try. So you let him stay a little longer than that wrapped in your arms. You let yourself believe a little more.

A little while later, he was out again in seconds, breathing slow and steady. And you lay there, listening to the rain tap softly at the windows, his warmth bleeding into you, your heart quieter than it had been in years.

Both of you, safe. For once, completely and irrevocably safe.

PEOPLE HAD STARTED TO NOTICE EVERYTHING, WITH THEIR KEEN LITTLE EYES. Not just fans or critics, but colleagues, directors, interviewers who had worked with him for years.

Gojo Satoru had always been brilliant, undeniably talented, magnetic on screen. He was the kind of actor who could make silence feel like dialogue. But something had shifted in the air with him.

There was a new depth to his performances, a stillness beneath the chaos. Like he had nothing to prove anymore, just something honest to offer. A kind of clarity. Vulnerability. Everything had become more intense, more overwhelming, more real.

“He’s always been good to work with.” one director said in an interview. “But now he’s present. It’s like he finally stopped running like he’s running out of time. He’s started walking at a pace that he can feel leisurely about.”

“Oh definitely!” The actress he worked with smiled back at the director’s words. “Gojo–senpai really has become so much more of a human being, in a sense. It’s hard to explain. But there was just something about him these days.”

“Maybe he’s in love?” The interviewer posed to the cast and director, with a smile on her face.

“Or maybe he’s sleeping well.” Another actor snickered to the side.

“Maybe he’s earning more money!” The actress once again snides, earning laughter. “Bonus is upcoming, senpai! Be even more radiant!”

Besides that, people started to take notice of how he was no longer chasing project after project the way he used to. He still worked, still showed up, still delivered. But the rhythm was different now. Softer. More deliberate.

He took longer breaks between all the roles he’s been taking little by little, turned down parts he would’ve once jumped at with eagerness, and merely smiled unapologetically, bright eyed even, when asked about it in interviews.

“Life’s too short to never rest, you know?” he said once, shrugging. “And there are places I want to be. People I want to be with. Just gaining a new perspective in life lately.”

He was traveling more, and not alone. Sometimes fans would spot him in quiet corners of other cities. His hands tucked into his pockets, sunglasses low on his nose, walking next to you like the world wasn’t watching.

You were laughing beside him, or reading on a train while he leaned on your shoulder, or slipping your hand into his without fanfare. You had no worries in the world as you stood together with him as his equal.

There were photos of you both by the coast in Italy, wrapped in shawls and laughter. Or in Kyoto, at a food stall, faces lit by lantern light. Or somewhere quiet and nondescript, where only the lucky few realized who they were seeing and chose not to interrupt.

There were no worries about everything else either. Gojo Satoru held the media and the people with the palm of his hand. His fansites refuse to post anything about his private time, at his manipulative request accompanied by fan service. And his little text to Higurama Hiromi makes every headline go away.

No one knows and no one seems to care. That’s why you can say, your boyfriend just seemed lighter. Not in the way someone loses weight, but in the way someone puts something down. And everyone could see it, even if they don't know why.

But you knew everything too well. You knew everything the world didn’t. And that’s what mattered. You were the beginning and end of his happiness. That’s why he wasn’t escaping anymore. He was arriving.

He stopped talking about needing to disappear into a role to feel alive. Stopped measuring his worth by the size of the screen or the buzz of the press. Instead, he started asking questions like, “Do you want to stay another day?” or “What if we took the long way back?”

He started calling his agent less. Started denying any guest appearances left and right. Started singing and goofing around more. Started sitting in silence with you like it was a conversation worth having. Everything was done with you by his side.

Life lived like this had everything to do with stillness. With safety. With love that didn’t demand, but invited. It had everything to do with the nights he spent asleep with his head on your shoulder.

With the mornings you brought him coffee before he asked. With the apartment full of his friends who had become yours. With your laughter echoing through every room he’d once thought he’d only pass through.

You became the reason he didn’t need to run anymore. And he didn’t say that out loud all the time. He didn’t need to. But he told you in the way he looked at you when you weren’t watching. In the pictures he took of you on film, quietly, reverently. In this way he always waited to fall asleep until you were beside him.

Gojo Satoru hadn’t changed for the world. He’d changed because, for the first time, he didn’t have to be larger than life to be loved. He just had to be here. He can just be himself in the world locked away like this with you.

The villa was still. Except for the echoes of your heavy breathing and the soft creak of the mattress beneath you. Days had blurred into nights, or maybe it was the other way around. You didn’t know anymore. You can’t think straight.

You had no sense of time anymore, not with Satoru constantly between your legs, his hands all over you, his mouth pressed to your skin like he’d die if he stopped. And you let him. Hell, you craved it just as much.

You and Satoru in blissful isolation here in Switzerland. No paparazzi, no cameras, no media. It was just the two of you in a secluded villa where no one could see how utterly undone you had both become.

What started as innocent stolen moments quickly turned into madness you could only crave because of him. You hadn’t left the bed for days. You didn’t want to. There was no need to do so And he was happy to oblige. Pamper you with your wants.

Your body ached, raw from his touch. You could feel his teeth, his tongue, his fingers all over you. They were all too rough and brutish, but you didn’t care. The sheets were soaked, clinging to your damp skin.

Your thighs still trembled from the last time he was inside you, and yet, here you were again. On your back. On your stomach. Bent over. Under him. Over him. There was no end to it. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you, but your body kept begging for more.

"You’re crazy, baby." you gasped in nonsensical tones, your voice hoarse from the endless screams he’d pulled from you. Your nails dug into his back, his sweat-slicked skin hot and feverish beneath your touch.

Satoru just laughed, breathless, his bright blue eyes blown wide with something feral. His white hair stuck to his forehead, and his beautiful mouth was red and swollen from kissing you senseless everywhere and anywhere.

"And you're just as bad, aren’t you?" he rasped, his hand gripping your jaw to force your mouth open before his tongue slid inside. It was messy, all teeth and desperation, but it only made you dizzier.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pooling all the wetness of your bodies all around you. You kept pulling him deeper into you and you wanted more. You want him to overtake you. You needed it. You needed him. Your mind was gone, reduced to nothing but a hazy, animalistic desire to keep him inside you.

"Fuck, fuck. Baby, baby…..hoooooo…..hu—" you sobbed, arching against him as another orgasm barreled through you, unexpected and violent.

Your rigid body seized around him, walls fluttering as you felt his cock throb. But he didn’t stop — he never stopped. Not when he had you all for himself to pamper and to love. Even when you came, he kept moving like a man possessed. It didn’t help that you kept encouraging him too.

"You’re not tired yet, are you?" Satoru's voice was wrecked, but his grin was sinful. His hands tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite down on your throat, leaving yet another mark. "You can take it, can’t you, baby? My good girl can keep up, right?"

"You’re insane……" you gasped, but your hips still lifted to meet his thrusts, helpless under his touch. "We’ve been in bed for days."

"And I’ll keep you here for more if you let me." His teeth grazed your jaw, his hand sliding down your stomach until his fingers found your already oversensitive clit. You jolted, legs clamping around him, but he just chuckled darkly. "You’re not tapping out, are you?"

Tears burned your eyes from pleasure, from overstimulation, from the sheer intensity of it all. "Satoru—"

"I know, baby." He kissed you, swallowing your cries as his thrusts turned bruising. "I know."

Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red marks bleeding all over, and his answering groan shot straight to your core. His grip on your waist tightened, possessive and desperate, like he couldn’t get deep enough.

"We’re so fucked up, aren’t we?" you whimpered, head spinning. "We haven’t left this bed—fuck…fuckkkkkk. W–we haven’t eaten—"

"Don’t need food, baby." he bit out, his pace rough and frenzied. "Need you. Only you, mmm…."

And you lost it. Again. Your body locked up, mouth open in a silent scream as another orgasm wrecked you, and Satoru followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

But even after, he didn’t move away. He didn’t pull out. Instead, he collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and grounding, and you felt his cock twitch again. Still hard and excited.

"You're fucking deranged, you bastard—what the fuck, you feel too good….." you whispered, your voice shaking. “You still feel so big, oh my god…..”

Satoru lifted his head, his grin dangerous and boyish all at once. "And you love it."

And you did. Because when his mouth dragged down your chest and his hands gripped your thighs again, you didn’t stop him. You spread your legs. You let him take you again. And again. And again. Until the sun rose and set and rose again and you still hadn’t left the bed.

Because he wasn’t done with you. And you weren’t done with him.

The air in the room was becoming more suffocating than ever before. It was highly toxic, thick with sweat, sex, and the sheer heat of your bodies colliding over and over again. You didn’t know how long it had been. Hours. Days. Time didn’t exist anymore. Not here. Not in this bed where Satoru refused to let you leave.

Your limbs felt boneless, pliant beneath him. Your voice was completely gone, too hoarse and too raw from screaming his name until you couldn’t anymore. Your throat burned, your entire body ached, and yet… you still wanted it.

Satoru hovered over you now, his face flushed, his white hair clinging to his forehead. His pupils were blown wide, eyes glazed with something primal. Something unhinged. He hadn’t let you go. Hadn’t let you leave this bed. Hadn’t stopped touching you. And you didn’t fight it, not once.

"You look ruined, baby." he rasped, his voice cracked from hours of panting and groaning your name. His thumb traced your swollen lips, still slick from his last kiss. "So pretty like this. All fucked out and begging me to keep going."

"I’m not—" your protest died the moment his hips snapped into you again, knocking the air from your lungs. Your back arched off the mattress, another shattered moan tearing from your throat. "Fuck, fuck…..Satoru, Satoru, what the fuckkkkkk……I can’t—"

"Yes, you can, baby." he cut you off, voice like gravel as he drove himself impossibly deeper. "You always can."

His hand found your throat, not tight enough to cut off your air but firm enough to make your head spin. "You think I’m stopping now? After everything we’ve done?" His grip tightened slightly, his pace punishing. "After the way you’ve been screaming for me like a little slut?"

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t form words. All you could do was feel. And God, you felt everything. The thick drag of him inside you, the sting of his teeth on your skin, the burn of your overstimulated nerves. You’d come too many times to count. The sheets beneath you were completely ruined, your legs trembling with each thrust. But he wouldn’t stop.

Did you even want him to?

"S–satoru….please, I’m close, I’m close. Give me….fuck—" you begged, your voice cracking, unsure if you were begging him to stop or keep going.

"Please, what?" His grip on your throat tightened, his other hand gripping your thigh so hard you were sure it would bruise. "Please fuck you more? Please don’t stop? Please fill you up again?"

Your eyes rolled back. "Y–you bastard—"

"Yeah, baby." Satoru growled, teeth sinking into your shoulder. "That’s what I thought."

It was insane, he was insane. The way he wouldn’t let you out of his grasp, the way his body was still ravenous for yours despite having already taken you more times than you could count. And he still wanted to take you more.

You felt his cum leaking out of you, sticky and hot. But it didn’t matter. Every time he finished inside you, he never let it go to waste. He’d push it back in with his fingers, murmuring, “Not done yet, baby. Can’t waste it.”

And here he was still hard, still fucking you like he was trying to break you. “Baby, you can do it. I know you can.”

"I can’t—I can’t…holy fuck….. babe—" you sobbed, tears pricking your eyes from the sheer overstimulation. Your body trembled, your legs kicking weakly, but he just growled and forced you to take it.

"Yes, you can. You did it already, didn’t you?" he snarled, his hand moving from your throat to your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His face was twisted in something dark, obsessive. Like he’d die if he didn’t keep you like this. "You’ve been taking it so well, baby. You think I’m letting you stop now?"

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes, your mind barely tethered to reality as his thrusts turned brutal. "I’m gonna break you, like you break me." he promised darkly, his tongue dragging up your jaw. "You’re gonna leave here and never forget how I fucked you like this. Never."

You sobbed, but your body betrayed you. It was another violent orgasm ripping through you, and your walls clenched so hard around him that he cursed, his hips stuttering. "Fuck! that’s it, baby. You take it all, it belongs to you. Fuck, fuck…..take it, all. Take it!"

Your body arched again, screaming his name, and you felt his cum spill inside you for what had to be the fifth time that day. But Satoru still didn’t stop. Even as you trembled and gasped, trying to push at his chest, he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

"I’m not done." His voice was wrecked, but his cock was still hard inside you. "I said I’m not done, baby."

"Satoru…please. I’m full of you.”

"You will." His teeth bared in a dangerous grin. "You’re gonna stay here, in this bed, until you can’t fucking walk."

And you believed him. Because the hunger in his eyes wasn’t fading — it was getting worse.

The moment you tried to push at his chest again, his grip snapped.

"Don't fucking do that, baby." Satoru growled, his hand flying to your throat again, pinning you hard into the mattress.

His cerulean eyes were wild, almost rabid, pupils dilated so far there was barely any blue left. His chest heaved, his cock still buried deep inside you, still hard, despite just filling you moments ago. "Don’t fucking push me away."

"I can’t —" your voice cracked, absolutely wrecked, tears streaking your face as your body spasmed beneath him. "Satoru, I can’t — I can’t take anymore —"

"Yes, you can." His grip on your throat tightened, his teeth bared like an animal. "I’m not done with you. You’re not leaving this fucking bed until I say you can."

Your body jerked as he pulled his hips back and slammed into you again. It was too deep, too hard, too much. Your scream was choked, his grip blocking the sound, and your eyes rolled back as another orgasm shattered you. Your thighs clamped around his waist involuntarily, but he didn’t let up.

"Fuck, yes," Satoru groaned, his head dropping back, white hair sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. "That’s my fucking girl—keep squeezing me like that. Fucking take it. Take all of it."

"Satoru — I —"

"What?" His hand released your throat only to grab your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His hips were still punishing, rutting into you like he’d die if he stopped. "You wanna stop? Huh? Is that what you’re crying for?"

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth opened, but only broken sobs fell out as your body twitched beneath him. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. Your brain was scrambled from overstimulation, but your body still craved him. It was like a drug you couldn’t quit.

"Nah, baby." Satoru’s voice was dark, twisted, and unrecognizable. "You don’t get to fucking quit. Not when you keep coming around my cock like this — you like it. You fucking love it. Look at you."

Your eyes were blurred with tears, but you couldn’t look away. His face was pure madness. Everything about him was flushed. You could see his teeth gritted, brows furrowed as his eyes bored into yours with deranged obsession. Like he was watching you come apart and thriving off it.

"Satoru, the butler’s going to come soon! H–he said he’ll bring up supper! Y–you…fuck! You heard him on the phone earlier!” you choked out, voice cracking. "We….we have to stop—"

A laugh fell from Satoru’s lips, his grip on your jaw bruising. “Baby, don’t worry. Do you think they’ll care?" His thrusts got harder, splitting you open again and again, like he wanted to break you. "You think they’ll care about me making love to the love of my life?”

"Satoru—"

"Let him watch, if he wants.”

Your body froze. "W-what?"

"You heard me." His voice was eerily calm, but his grip on your jaw trembled with fury. "If he walks in here and sees you like this and sees you all fucked out and dripping with my cum , let him watch.”

“That’s….Satoru….You—” Terror shot down your spine, but it was overshadowed by the way his words only added to the arousal building in your gut again. "Y–you’re insane!"

"I know." Satoru grinned, manic and unhinged. "I fucking know. And I don’t care. Let him stare. That’s all they’ll ever get. But baby, I get to love you like this for the rest of our lives. I don’t care if they all stare.”

“Satoru, you’re being an….fucking…..idiot!” You croaked to him, your nails digging harder against his back. Arousal tightening against him. “You’re….fucking…..fuckkkkk.”

"I don’t care babe!" His hand flew to your thigh, spreading you wider, shoving himself deeper into you, making your back arch from the intrusion. "I don’t care what they do. You’re mine now. ‘m yours too. That’s all that matters. You get that, baby?

"Satoru. Fuck you, you brat—”

"Say it, baby." His hand left your thigh and grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him again. "Fucking say it. Say you’re mine."

Your stomach twisted. Your mind was unraveling. "I’m yours….fucking yours."

"Louder." He bottoms down, slowing a little bit, to hear your words clearer.

"I’m yours.....Fucking yours, only yours.....Fuck, fuck, you’re getting deeper…..and….and fucking hell, you’re fucking mine. You fucking hear me? Fucking mine, you…you bastard!"

"I’m fucking yours, babe. Forever and ever. How’s that sound?” He starts once again, moving deeper and then picking up the pace. “Love it babe. Love it.”

"You….you better fucking do.” You groaned loudly, wrapping your legs higher, meeting his thrusts at the fastening speed.

“Of course, I do.”

You bit his neck, tighter and tighter. “G–good….you bastard. Fuck, more. More, Satoru. Deeper…..fucking deeper!”

His groan was visceral, chasing your command with all he could. Your lover had become more animalistic than before. His mouth devoured yours, tongue shoving in deep, teeth biting down hard on your bottom lip until you tasted blood. His thrusts turned inhumane and accursed, like he was trying to carve himself so deeply inside you that you’d never forget.

"That’s it, fuck. You’re perfect. You’re my everything." he panted against your lips. "That’s my fucking girl. Mine. Fucking mine…..I’ll kill anyone who touches you. I swear to fucking god, baby….I’ll kill for you. Anyone, anything. Just to have you with me."

And you believed him. Because the unhinged, murderous look in his bright blue eyes wasn’t pretend. You knew it was real. Gojo Satoru had officially snapped. Days locked in this villa with you, keeping you in bed, not letting you leave. It had broken something inside him. And now he couldn’t stop.

"Satoru….fuck, fuck, babe. I can’t anymore…..I’m gonna come!"

"Again." His hand slapped your thigh. "Come again. I wanna feel you fucking milk me dry, baby. Don’t stop—"

"I can’t, you’re too….fuckkkkkk, fuckkkk….You feel good.” You cried and cried, weeping as you held him tighter, feeling euphoria you had never thought before possible.

"Yes, you fucking can."

And you did. You came so hard you almost blacked out. Your vision blurred, your body convulsed, and your mouth opened in a silent scream. And the second you did, Gojo Satoru had his final stand off.

"You fucking feel so good. Fuck, fuck, baby." His hands bruised your waist, his cock jerking deep inside you as he spilled again. It was once more hot, thick ropes of cum that filled you to the brim. “Fuckkkkkkk!”

Your entire body arched, twitching as his thrusts stuttered, grinding deep as if he was trying to force his seed even deeper. "Shit, baby…..you’re so full of me….Fuck, baby, I can’t stop wanting to fill you good!"

And he didn’t. Even after he came, his cock didn’t go soft. He just kept thrusting, fucking his own cum back inside you, his mind completely broken. “Satoru, you’re—”

"I’m gonna put a baby in you, baby." Satoru panted wildly, his voice dripping with obsession. "You hear me? I’m gonna keep you here….I’m gonna fuck you until you’re full of me. I’m gonna put a fucking baby in you.”

"Satoru, baby…..I’m full of you, fuck!”

"Mine, mine, mine—"

And you couldn’t escape his tightening hold.

Because the terrifying part was a truth you didn’t say out loud.

You didn’t want to part from it all.

THE SHOWER WAS MUCH NEEDED TO BE SURE. And you were lucky to shower before the butler actually arrived. He hadn’t shown up just yet. And that was a relief to you.

You had hit Satoru for a while, because you were flustered coming to your senses, knowing a man could have seen your partner fucking you well. Satoru merely laughed.

You can only thank whatever higher power had mercy on your debauched souls. You both needed at least ten minutes to pretend you hadn’t been trying to devour each other since sunrise.

The air in the bathroom was thick with steam, clinging to your skin like a second, hotter layer. The mirrors were already fogged up, the scent of expensive soap and something headier. The sweat, breath, skin were all just hanging in the air.

But neither of you noticed. Not really. Not with your chest heaving and your back against the cool tile, and Satoru’s mouth still tracing the shape of your jaw like he was mapping it for memory.

Your legs were trembling, practically useless, so he held you there with a firm grip around your hips, his broad frame still pressed to yours like he hadn’t decided to let you go yet.

“I was a little rough, wasn’t I?” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from the things he'd groaned into your ear an hour ago. He pressed a kiss just below your ear, then another to your collarbone. “Sorry, baby. Got carried away.”

You laughed, breathless, fingers sliding through his damp hair. “You say that like I didn’t scratch half the skin off your back.”

He chuckled, low and pleased. “You did. It was hot.”

“You were hot, ‘toru.” you corrected, tilting your head back as he kissed a new bruise blooming near your neck. “Still are.”

He hummed against your skin. “You bit me. Hard.”

“You liked it.”

“I love it very much.” he said with a grin that made you squeeze your eyes shut from the sheer intimacy of it. “I love everything you do to me.”

Your fingers ghosted over the angry red lines down his shoulders. “I should apologize too.”

“For what?” he whispered, thumb brushing under your chin to lift your face back to his. “Making me lose my mind? Making me say filthy things into your ear until you forgot your name? No, baby. Don’t apologize for that.”

You shivered at the memory, skin still tingling, still tender in places. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re irresistible, baby.” he replied, as if it were a fact of nature. Then softer, almost reverent, he added, “You should see yourself right now. Hair wet, skin flushed, legs still shaking. You ruin me.”

You swatted his chest, not with any real force. “We have at least ten minutes before the butler arrives, Satoru.”

“Plenty of time, baby.” he said without missing a beat, already reaching for the shampoo like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just wrecked you and then made it romantic.

You huffed, leaning your forehead against his chest, his warmth anchoring you to the moment. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m in love with you.” he whispered, fingers combing through your hair like you were something delicate and sacred. “That’s even worse.”

And just like that, the steam wasn’t the only thing making the room feel so impossibly full. So soft. So much. You let out a quiet laugh at his words, closing your weary eyes as the water poured over both of you.

“Then help me not look like I just crawled out of your bed, and maybe the butler won’t quit.”

“No promises, baby.” he smirked. “But I’ll try.”

“Hm, so will I.”

“Give me five minutes, baby.” he breathes into your ear, voice thick with heat and mischief.

His lips ghost along your skin like he’s trying to brand you with just his breath. The warmth of his words, the low timbre of his tone. It’s almost worse than the hands that haven't left your body since you stepped out of the shower.

Your cheeks flush instantly, the color blooming high and hot, because you know exactly what five minutes means in Gojo Satoru’s language. And it’s never five. Ever. You know your lover way too well for that.

“Actually… just two minutes, at the very least.” he amends, already trailing kisses down your neck like a man possessed. “You don’t even need to do anything. Just… let me.”

“Satoru…” you gasp, voice catching as his fingers slide between your thighs again, slow and certain, right where you’re still sensitive. Still aching, still trembling from the last time you told him you couldn’t go again.

Your whole body jolts in response, hips twitching before you can stop yourself. You press your hand to his chest, not to push him away, but to ground yourself. Because you can’t. Not again. Your body is begging for a break, but your heart is already folding.

“Stop, baby…” you plead softly, breath hitching. “I can’t…”

But he’s already pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, his nose brushing your cheek as he whispers, almost reverent, “We’ll actually eat after, I promise.”

He’s grinning—smug and beautiful and completely unrepentant. “Just one more, baby.” he murmurs like a prayer. Like a devil luring you into a sin you both know you’ll never regret. “Please.”

And the worst part is that you always give in.

You always believe him. Even when you shouldn’t.

And unfortunately, you become as playful as him.

You shudder, legs already weak, caught in that hazy middle place between resistance and surrender. And Satoru knows it. Feels it in the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers curl around his wrist instead of pushing him away.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your collarbone. “You always say you can’t. But you always let me make you feel good anyway.”

You turn your face into his neck, heart racing, teeth pressing into your lip to suppress the moan building too fast in your throat. “That’s because you don’t play fair.”

He huffs a soft, sinful laugh against your skin. “I never promised to.”

That’s why lately he seemed… happier. You indulge him, you keep him happy. You humor him. You accept him whole. You love him whole. And just as much you let him do all that for you too, you let him have devotion complete him and his life. You let him have happiness.

This is not the kind of happiness that makes headlines or gets captured in flashbulbs. Not the showy, curated kind. But something quieter. More grounded. More secure. The way his shoulders sat lower. The ease in his laugh. The glow that didn’t come from lighting or makeup, but from something, someone, steady beneath the surface.

He looked well-rested, too. For once.

Like he’d finally given himself permission to breathe.

And in his interviews, something had changed.

He spoke more deliberately now, less performative and more open. And when the conversation drifted toward love, because it always did, eventually, he no longer danced around it with jokes or vague metaphors.

Instead, he’d smile, tilt his head a little, and say things like: “Love is showing up, I think. Over and over. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s quiet.”

Or: “It’s not always fireworks. Sometimes it’s knowing someone remembers how you take your tea, or what song makes you cry. That kind of thing stays.”

And every time, every time, the world would erupt with speculation. The tabloids would buzz. Fans would dissect every word, every glance, every new piece of jewelry or change in wardrobe, wondering who it was.

Who had Satoru Gojo fallen in love with?

But you knew. You knew it in the way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, like he was memorizing you. In the notes he left tucked into your books. In the quiet gratitude in his voice when he’d say: “Thanks for waiting up, baby.” or “I missed this so much, baby.” like it was a confession.

You didn’t need the world to know. Not really. Because when he said “she grounds me with everything.” on a late-night talk show, or “I didn’t know I could be loved like this, you know?” in a magazine profile, you knew it all too well.

He was talking about you.

You knew, every single time—it was you.

And there will only ever be you.

When he talked about the way love had softened him, made him better, you remembered the quiet evenings on your couch, your fingers carding through his hair while he let himself fall asleep without armor for once. You remembered the mornings he spent reading next to you in bed, his knee brushing yours under the covers, like even in sleep, he needed to know you were close.

So when he said in that glossy cover story: “It’s not the kind of love that makes you lose yourself. It’s the kind that hands you back to yourself, steadier.”

It wasn’t just a beautiful quote. It was a memory. It was true. It was you, pressing a kiss to his temple when he told you he was afraid of not being enough anymore. It was you, reminding him that he could be tired, that he could be soft, that he could be held, and the world wouldn’t fall apart because of it.

When he looked directly into the camera during a premier night red carpet and laughed shyly after being asked if he was in love and then said: “Yeah. I think I’ve been for a while. I just didn’t know what to call it at first.”

God. You knew. You were the only one who saw him on the in-between days, when he wasn’t glowing under studio lights or basking in the glow of red carpets. You were the one who listened when he questioned himself, who stayed when he asked for space but didn’t really want to be alone.

He spoke of her, you, like a story he’d lived into. Not a fantasy, not an escape. A real thing. A grounding thing. And maybe he didn’t say your name. Maybe the world would never know exactly who he meant when he smiled a little too softly, when he looked down and mumbled something private in the middle of an interview, like the memory was too precious to speak aloud.

But you knew. You knew it in the way he always texted you afterward, even if it was just a heart emoji or a blurry photo of his dressing room mirror. You knew it in the voice messages at the end of the day—tired, warm: Hey, did you watch it? Was I weird? I thought about you when they asked that love question.

You were the thread in every word he spoke about gentleness, about coming home to someone who made him feel safe in a world that never quite let him rest. The world could guess all they wanted. Whisper, speculate, make charts and guesses and fandom theories.

But the truth was never in question. Because the way he looked at you when he walked through your door after a long trip, when his whole body exhaled just from seeing you standing there—it told you everything. It was always you.

YOU WERE SATISFIED WITH YOUR LIFE, TRULY. There was warmth in your days that you never thought you’d ever find for yourself. It was quiet, earned happiness. The home you’d built was full of laughter and good food and people who loved you deeply.

Gojo Satoru’s hand always finds yours, even in sleep. Your children, growing into themselves with humor and kindness, called or visited often, always bringing noise and stories and that joyful kind of chaos that only family can.

You had friends. You had peace. You had enough. And yet. There was this ache. Soft, but persistent. Like a door inside you that had never fully closed. You knew what it was. You always had. You wanted to be a chemist.

You’d wanted it for so long that it had once felt like a part of your blood, your breath, your blueprint. You used to dream in formulas, used to feel your hands itch for glassware and lab notes. The thought of discovery used to thrill you. It was not for acclaim or prestige, but for the simple, sacred magic of understanding how the world worked, molecule by molecule.

But life has taken you on other roads. Beautiful ones, no doubt, but different. Detours that became destinations. You made choices, built a life. You found love, more than once. You became a mother.

You learned how to hold a family together, how to cook three meals while writing deadlines pressed down on your back, how to be present, even when your dreams whispered from another room.

And now, in your late forties, that dream felt far away. Like something belonging to a younger version of yourself. A version who hadn’t known grief yet. Who hadn’t learned how to compromise. Who hadn’t yet fallen in love with other things. With books, people, seasons, the slow beauty of an ordinary afternoon.

But still, it pulled at you. You kept circling the idea. Clicking on courses. Watching lectures late at night. Making excuses not to apply. Then reopening the tab again in the morning. You told yourself it was too late.

Your children didn’t agree.

“Why not?” Keiko asked you once, over coffee, her voice gentle but firm, like she was already anticipating your excuses. She stirred sugar into her cup absently, but her eyes never left yours. “You tell us we can be anything. Why not you, mom?”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something witty or self-deprecating, to laugh it off the way you always did. But nothing came out. Because Nanami Keiko had always been sharp, always seen through you, even when she was little. She didn’t ask questions unless she already knew the truth behind them.

Kenshin was sitting across from you, legs sprawled out like he still hadn’t outgrown the teenage habit of taking up too much space. But he looked up from his phone then and nodded without hesitation.

“Yeah, Mom.” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’m sure Tokyo University will let you come back. You donate so much to everything there. Plus….You’re, like, crazy smart. You always will be. Plus, they’re probably waiting for someone like you to shake things up a little.”

You snorted into your tea, shaking your head. “I’d be twice the age of my classmates. Maybe more.”

“So?” Keiko shrugged. “You always say learning doesn’t expire.”

You laughed then. A reflex. An instinct. The kind of laugh that was meant to deflect, to soften the edges of the truth they were gently pushing toward you. But their words stayed with you, as your words with them.

They lingered like a dare. Like a blessing. Like two mirrors held up to you from either side of the table, showing you what they saw: someone capable. Someone worth investing in. Someone who could. And it rattled you, in the best way. You realized you raised your kids too well.

For years you’d told them those words: dream big, work hard, don’t let anyone else define your path.

You said it when they doubted themselves, when their grades dipped, when the world was loud and cruel and uncertain. You said it because you believed it with your whole heart. But you hadn’t applied it to yourself. Not in a long time.

Your beloved Keiko and Kenshin weren’t challenging you out of impatience or pressure. There was no timeline, no ultimatum, no “you should have done this years ago.” — not a single peep of judgment or malice.

There was only love.

There was only faith.

There was only joy.

Only the gentle belief that you were still allowed to want things. And that belief, their belief cuts through all the noise in your head. You were sure that you felt it in your heart that other than leaving your horrible marriage, raising your kids was the other best thing you’ve ever done.

It made you wonder what it would feel like to walk back through the doors of that university, older, yes, but also fuller. To sit down with a blank notebook and a sharpened pencil and write your name on the first page.

Not just as a mother, not as a partner, not as a caretaker or host or writer or planner but just as you. No prefixes. No titles. Just the version of yourself who still dreamed. The one they still believed in.

Gojo Satoru, too, had noticed.

Of course he had, easily.

Your partner was just the best with that.

He noticed everything about you. Not just the way your eyes sparkled when you were laughing, or the way your breath hitched slightly when you were moved but the smaller, quieter tells. The ones even you didn’t always catch.

Like how your posture subtly straightened whenever a science documentary came on, how you instinctively leaned forward, completely absorbed, mouthing terms under your breath. Or how you paused mid-chop in the kitchen to rant about a show getting a chemical process wildly wrong, then blinked in surprise when he started grinning at you.

“You were listening?” you’d asked, half–sheepish. You shook your head. “Figures.

“Obviously. I’m that type of guy, baby.” he said. “You’re way more fun than the actors pretending they know what ‘stoichiometry’ is.”

So one night after a long day of promotion work, unannounced, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary evening—your boyfriend brought home a box. You looked at him confused, but he was just smiling from ear to ear.

Wrapped in paper with tiny molecules printed across it, like he’d gone out of his way to make it thoughtful, not just playful. Inside: a beginner’s chemistry set. Nothing fancy. Just enough glassware and compounds to spark something familiar.

You laughed when you opened it, touched but amused. “Satoru, babe.” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I need a hobby?”

He shrugged, a little too casual. “Just seeing if the lab spark’s still there.” Then he smiled, that sideways, dimpled grin that always softened you. ��Spoiler alert: it is.”

He said it like a certainty. Like he already knew what you were still trying to believe.

Because the truth was, you weren’t unhappy. Your life was full. Deep. Rich with love and memory and purpose. But beneath it all was a piece of yourself you had tucked away for safekeeping, like a glass vial labeled Someday. A part of you that had never been extinguished, only shelved.

Quiet.

Patient.

Unforgotten.

You used to think you’d outgrown that dream. That it belonged to the younger, hungrier you—the one who used to pull all-nighters solving problems no one had assigned, the one who found poetry in equations.

But maybe… it wasn’t about outgrowing it. Maybe that dream had simply needed time. Maybe it had been waiting for you to become the person who could return to it without fear. Who no longer needed it to prove anything, but could pursue it purely for the joy of becoming.

Because now you know things your younger self didn’t: How to endure. How to love. How to begin again.

And maybe, just maybe, now was exactly when you were meant to start.

Yet you did not start just yet.

The doubt was too much of a sinner.

YOU THOUGHT ABOUT IT LONG AND HARD. And it was all over your head these few weeks. You were pretty sure your partner knew that too. How could he not, when he was the one that knew you this well?

The air between you and Satoru was thick with the kind of silence that only followed moments of true intimacy. It wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet, but a content one. It was the kind that lingered after everything had been said in quiet gasps and tender touches.

Your bodies had tangled together with ease, finding that familiar rhythm, that soft, perfect connection that existed between the two of you. The sheets, half-draped across your bodies, barely covered the curve of your waist, and Satoru’s arm was slung lazily across you, like he had no intention of ever moving again.

It felt like a moment frozen in time—a pause before the world outside crept back in.

Through the gentle hum of the night, the rain outside tapped lightly against the windows, its rhythm matching the pulse of your heart, calm and steady. The sound of it brought a kind of peace to the room, as though the universe itself was holding its breath with you, waiting for something. Or maybe, it was just you who was waiting.

You turned your head, just enough to catch the faintest gleam of his silver lashes against his cheek. The peace on his face was so unmistakable, so deeply serene, that you almost didn’t want to disturb it.

You wanted to stay there forever, just existing in this little bubble of warmth and stillness. But the thought was there, persistent, tugging at you like an unspoken word at the edge of your mind. It had been there for days, weeks even, and now, in this tender moment, it finally found its voice.

“I was thinking about school again, ’toru.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt almost like a confession. It was something soft and vulnerable, spilling out as if it had been quietly waiting for permission to be heard. “About… coming back to….maybe try it again.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and delicate all at once. You didn’t look at him right away, unsure of how he might respond. You weren’t sure you were even ready to hear it, but they were out now.

Satoru’s response was instant. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light of the room as they locked onto you with that spark in them that always made you feel like he saw the whole of you. He blinked, like he was still waking up from something deeper than sleep, and then his face shifted into an expression of pure warmth.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice husky with sleep, still filled with that post-intimacy softness that only made him sound more sincere. He propped himself up on his elbow, his fingers brushing across your skin absently, a touch that was both casual and intimate. “That’s amazing. You should go for it.”

There was that enthusiasm again, that effortless support you’d come to count on from him. It made your heart flutter, but it also made you feel like you were suddenly on the edge of something big. It was a precipice you weren’t sure you were ready to stand on.

You stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the right words. You wanted to believe in it, wanted to feel that same excitement he was projecting, but it felt distant, like a dream that wasn’t quite your own.

“I don’t know…” The words slipped out, coated with uncertainty.

“No, really.” he continued, not missing a beat, his voice softening into something almost pleading now, like he couldn’t understand why you were second–guessing yourself. “You’ve been talking about this for so long. You light up whenever it comes up, babe. I think you should do it. What’s stopping you?”

He wasn’t wrong. Every time you spoke about it, about chemistry, about the passion you once felt….It was as if a light flickered in your eyes, the old flame rekindling in ways you hadn’t realized. He understood better than anyone. He loved chemistry too, as much as he loved you.

But hearing him say it so simply, so assuredly, made it feel like you were being asked to jump into something that you didn’t know how to approach. You flinched slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around your chest, a physical barrier that mirrored the one in your mind.

“I just…” You paused, your heart starting to thump harder, louder in your chest.

The vulnerability you hadn’t expected to feel in this moment surged, and you couldn’t shake the sense of fear creeping in. “I don’t know if I’m ready. It’s been so long. What if it’s too late? What if I can’t keep up, or I’ve forgotten everything? What if it’s a waste of time? A waste of—”

Before you could continue, Satoru’s hand found yours, his touch gentle, grounding. “Hey, baby.” he murmured, his voice full of quiet understanding. “It wouldn’t be any of that. And you wouldn’t be doing it alone. You’d have all of us. It’s me, the kids, everyone. You’d be doing something for you, and that’s—”

His words, full of love and unwavering support, cut through the panic building inside you, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm that was rising in your chest. You needed space. You needed time to think, not in the middle of this moment.

“I’m tired, babe.” you said, cutting him off with a sharpness that you immediately regretted. The words were out before you could catch them, but they were there, ringing in the air between you. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was palpable. Satoru’s hand stilled in yours, and for a moment, you both just lay there, the weight of your emotions settling between you like a gentle fog.

He was quiet, not pushing you, not questioning your need for space, but still present. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… aware. He sighed, a soft sound that was more for himself than for you, and nodded slowly, pulling away just a fraction, giving you room to breathe.

“Okay, baby.” he said quietly, his voice full of the kind of understanding that only came from years of knowing someone deeply. “Tomorrow.”

You didn’t mean to push him away, but you needed this. You needed a moment where the dream was just that. It was a dream, not a pressure. One night where you didn’t have to make any decisions. Where you could just breathe and let things settle.

And Satoru, as always, understood. He didn’t pull away completely. Instead, he curled back around you, his body molding against yours, a comfort. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, a promise of patience, of waiting.

“Whenever you’re ready, baby.” he whispered into the quiet of the room, his words a balm, a gentle reassurance. “I’ll be here.”

And you knew that he meant it. In the way he said it. In the way he held you. He wasn’t rushing you. He was just there. The silence between you and Satoru lingered, but it was no longer filled with tension.

Instead, it was a comfortable kind of quiet, one where the weight of the world seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in the warmth of your shared space.

The rain outside had softened into a gentle patter, a lullaby that seemed to carry away the restless energy from the conversation that had almost been too much too soon.

Satoru’s arm draped over you once more, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist in a gesture that was equal parts tender and possessive. It was his way of showing you, without words, that he was still here. Still present.

His warmth seeped into your skin, and for a moment, you closed your eyes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft rhythm that mirrored your own breath. You felt the cool touch of the night air against your skin.

But there was something about the quiet intimacy of the moment that made everything feel safe, like you could be anything, do anything, and still be loved. Even your doubts, the ones that had clouded your thoughts for weeks, seemed less urgent now. Not gone, but softened—held in the gentle care of his presence.

“I know you want it, baby.” Satoru said softly, breaking the silence, his voice low, almost a murmur. “And I know you can do it. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Don’t let fear keep you from something you’ve always wanted.”

You shifted slightly, turning to face him, finding his gaze already fixed on you, those familiar blue eyes filled with understanding and something more. A quiet conviction. A belief in you that went beyond your own self-doubt.

“I just… I don’t know if I have it in me anymore. I’m not the same person I was when I first dreamed of it.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, the vulnerability creeping in once more. “I’m not sure I’m still that person.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently against yours, a subtle, intimate gesture that made your heart flutter. His breath was warm against your skin as he spoke, his voice soft but steady. He takes a moment before speaking.

“You’re still you, the same person with the same fire. You don’t lose that. Not even if you take a break for a while. It’s still there, waiting for you to reach for it again. All you need to do is trust it.”

You let out a slow breath, the weight of his words sinking in. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to take that step, to push past the fears and doubts. But there was something so terrifying about the unknown, about putting yourself out there again after all this time. What if you weren’t good enough? What if it was too late?

But then Satoru shifted slightly, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss so gentle it felt like a promise. "And no matter what, I'll be here. With you, every step of the way. You don't have to do it alone."

The sincerity in his voice was enough to calm the panic swirling inside you. He meant it. You knew he did. And maybe that was what you needed to hear. Maybe that was all you needed, the reassurance that no matter where this journey took you, you wouldn’t be walking it by yourself.

You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then, ‘toru.” you whispered, the uncertainty still there, but tempered by something more—something that felt like courage, hidden under the layers of fear and doubt.

“Tomorrow.” Satoru echoed softly, his lips pressing to the crown of your head, holding you close, as if grounding you to this moment.

And in that moment, you knew that no matter how many times you doubted yourself, no matter how many times you felt like you weren’t enough or that it was too late, there would always be someone by your side. Someone who believed in you when you couldn’t believe in yourself.

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe, too.

THE EVENING UNFOLDED LIKE A DREAM. It was the kind of night that felt like it was tailor-made for memories. It was your fourth year anniversary, and Gojo Satoru had whisked you away to a private, elegant restaurant he’d rented out for the two of you.

The place was intimate, with soft candlelight flickering across the tables and the hum of classical music playing in the background. The meal was incredible, an array of dishes that felt like an orchestra of flavors. Each bite seemed to deepen the connection between the two of you, like a conversation without words.

You laughed, you talked about everything and nothing. There were moments where Satoru would look at you with that mischievous smile of his, and you would feel your heart flutter as if the world hadn’t shifted, as if time hadn’t passed. You were still the same. He was still the same. And the love between you. Well, that had only deepened.

As the night wound down, the sky outside had darkened into a rich navy, the moon casting a soft glow across the horizon. You were both standing, preparing to leave, when Gojo Satoru stopped you with a soft word.

“I have a surprise for you, baby.” he said, his voice carrying the familiar warmth, but there was something else in it. Something a little more serious, a little more solemn. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, held a quiet intent. “Come with me.”

You followed him out into the cool evening air, the glow of the restaurant fading as you walked toward a sleek black car that was parked nearby. He opened the door for you, helping you in with a grin that made you wonder what kind of surprise he had in store.

The drive was short, but there was a palpable sense of anticipation hanging in the air. You couldn’t help but feel like something big was about to happen, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

It wasn’t like Satoru to keep secrets. At least, not ones that didn’t involve teasing you in playful ways. But this felt different. Finally, the car came to a stop, and Satoru turned to you with a knowing look, a hint of something serious flickering in his eyes.

“Wait here, okay?” he said, before stepping out and disappearing into the dark.

Moments later, he returned with something in tow. Two large suitcases, their zippers securely fastened, the weight of them making his stride a little slower than usual. He set them down in front of you, his expression soft but unreadable.

“What’s this?” you asked, your curiosity piqued.

Satoru knelt down beside the suitcases, unzipping them one at a time. When the first one opened, you could hardly believe your eyes. Piles of cash, stacked neatly in bundles, filled the case to the brim. Your breath caught in your throat.

“What is all this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you were seeing things correctly. “Satoru….Oh my god.”

He reached into the suitcase, pulling out a thick stack of bills, his fingers brushing the edges of them as though they were delicate things. He smiles at you, with so much pride. That pride that could only be as pure as the driven snow.

“This is what you think it is.” he said to you tenderly. “This is the money you gave up for me. To help me escape. To get me away from my mother. The money you sacrificed when you helped me study, when you gave me a chance at a life outside of the abuse and everything that held me back.”

He paused, looking up at you, his face hardening slightly, as if the weight of it was just now hitting him. “This is the money you gave up for me to leave everything behind. And tonight, I’m giving it back to you.”

Your heart raced, confusion swirling in your mind. “Satoru, I—”

“There’s more, baby.” he interrupted, and you could see the emotion in his eyes, raw and unguarded.

Your eyes widened. “Satoru, what do you mean?”

“This….”—he tapped the bundles of cash—“has twenty years of interest on it. You’ve been waiting for me to give this back, and tonight, I’m doing it. You deserve it. You deserve to have it back, all of it.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and the moment seemed to stretch out, frozen in time. Your mind struggled to comprehend it. It was twenty years of interest. The money. The sacrifice. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker as everything clicked into place.

“I know you hate that you have to still depend on what Nanami gives you.” Your partner smiles at you. “You had to give your own savings to me to save my and my mom’s lives. I just….I wanna give your life back to you, babe.”

“You don’t have to do this.” you said, your voice trembling slightly. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the edge of the suitcase, but you didn’t dare touch the cash. Not yet. “Satoru, this is too much. I can’t….I can’t accept this!”

Satoru looked at you with such intensity, his face softer than you had ever seen it. “I want to do this. You never asked for it, but you deserved it, from the moment I left that house to start over. This is me giving you what you should have gotten all along. Every penny of it. And more, if I could give it.”

There was so much unsaid in those words. It was so much more than just the money, just the years that had passed. You were just overwhelmed by it all. You were overwhelmed by his kindness, his tenderness, his love.

It was his way of saying thank you, of showing you just how deeply he understood what you had sacrificed, even when you hadn’t said a word. It was a way for him to show you that he had never forgotten. That he could never forget what you did for him.

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them back, not out of pride, but because you couldn’t let the weight of this moment overwhelm you. You had always been the one who gave, who put others first. But Gojo Satoru… Satoru had always known how to turn that around, how to see you. Really see you.

“You don’t need to repay me for any of that, babe.” you said softly, but the words felt hollow in the face of his gesture.

You could feel the magnitude of his love and respect in every inch of this moment. He was doing this not out of obligation, but out of gratitude, out of a desire to give you something back that was long overdue.

“I know, I know,” he said, his voice low, sincere. “But I want to. I need to. So you’ll know that you’re always worth it. That you were never a second thought. That you have always been everything.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, taking in what he had done for you. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about love. The recognition of everything you had given up, everything you had done. Satoru had seen it all, and now, he was giving it back to you, with interest.

And in that moment, you knew that no matter where life took you, you had everything you needed. You had love, you had respect, and most of all, you had someone who would always make sure you never had to sacrifice for anyone but yourself again.

Satoru’s gaze softened as he saw the doubt flicker across your face. He reached out and gently took your hand, his touch grounding you as you stood there, frozen in the moment, surrounded by the weight of his gesture.

"I know you don’t want my money." he said quietly, his voice steady, but his eyes filled with something much deeper. Something like tenderness. "But this isn’t just money I’m giving you. This is your money. The money you sacrificed all those years ago to help me start a new life, to help me escape the life I was living. It’s time it came back to you. You’ve earned it."

The simplicity of his words hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t just the physical money. It was everything. All the years of pain, the sacrifice, the love, and the dreams that had been deferred.

And now, Gojo Satoru was giving it back to you, asking you to take what was rightfully yours, to use it for something you had always wanted but never fully allowed yourself to reach for. You were finally going to be free.

He placed the money in your hands, but it felt like he was offering you something far more precious. “I want you to use this to go back and study chemistry. I want you to finally fulfill that dream, the one that’s been waiting for you. I want you to be whole.”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The tears welled up quickly, spilling over your lashes before you could even blink them away. Your chest tightened as everything you had held back for so long. The guilt, the doubt, the fear, it all came rushing to the surface. You felt like you were drowning, but in the best way.

You could barely find the words as you turned to him, pressing your face into his chest, the sobs shaking through your body. Gojo Satoru held you close, his hands running soothingly over your back, offering his strength and his presence.

“I don’t know how to thank you, babe.” you whispered through your tears, your voice muffled against his skin. “I never… I never thought you would—"

“You don’t have to thank me, you know.” he murmured, his lips pressing gently to the top of your head, a quiet promise in his voice. “You deserve this. You deserve everything, and I want to see you happy. I want to see you live the life you’ve always wanted, with no more excuses. I want to see you go after your dreams and never look back.”

You held him tighter, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. “I don’t know if I would’ve ever had the courage to do this on my own. To really go after it. But with you… I feel like I can. I feel like it’s possible.”

Satoru’s arms wrapped around you even more securely, holding you as though he could protect you from all your fears, all your insecurities. “You’ve always had the courage, baby. You just needed someone to remind you. And I’ll always be here to remind you. No matter what.”

You let the tears fall freely now, no longer holding back the flood of emotion. You cried for the years lost, for the dreams that had been on hold, for the life you thought was slipping away. You let yourself feel it all, those tears.

But you knew that you also cried for the hope that had bloomed in your chest, the knowledge that it wasn’t too late. You weren’t too late. And for the first time in a long while, you could see the future in front of you, clear and bright.

When you pulled back, your face was still wet with tears, but the weight in your chest had lifted. You looked up at Gojo Satoru, seeing him with fresh eyes. His love, his patience, his belief in you, in your dreams.

“Thank you, Satoru.” you said again, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough. It was all you could say. “Truly.”

Satoru smiled softly, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to thank me, just… go live your life. Go do what makes you feel whole. And I’ll be here, cheering you on every step of the way, okay? I am your biggest cheerleader.”

You nodded, a quiet promise to yourself forming in the depths of your heart. You had spent so many years unsure of who you were, of what you could be. But now, with Satoru by your side, you could see the path ahead of you—a path that was yours to walk. And this time, you weren’t alone.

“I will, ‘toru.” you said, your voice firm and full of conviction. “I will. For me. For us.”

Satoru leaned down, his lips pressing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. “I know you will, baby.” he whispered. “I know.”

And in that moment, everything felt possible. Everything felt like it was falling into place. Because now, for the first time in years, you believed that your dream, your life. Now all of it was finally within reach.

AFTER FOUR YEARS TOGETHER, IT WAS TIME. The news broke quietly, but with an undeniable weight. [last name] [name] and Gojo Satoru, after all the years of shared moments, the lingering chemistry, the journey together had finally decided to announce what had been obvious to those closest to you: you were dating.

The announcement came naturally, a soft exchange between you and Satoru during a rare public moment when your worlds collided. It was simple, understated. No grand declarations, no elaborate explanations, it was just the truth of the matter.

You weren’t the type to thrive on headlines or public speculation, and neither was Satoru. So, when reporters asked about your relationship, you both simply said you were happy, together, and content with where life had taken you.

Neither of you felt the need to elaborate. The questions surrounding your estranged marriage were left unaddressed, neither mentioned nor speculated on. What mattered now was you and Satoru, in this present, in this space.

For a while, there was silence. The kind of silence that comes from people waiting for the next chapter to unfold. And then, it came. People started to ask everywhere and anywhere — ‘what does Nanami Kento think of this?’

In his latest interview, your estranged husband was suddenly asked about the news of your relationship with Gojo Satoru. He was calm, composed as always, his usual air of professionalism in place as he responded.

The interviewer probed gently, curious if there was any bitterness or unresolved tension. If there was anything to say about the dissolution of your marriage. But Kento, your estranged husband, simply smiled, his eyes betraying nothing but a quiet understanding.

“I’m happy for them, really I am.” he said, his voice steady, measured. “I’m happy for her. She deserves to be happy. And I’m glad that she’s found someone who makes her feel that way. I’m not here to comment on the past, but I do wish them both well. I hope they continue to find joy in each other’s company.”

There was a pause, and then the interviewer asked what anyone would have expected. “Do you think your paths will cross again?”

Kento leaned back slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I mean, we have children together. That’s bound to happen. But I’m too busy. And she has her own life. We’ll see. I’m content with where we all are. Just as she was.”

And just like that, the interview continued, the subject moving on to other topics, but the words hung in the air. It was a quiet, respectful nod to the past, to what had been and what could still be.

The interview had been going smoothly until the interviewer, perhaps trying to pry for more details in order to farm for more views and dirt, asked the question that lingered in the room like an unwanted shadow.

“But you’re still technically married, aren’t you?” the interviewer pressed, a hint of skepticism in their voice as they glanced between Nanami Kento and the camera.

For a moment, Kento was silent, his jaw tightening just slightly as he processed the question. It wasn’t the first time he had been asked about your estranged marriage, but it always felt like an invasion of privacy, a reminder of a chapter he wished he could undo.

Still, he had made peace with the past, and it was time the world did too. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes focused, and when he spoke, it was with a calm, steady voice. One that carried a weight of truth he hadn’t realized he needed to share.

“That’s none of people’s business.” Kento said, his gaze unwavering. “We’re married on paper, but we’re not together anymore, and she reverted to using her maiden name long ago.” His voice remained even, but there was an honesty there that couldn’t be ignored. “She’s her own person now. Leave her alone.”

The interviewer was momentarily taken aback, probably expecting more resistance, more nuance. But Nanami Kento didn’t hesitate, his words cutting through the tension like a quiet confession.

“I just realized it very late, her worth. I did a lot of wrong.” He continued, a quiet regret in his voice now. “I was the one who hurt her. I was the one who betrayed her. I cheated on her. And I—"

“Mr. Nanami, I didn’t mean—”

“But you did. You mean to get shit out of me, of me being horrible to her. I don’t want to do that.” He stopped for a moment, collecting himself, as if the weight of his own admission settled deeper than it had in years. “It’s time to move forward. I have to live with that thought. It’s time you all do the same.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Nanami paused, letting his words sink in. There was no need to embellish the story or offer excuses. The truth was laid bare for anyone willing to listen.

His gaze softened, but there was no self-pity in his caramel eyes. It was only the understanding that the past could never be rewritten, but it didn’t have to define the future.

“I’m happy for her. That’s that.” Kento added, a subtle shift in his posture as he leaned back, his voice gaining strength. “I’m happy that she’s free from the marriage I helped destroy. She deserves to be happy, and I hope she is.”

The silence that followed was respectful, heavy with the weight of years gone by, but there was peace in the air. Nanami Kento wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t making excuses for what had happened. He didn’t deserve to have either.

He had simply come to terms with the reality that you, too, had the right to move on and rebuild your life, without him. And that was okay. That’s just how it was. It was better that way. People should learn to know that too.

The interviewer nodded, clearly sensing the sincerity in his words, and the conversation shifted again, but the echo of Kento’s admission lingered, a quiet acknowledgment that even the most painful truths had their place in the light.

And for you, as you watched the interview unfold, there was a sense of finality to it. Nanami Kento had spoken of the past not with bitterness or anger, but with the quiet understanding that you were no longer defined by your history with him. You had been freed from that chapter, not just by time, but by your own strength and by the love you had found with Satoru.

Kento’s words didn’t undo the hurt or the betrayal, but they gave you the clarity that you had long deserved. It was the validation for the life you had fought to rebuild, and a recognition that, no matter what, you had always been your own person.

In the days that followed, the news spiraled, finding its way into conversations, headlines, and even gossip–filled whispers that had a way of slipping under doors and through cracks.

Some saw the romantic union between you and Satoru as a surprise, others as inevitable, but there was one thing they couldn’t deny. You weren’t the same person you had been before.

For years, you had been trapped in the shadows of your past, tethered to a marriage that had once held so much promise but had slowly become a cage. The divorce with Nanami Kento had always been painted as a sad, complicated chapter of your life, a chapter that people refused to let go of.

But now? Now, you were free from those labels, those assumptions that others tried to write for you.

You sat across from Satoru in your favorite café, the sunlight spilling through the windows and illuminating the space with a soft warmth. The buzz of casual conversation around you felt distant, almost irrelevant.

You could only focus on the present that you live happily now. The present that was now your reality. The present was full of laughter, soft touches, and a love that seemed as though it had always been meant to find you.

Gojo Satoru reached across the table, his fingers brushing over yours, a silent reassurance that you were in this together. The world could be spinning with its opinions, but at that moment, all that mattered was the connection you shared.

“You know, baby.” Satoru began, leaning in slightly with a mischievous grin. “They’re still talking about us, right?” His voice was playful, but his eyes were warm, filled with something deeper than just the humor in his tone.

You laughed softly, feeling the lightness of the moment. “I know. They’re obsessed. But honestly, babe, I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? You don’t care that they’re questioning everything? You don’t care that they’re digging into every detail?”

“No, of course not.” you said, shaking your head with a smile that held more peace than you had ever known. “Because I’m not part of their narrative anymore. I’m living my own story now.”

Satoru’s grin softened, and he squeezed your hand gently. “I like that. I like the sound of that. Your story. Not anyone else’s. I really really love that.”

“I spent too long living for everyone else, you know?” you admitted, your voice quiet but firm, as if you were finally speaking the truth you had buried for too long. “I let the past define me. I let what other people thought about my life dictate my choices.”

“You’ve always had a mind of your own, baby.” he said, his tone softening as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving you. “But I get it. You had to find your way out. And now you have. You’ve freed yourself. And here you are now.”

You nodded slowly, your chest filling with a sense of something new, something freeing. “I didn’t even realize it until now. But for the first time in years, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. I’m not defined by what’s happened. I’m defined by what I choose from here on out.”

Satoru’s hand still held yours, a steady anchor in the storm of your thoughts. “And you choose this, right? You choose me?”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, and you squeezed his hand in return. “I choose us. I choose what we’re building. I choose this love.”

The warmth in his smile matched the affection in his eyes. “And I choose you, always.” he said, his voice rich with sincerity. “Every part of you. Every piece of this life we’re building together.”

You leaned across the table, your forehead resting gently against his. The world around you continued to buzz, the voices of others rising and falling, but none of it mattered anymore.

Because what you shared with Gojo Satoru was not a story written by anyone else. It was your own. It was one that you had crafted, nurtured, and chosen to live with all your heart.

And as the days passed, the whispers only grew louder, but you were no longer disturbed by them. They faded into the background, overshadowed by the certainty you carried in your soul. You had found your way, and nothing could take that from you.

Even Kento, who had once been a constant figure in your life, seemed a distant thought. His words of acceptance from the interview lingered in your mind, but they no longer held the same weight they once had. He had let go, and so had you.

You were free from that chapter, free from the expectations of others, free to finally be who you had always been beneath the layers of doubt and obligation. You were your own person now. You belonged to yourself.

You were no longer just someone’s wife, no longer defined by the failures of a past relationship. You were the author of your own narrative. And that narrative, at long last, was one of love, hope, and possibility.

It was a story that had only just begun.

epilogue

The bustling streets of Tokyo had never felt so alive, and yet, there was a calm that settled in your chest as you walked toward the familiar gates of Tokyo University. The campus loomed ahead, its towering buildings standing tall like silent witnesses to the passage of time.

You had walked through these gates once before, years ago, with ambition and dreams shining brightly in your eyes. But then life, as it often does, has steered you in another direction. You were planning to enjoy it all now.

Now, as you stood at the edge of the campus once again, those dreams didn’t feel like distant memories. They felt alive, pulsing in your veins, stronger than ever. You had come back for them.

You crossed the threshold, your shoes clicking softly against the stone pathway. Every step felt like a reclaiming, a return to something you had nearly let slip away. The scent of the old buildings mixed with the faint smell of fresh ink and textbooks. It was a scent you had missed.

Entering the main building, you made your way to the student affairs office. The door opened with a soft creak, and the low hum of activity inside made the space feel welcoming, alive with the energy of students coming and going, of new beginnings being made.

You approached the counter, your heart steady despite the nerves that had once kept you from even considering this moment. You hadn’t been sure, back then, if you were meant to walk this path. But now, with each passing second, that uncertainty was fading away.

A friendly receptionist looked up from her computer screen, her smile warm and inviting. “Good morning! How can I help you today?”

You cleared your throat softly, meeting her eyes with a sense of quiet confidence. “Hi, I’d like to inquire about getting a student ID, if you please.”

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued by your request. “Of course. May I have your name, mam?”

You took a deep breath and smiled, the weight of the decision finally sinking in. “My name is [last name] [name], and I’m a chemistry major.”

The receptionist’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she glanced back at you, a hint of surprise in her eyes. You can tell she was probably looking at your records. She happily nodded and smiled warmly.

“Well, it’s an honor to welcome you back, as a UTokyo student again.” she said, her voice laced with sincerity. “Let’s get you set up, okay? You’re starting a new chapter, so we should finish quick here. I’m sure there’s stuff you wanna explore on the campus.”

As she processed the necessary paperwork, you stood there, a quiet sense of fulfillment washing over you. The past years had been filled with challenges, with moments of doubt and struggle, but now, standing here, you realize how far you have come. You had chosen this path, and you were walking it on your own terms.

This was just the beginning, you knew that much. This beginning was just a part of the exciting, unknown journey you’re taking. This beginning was something you had dreamed of for so long. And it was happening. You could feel the future unfolding before you, and it was brighter than you had ever imagined.

When the receptionist handed you the new student ID, she smiled. “Welcome back to Tokyo University!”

“Thank you….Thank you so much.”

Your shining eyes gazed at the lady and you smiled at her. Then back at your ID. It felt surreal. It was like a symbol of everything you had fought for. You saw it all in full.

Your name, your identity, your choice. The chemistry major you had once dreamed of was now a reality, waiting to be filled with knowledge, experiences, and possibilities.

And as you stepped out of the office, holding your ID in your hand, you couldn’t help but smile. You were no longer defined by what you had left behind. You were writing your own story, one step at a time.

The world, once again, was full of endless possibilities.

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artbyblastweave · 1 year ago

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A few years ago, there was a thread on r/asksciencefiction where someone was fishing for a superhero story with an inverted Omni-Man dynamic, or a setting where Homelander's initial presentation is played straight- a setting where the Superman figure actually is the paragon of morality he's initially presented as, but no other superhero is- a situation where you've got one really competent true-blue hero standing head-and-shoulders in power above what's otherwise a complete nest of vipers.

Someone in the thread floated My Hero Academia; while I haven't read it, my understanding is that that's not really an accurate read of what's going on with Stain's neurosis about All-Might being the only "real hero," that the point of that arc is that Stain's got an insane and unreasonable standard and that taking an endorsement deal, while bad, isn't actually grounds for execution. My own contribution to the thread was Gail Simone's Welcome to Tranquility, where a major part of the backstory involved the faux Justice-League's Superman analogue having a little accident because he's the only one who thought they were morally obligated to go public with the secret life-extending macguffin that the rest of the team is using to enforce comic-book time on themselves and their loved ones; while only a couple members of the team are directly in on it, the rest are conveniently incurious. And Jupiter's Legacy gets tantalizingly close to this- The Utopian, a well-meaning stick-in-the-mud, ultimately gets blindsided and couped by his scheming brother who creates a superhero junta staffed by a Kingdom-Come-style glut of third-gen superheroes, who are framed as fundamentally self-interested because only came onto the scene after most of the situations you legitimately need a superhero to handle have been neutralized. (The rub, of course, is that the comic is also highly critical of the Utopian's intellectually incurious self-righteously 'apolitical' approach to superheroism- if for no other reason than that it left him in a position to get blindsided by a coup!) While Jupiter's Legacy gets the closest, all three of these are only loosely orbiting around the spirit of the original idea, and there's something really interesting there- particularly if the Superman figure isn't hopelessly naive in the same way as Utopian. Because first of all, if you're Metaman or Amazingman or whatever brand-name alias the writer goes with, and you really earnestly mean it, and you put together a team of all the other most powerful heroes on earth in order to pool your resources, and then with dawning horror you gradually begin to realize that everyone in the room besides yourself is a fascist or a con artist or abuser or any other variant of a kid with a magnifying glass eyeing that anthill called Earth- What the hell is your next move?

Do you just call the whole thing off? Can you trust that they'll actually go home if you call the whole thing off? I mean you've put the idea in their heads, are you sure that they aren't going to, like, start the Crime Syndicate in your absence? Do you stick around to try and enact containment, see if getting all of these people on a team makes them easier to keep on a leash? But that's functionally going to make you their enabler pretty quickly, right? Overlooking "should you kill them-" can you kill them? You're stronger than any individual one of them- are you stronger than all of them? The first time one of them really crosses a line in a way you can't ignore- will that be a one-on-one fight? Are they the kind of people capable of putting two-and-two together and pre-emptively ganging up on you if you push back too hard? Do you just start trying to get them killed, or keep them at each other's throats so they can't coordinate anything really nasty? Can you squeeze any positive moral utility out of them, or is that just a way to justify not doing the hard work of taking them down? There've been works where the conceit is to question the default assumption that Superman in specific would be a good person, and there've been works where the conceit is to question the default assumption that superheroes in general would be good people. Something to be done, I think, with questioning the default assumption that everyone Superman becomes professionally close to would be good, and to explore how he'd handle it if they weren't.

#thoughts #meta #jupiter's legacy #welcome to tranquility #superheroes #story ideas #analysis #effortpost

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historicity-was-already-taken · 3 months ago

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Interesting thread just popped up on r/AITAH

It reads:

AITA for causing a scene after a class discussion about Holocaust ended up with my son being bullied?

My son (11M) has always been proud of his Polish heritage. Were Polish-American, and weve taught him a lot about our familys history. His great grandfather fought in the Armia Krajowa (the Polish Home army), which was one of the largest underground resistance movements in Nazi occupied Europe. He was wounded during the Warsaw Uprising, an effort where thousands of Polish civilians and soldiers rose up against the Nazis. Unfortunately, he was eventually captured by the Nazis and sent to KZ Stutthof, a concentration camp. Despite the unimaginable horrors there, he survived and later came to USA to rebuild his life, though he never forgot what he fought for. Recently, my sons class had a lesson about World War II and the Holocaust. After school, he came home unusually quiet. When I asked what was wrong, he told me the teacher said Poland helped the Nazis carry out the Holocaust. Apparently, the teacher claimed that Polish people were active collaborators and shared blame for the genocide. My son was horrified and so was I. He told me that after the lesson, one boy turned to him and said I guess that makes you a Nazi sympathizer. Other kids laughed. My son was devastated and just broke down crying. How could anyone say that? Poland was one of the first countries invaded by Nazi Germany, and over 6 million Polish citizens were killed, half of them were Jewish. The Nazis considered Poles to be subhuman and executed entire villages in retaliation for resistance efforts. And yet, even under the threat of death, many Poles risked their lives to save Jewish families. The egota Council was established solely to aid Jews, and people like Irena Sendler smuggled over 2,000 of Jewish children to safety. I emailed the teacher, assuming there was some misunderstanding. But instead of acknowledging the issue, he doubled down saying it was important to explore all perspectives and that Poland wasnt completely innocent. I was furious. Spreading falsehoods like that not only distorts history but also fuels antisemitism and hatred. It also completely disrespects people like my great grandfather, who put their lives on the line to fight the Nazis and endured unimaginable suffering in KZ Stutthof. The next day, I went to the school office and demanded a meeting with the principal. Ill admit, I wasnt calm and could've handled it much better and that's probably where I was the asshole for yelling and swearing at the staff who had nothing to do with it. But I told them how offensive it was to teach blatant misinformation, especially when it led to my son being bullied. I brought up historical facts, ncluding how the Armia Krajowa fought against both the Nazis and the Soviets, and how Polish resistance fighters were often tortured and executed. The teacher was there too, and instead of apologizing, he accused me of overreacting and claimed I was pushing nationalist propaganda. I reminded him that Yad Vashem honors over 7,000 Polish citizens as Righteous Among the Nations for risking their lives to save Jews, more than any other country. Now my wife (who doesn't have Polish ancestry) is saying I've made a scene and embarrassed the teacher, myself and my son and overall disagrees with me doing what I did. My sons still being called names, though the school promised to look into it. My wife thinks I should've handled it differently and not cause a scene or make a big deal about it, but my sister says supports me in my actions. While I agree I could've been calmer and handled it maybe privately, am I really the asshole for standing up for my history and most importantly my son? Am I also wrong to think that it's not acceptable that my wife is okay with my son being bullied in school?

I replied:

ESH, with the asshole scale pointing towards you. The Armja Krajowa was actively anti-Semitic and spent a lot of the time and effort they could have spent fighting the Nazis harassing Jewish partisans instead. They refused to share any intelligence with the Jewish underground and were adamantly opposed to the ghetto uprisings. During the Warsaw Uprising of 1944, the AK continued to harass Jews, accuse them of being Soviet spies, forced them to do the hardest most humiliating tasks, beat, and murdered them. The Armja Ludowa was better to the Jews, but there was still great anti-Semitism within its ranks. Though subject to genocidal conditions themselves, many Poles were complicit in the Holocaust, and felt strongly that if Hitler had to be there, at least he was getting rid of the Jews. The Polish undergrounds were heroic and exposed to genocidal conditions, but that doesn’t erase their complicity, and that complicity is 800% relevant in the context of Holocaust history. You behaved like a nationalist, revisionist, dick and you owe your child’s school an apology. THAT SAID. Your child’s teacher was also wrong. There were ordinary Poles across all levels of Polish society (the righteous gentiles) who risked their lives to aid the Jews. The righteous gentiles are important, and require a presence in these types of lessons. Source: am a Holocaust historian. My first book, a history of the Jewish resistance in Warsaw, will be released in October. ETA: Your kid's teacher also sucks for not intervening in the situation which led him to tears. Downvotes can't change the past, y'all.

The way Poles and Jews of Polish ancestry choose to remember these events is....fascinating, from a memory standpoint. But NUANCE, always.

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maichan808 · 4 months ago

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Americans, our democracy is under threat.

Do you reject fascism and oppose the Trump-Musk coup? Want to do something, but aren’t sure what you can do to make a difference? Keep reading for ways big and small you can fight back:

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Mar 1st and ongoing (Tesla Takedown) Website | Find an event

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Mar 7th (Stand up for Science) Website | Find an event

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Search for future protests at /r/ProtestFinderUSA and join the mailing list of grassroots organizations like Indivisible to be alerted to future actions.

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If your congressperson is hiding from you, stage a protest event and put their cowardice on blast. For more information on how to implement these tactics, see the Indivisible congressional recess toolkit.

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Stop using Google search/Chrome and install privacy-focused alternatives like DuckDuckGo or Firefox. As a bonus, in the DuckDuckGo browser you can permanently hide AI garbage from your search results.

Show your monetary support for companies that have renewed their commitment to DEI programs (like Costco and Apple) and boycott those who have not (like Target and Amazon). Also look up how other corporations score on the democracy scale and adjust your spending accordingly.

And last, but not least, pledge to join the General Strike!

Stay Informed Corporate media has capitulated to Trump. From the cancellation of minority-hosted shows on MSNBC to the Bezos takeover of the Washington Post editorial pages, MSM cannot be relied upon to provide unbiased coverage of the Trump-Musk regime.

Support independent journalists and media and follow AltGov accounts on Bluesky to stay informed as to what is actually going on in Washington.

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Under Trump-Musk, federal programs like SNAP, Medicaid, Medicare, and even Social Security are in danger. We will need to increasingly rely on our own communities to have our backs. Visit mutualaidhub.org to locate resources and learn how to start your own network.

And finally, remember that resistance is a marathon, not a sprint. So be sure to stop doomscrolling and simply enjoy life as AOC reminds us:

#us politics #resistance #protests #fuck trump #fuck elon musk #mine

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millersfinest · 8 months ago

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the thing in your chest that beats | e.w

santa barbara!ellie williams & ex-firefly!reader

wc: 5k

mini-series: california (you’re here) | oregon | idaho | wyoming

blurb: you put up a good fight with those rattlers, but it wasn’t good enough—all it got you was strung up near a beach where the sun scorched you dry. abruptly, their set-up gets fucked by their own prisoners, saving your life by only a thread. but the wrath that lingered under your skin was immense, and you’re not the only one to experience that phenomenon. when another damaged soul encounters your brittle state; the dreams that put you in a tough position manifest into reality. along with a few extra miscellaneous things…

cw: angry!r, mentions of fate, santa barbara arc, infected, shooting, lots of exposition, torture, violence, vulgar language, slow-burn romance, eventual smut, proximity trope, both reader and ellie on a path of redemption.

note: this first part is lowkey boring imo, but i hope the angst makes up for it. as always, please enjoy my hyperfixation!!

California

Ropes chafed at your skin; securing your legs and wrists on top of each other to the wooden post. Fog had shielded the setting sun from your skin—after many hours of being scorched. Your muscles ached and your bones were sore. The exposed skin on your shoulders and chest was dry and flaking, exposing an under layer of tenderness. Everything fucking hurt. But you were barely there; head nodding off from the scratching at your stomach and the dryness in your mouth ripping your lips apart.

How did you, a firefly, militarily trained, end up tied to a pillar at the cusp of a beach in Santa Barbara?

You were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. This group searched for people like you—lonely and pillaged by the weight of the world. You were too distracted to foresee their deception; they got lucky with you.

Until the chemical reactions in your brain short-circuited, causing you to act out in the name of self-preservation.

Wrath, by definition, is a trait you’re easily overcome with. It’s not just something that passes through you like other traits and emotions. It holds on. It makes a home in your body and directs you like a rabid dog—a burdening feeling that nestled between your sore muscles. It filled you with adrenaline to kill and destroy—to get rid of the people who tried to get rid of you.

And, every time, you managed to find yourself feeling bad about it. There was no explanation for that. Just your heart being too sensitive for world you existed in—it was constantly broken. By yourself and your circumstances.

It was your own fault that you were captured by the rattlers. You should’ve never left Catalina Island for a pipe dream. There wasn’t anything better than the firefly base—you should’ve known that and never left. Perhaps, if you had remained under the duty of your earned dog tags, you wouldn’t have been thrusted into the situation that you were in.

Wyoming was a lie that you told yourself because you wanted to live a life that didn’t exist.

Locked in a debate with death, your body abruptly hit the dense surface of the sand. The ropes that bound you to that skewer had been severed by a fallen angel. A prisoner you had attached yourself to in the hopes of survival. Her hair was coily and reflected copper under the Californian sun.

You came to from the impact, finally beginning to hear the ongoing gunfire coming from the resort buildings. As you twitched in pain, she cut the bindings at your wrists and ankles. Tucking a pistol into your hand, she muttered words of hope. “Good luck out there, hotshot.”

Your lips moved to respond, but there wasn’t any sound. It didn’t matter, though, because she wasn’t around to hear it. The young woman at once took off in the opposite direction of the chaos with a bag over her shoulder.

Stuck in a dilemma, you didn’t move for a few moments. Eyes stuck on the weight in your weak hands. It was nothing but a black semi-automatic—it weighed nothing compared to bigger firearms. However, it sunk your hand into the sand as if it weighed a ton. You couldn’t even hold a gun with the same conviction that you used to. Yet, the fallen angel had faith that you could.

Taking in a deep wheezing breath, you tried to stand to your feet. You got up enough for your knees to bend, but once you extended them, you crashed back into the sand with a thud. In temporary defeat, you looked to the people still suspended on the pillars. They were unmoving, rotting away from the inside out. That could’ve been you if it weren’t for her cutting you down.

In mourning them, you gave standing another attempt. Keeping your hands low to catch your fall. But you didn’t fall. The muscles in your legs were weak, trembling as you stretched them. With a hunch in your back, you grabbed the gun, adjusting it in your hands. Your professional form remained the same as remnants of your training. Placing your hands over one another on the handle, supporting its weight. Aiming the barrel toward nothing specific, just to get the feeling again. It’s been months since you had opportunity to defend yourself.

With as much quickness that you could muster, you went through the resort to grab supplies. A backpack, medkit, and some food.

Setting your mind on leaving, you tried to sneak through the gunfire between the prisoners and the rattlers. But that simply wasn’t in the cards for you.

Before you could escape the resort, one of them had a bone to pick with you. It was the same rattler that was your deceptive captor. She used her femininity to convince you that she needed help—that she was weak and she needed your help. If anything, you have a bone to pick with her.

She had come at you with her bear hands, pushing your face up against a wall. She tore the backpack from your back, throwing it to the side. Where did her wrath come from? Somehow, you managed to get the upper hand. Straddling her body delivering punches that you haven’t in awhile. It felt natural to you to release such violence against another person.

Through beating her bloody, you found your power again. Tearing off the shimmering dog tags around her neck that had previously belonged to you. Heaving, you looked down at her. She had split your lip and broken your nose, but you could argue that you did worse to her. Her nose was cracked in multiple places, as she coughed up her own blood and teeth. It slipped down the crevices of her face, dribbling into her brown eyes.

“Fuck you.” You firmly speak, picking up your bag from its straps, swinging it around your shoulders.

From the fight, you had stumbled into a room of firearms. Still weak, you limped around. Causing you to walk away from the damage with a Beretta A300 shotgun and ammunition.

Like it was a prize after a big challenge.

You found yourself stumbling along the sand of the beach you were stuck on. This time, closer to the foggy waters of the coast. Ignoring the throbbing sensation in your thigh. You were barely sentient, running on nothing but fumes. But you knew you had to get as far from Santa Barbara as you could.

All of sudden, darkness began encapsulating your eyes from the outside in. Your limbs grew heavier, slowing down the pace of your movements—you collapsed into the sand like the damsel you had become.

When your eyes fluttered open, you were laying on an itchy couch. Waking up felt like awaking from a coma. Sitting up was a chore because of the tightness of your muscles. You felt it like a sickness in your chest. Trying to move your legs, you sucked in a pained breath. A hole that was cut into your ripped jeans was covered by white wrapping. Gauze.

A single lantern in the middle of the living room illuminated the space. It was placed on a dusty coffee table—off-center. Your backpack and weapons leaned against an entertainment center; a large cabinet that combined the use of compartments as well as a space for the tv to fit.

Blinking slowly, you tried to remember how you got there. Fingers gripping at the cushions, experiencing a crazy amount of brain fog. A wrapper crackled under the weight of your hand as you shifted. It was a granola bar tucked under the pillow that you laid your head on.

You stomach scratched at your abdomen, so you wasted no time in retrieving it—ripping open the wrapper and biting into the nutty granola. The side of your foot kicked over a metal canister, accidentally. Clashing toward the scratched wooden floors, it startled you. Reaching down, you shook it in your hands. There was a liquid inside. Screwing the lid off, you realized it was only water. Something else your body demanded of you.

Who put all this stuff here? It couldn’t have been you.

A creak from the side of the room, caused you to snap your head in that direction. Chewing slowly on the oats in your mouth, your eyebrows scrunched. Your free hand felt your hip from the cool metal of that gifted pistol, but there was nothing but the fabric of your jeans.

By the time she came into your view, your body froze. Your gun was across the room, she had the advantage. She loomed in the darker parts of the room as if she were hiding from you—in a way that was prey-ish, rather than predatory.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up…”

Her voice was raspy, and she spoke with a slow cadence. When she came into the light, she kept her distance. By the corner of the entertainment center cabinet—on the opposite end of where your bag was laying. Her auburn strands were choppy and tucked behind her ears. She wore a white t-shirt that was filthy with, what looked like, blood and dirt. Hands fidgeting with each other in front of her body as she eyed you with concern. She was missing her pinky and ring finger from her left hand. “You’d been out for hours… I, uhm, stitched up a wound on your leg— thought you might’ve caught an infection.”

She lacked conviction when she spoke to you. Voice leaving with a sort of emptiness, or perhaps, guilt. “Where’d you find me?” You asked, gritting your jaw. Holding onto the metal canister tight enough to use as a weapon if need be. That last thing you wanted was to be fooled by a stranger again.

She cleared her throat. “The beach.”

That’s when it hit you. The memories of your weakness hit. You remember dragging your legs through the sand, catching the glimpse of a body sitting in the water beside a vacant boat, then falling into a deep sleep. Of course, you, somehow, offered yourself up to a stranger.

It was just your luck, huh?

“There were others you could’ve helped… Why me?”

A scoff fell from her lips. Scarred eyebrows jutting together; an attitude washing over her freckled features. As if your words were charged with something else besides cautious curiosity. “I was expecting more of a thank you...”

You blinked, sucked your teeth. “I don’t know you from a can of fucking paint— so, you should lower your expectations.” You retorted, boring your eyes into her slender figure. What alarmed her was how your voice scolded gently. It cut deeper that way. “I mean, what is that on your shirt? Blood? Would you wanna thank some stranger in a bloody shirt?”

She crossed her arms, shaking her head. “Have you seen yourself?” Her thick eyebrow raised, voice dropping an octave. “You look like shit—“

You glanced at the shirt that clung to you perspiring body. It also had remnants of blood and dirt and sand. Leaning your elbows on your thighs, you leaned forward. “Fuck you! You have no idea what I’ve been through—!”

“And you know what I’ve been through?” She countered, scoffing after her words.

You talked over each other—barking like unfamiliar dogs. Wrath came easy to you; and, apparently, it came easy to her, too. Her words silenced you, but you grit your teeth. “I should’ve left you where I found you— fuckin’ joke’s on me.” She ran a hand through her short hair, taking long strides out of the living room. Preparing to sink back into the corner she came from.

Clearing your throat, you swallowed your pride. There was a sincerity behind her eyes that you couldn’t ignore. Her anger radiated off her epidermis is such a way that it was familiar. “All right,” You sighed, positioning your body slowly to face her departing figure. She’d stopped in her path, peering over her boney shoulder. “I don’t recognize you from the cells… Or the pillars. Who the fuck are you?” Your eyebrows furrowed, voice weakening by the mention of your greatest failure: becoming a slave to the weirdest assholes known to man.

Wheels shifted in her mind, her olive eyes flickering around in the dark, in thought. Lips opening and closing, trying to formulate her words—but there was no use. She decided to resume her steps, sequestering herself in a bedroom. You heard the sound of the door shutting and locking the door behind her.

Groaning, you shut your eyes, leaning your head against the soft, itchy pillows, frustrated.

Unbeknownst to you, she’d locked herself in that room because she found herself overcome with emotion—hot, streaming tears. She didn’t know you as much as you didn’t know her, and she wasn’t going to share her own greatest failures with you. If what you were saying was true, you were victimized. How could someone like her talk to someone like you? After the things she’s done… After the things she was prepared to do.

The sun ascended, with the two of you lingering in separate rooms. You had eventually fallen asleep after some hours in your thoughts. Wondering about the story of the woman sheltering herself from you. Multiple times, you had to stop yourself from dwelling. This is what got you caught up with the first time. Instead, you began to think about what your plans were.

Were you going to resume your journey to Wyoming, in the hopes of finding that settlement? Or were you going to hitch it back to Catalina Island? And hope to God that they take you back with minimal consequences. Dwelling on those thoughts, instead of her, is what brought you to sleep.

When you woke up, you finished the metal canister of water. Giving the room a proper once-over. Sun rays cascaded through the dusty windows like beams, illuminating the room, angelically. Taking a deep breath, you decided to walk around. The soreness in your body hadn’t changed—you still felt burdened by your own body.

The home was a single-leveled Tuscan inspired home. Its interior was riddled with browns and beiges. Dragging your feet against the wooden floor, you entered the kitchen. All the cabinets were blown open and searched through. You assumed it was that woman who you’d met—still, you didn’t know her name.

Looking down at the counters, there was a yellow-paged note on the furthest one from you. The island closest to her bedroom. It was lying under a pill bottle. You shifted as quickly as you could to the note, sliding the pill bottle to the side, but not without a glance. They were antibiotics.

Found the antibiotics in the cabinets this morning, there’s only two left. Take them both.

I left to go hunt for some food. Stay in the house if you know what’s best for yourself. There’s infected around.

I’ll be back soon.

— E

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “If I know what’s best for myself…” Pressing into the top of the bottle, you unscrewed it. With nothing but your saliva, you knocked back two of the pills just like she told you. However, not because she told you to. There were many reasons for you to catch an infection from the wound on your leg—the wound you didn’t even remember how you got.

“I can handle infected.” You muttered to yourself. It’s been awhile since you really dealt with them face-to-face, but it was an innate ability. Why wouldn’t you be able to defend yourself from infected? Your only limits were your body stuck in its state of pain.

But, where you come from, sometimes it took movement to heal pain. Pushing through soreness and tightness was the only way to move forward.

So, instead of waiting around for E to come back around. You decided to explore some of the nearby houses. Ones that were only a few paces away from the house that you were currently in—you weren’t that stupid.

You secured your backpack around your shoulders, hooking the strap of your shotgun around your arm, and sticking the pistol in the back of your jeans. The first stop was next door. Slowly, you had climbed through a broken window. Landing in a bedroom decorated with childish posters. Focusing, you found yourself busy with looting the home. Taking things of importance and putting them inside of your bag.

You didn’t run into anything shocking until the third place you visited—three houses down. Thankfully, there was no clicking, but there were the familiar wailings of a runner. Catching a glimpse of coily copper hair, huddled over sobbing in her hands, you crouched behind a wall. Eyes shifting from side to side, trying to digest the visual.

Good luck, hotshot.

Perhaps, it was her who really needed the luck. Slowly, you removed the gun from your shoulder, leaning it against the wall. The breaths from your lips fled in chunks, pulling the gifted pistol from your waistband. You had known her for the entirety of your stay at that treacherous resort—she was your anchor. She helped you with your anger, keeping you under an emotional routine. Later, it worked for the worst instead of the better, but she tried to help you in there. She was patient with you.

You stepped from the wall, aiming the chamber of the pistol at the back of her head. You didn’t know her for that long, but you knew she wouldn’t want something like this for herself. She had plans just like you did—she wanted out of California. Leaving her to stumble around this broken home would be fucked up.

She freed you. Now, it was time for you to free her.

“You deserved better than this, Honey.” She was sweet and tangy like honey; that’s why you called her that. It wasn’t even her name—you didn’t know her name.

Your index finger squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet straight through her unsuspecting mind. Her whines were more coherent, meaning that all of that just happened. The infection had just taken over. A tear had slipped down the fat of your cheek when her body hit the ground. The shot echoing against the walls and through the neighborhood.

She lasted no longer than a day on her own, and those rattlers were nothing but the blame. They drained you enough to make you suffer but keep you working. But, out on the road, you stood no chance.

There was a piece of notebook paper on the floor by the baseboards of the wall Honey’s body laid beside. With a lump in your throat, you plucked it from the ground, holding it delicately in your hands.

After months of captivity, I’ve found myself in a situation that I could have never imagined. I didn’t notice when the clicker bit me, everything happened so fast!

It hurts now, though, a lot. And the anticipation of the infection is worser than I expected it to be. This is the part where I put a gun in mouth to end it all.

I’m too tired to do that. For once, I don’t wanna fight.

I apologize to those who end up witnessing what I have become.

The palm of your hand covered your mouth in shock as you read the letter. Honey must’ve been horrified. And it hurt to know that she went through it all alone.

Catching you in a grieving state, E had vaulted through a broken window with her gun in hand. Her olive eyes landed on you, subsiding the subtle look of shock on her face. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.” She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, sighing. “You’re in no condition to travel alone…” Her eyes casted onto your frame leaning over a marble counter, reading over the letter silently.

Hearing her footsteps, you folded up the letter and slid it into your back pocket. Taking a final look at the dead woman on the floor, a reflection of your friend that didn’t exist anymore, you brush past the the auburn-haired woman. Shoulders grazing as you achingly climb out of the same window she came in from.

Without saying, what happened to Honey worried you. Loneliness was a cruelty that many could afford—you experienced it. But loneliness along with bodily ailments wasn’t a problem you wanted. If it weren’t for E, you could’ve been in the same position as Honey. What made you worth saving and not her? A ball of fury, like yourself, should’ve been the first to go.

Yet, a level of gratefulness washed over you. Were you ready to thank the freckled stranger for her saviorship?

E followed you back to the house, binding the front door with furniture. Entering, you noticed two rabbits attached to a string laying on the tiled counter. Impressed, you hummed, while dragging your feet toward the couch you had slept on. You shrugged off your backpack and leaned your shotgun against the wall.

The auburn-haired woman peered at you, messing with rabbits, pulling them off the string to prepare to cook them. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She breathed. Her voice coming out like a muttered sigh, but it was loudly quiet in the house. Therefore, your ears picked up on her words.

You ignored her, pulling out the note, and kicking your feet up onto the couch to read it again. Analyzing the messy handwriting on the page, tainted with dried tears and dirty hand prints. E had brought in a metal trashcan to cook the animals she hunted for the both of you. Every so often, peaking at you with interest and wonder.

When the rabbits were cooked, she brought it over to you in a chipped ceramic bowl. “Thanks…” You mutter, barely meeting her eyes.

“Yeah,” She answered, slightly taken off guard.

The two of you eat separately, on different sides of the room. E didn’t retreat back into the room had the night before. Instead, she propped herself on the stool by the island table. Where she could keep her intense olive eyes on you—attempting to read you without asking questions.

You were impressed by the rabbit presented to you. Back at the base, you were familiar with chicken more so than rabbit, though. There was a hesitation when taking the first bite. But the rumble in your belly was satisfied by the animal, and that was all that mattered.

Feeling a strong gaze on you, peering to the side was a natural reaction. She’d snap her eyes back to her plate before you could fully catch her. Sighing, you set the plate on the coffee table in front of the couch.

In your looting, a bottle of wine called out to you from the basement of one of the Tuscan homes. You limped toward the kitchen with your calloused hand wrapped around the sloped neck of the bottle. Placing the bottle at the middle of the island, you take a seat at the furthest end from her. “I thought I would properly thank you for saving my ass…” You cleared your throat, awkwardly. Choosing to keep your eyes trained on your fidgeting fingers. “It’s Cabernet, I think. The label’s kind of rubbed off.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

You pursed your lips, flickering your eyes to peer at her. “Hm.” You hum. “Okay, well, more for me, I guess.” You shrug, reaching for the wine. The plan was to drink it either way—if she wanted it, or if she didn’t. Peeling off the wrapper, you were happy to see that it was a screw top instead of an imbedded cork.

Taking the first sip, its sweetness spread over your tongue. The alcohol percentage was fairly high, so you were expecting a pleasurable feeling within the next few minutes. If you kept gulping at the bottle. You deserved a bit of man-made solace after what you’ve been through. After the things you’ve seen. Taking another sip, you prepare to go back to the couch you were sat on, with the bottle in your hand.

However, E places a hand on the cool tiles. “Wait…” She rolled her eyes. “One sip wouldn’t hurt.” In her silence, she realized that she also deserved a few moments of calmness—self-care.

The corners of your lips curled, sitting back down on your stool. You slid the bottle close enough for her to reach it, leaning your head against your fist.

Orange rays of the sun shifted through the room; setting so the moon could take her place. You and E had found comfort in the wine and in the space between yourselves. Scooting close to each other until there was only a single stool in the center of you. Talking about the more joyous parts of your lives—which, surprisingly, wasn’t much. The pair of you managed to keep the important information off the record. Upholding a level of vagueness between your truth.

When E had brought up her son and girlfriend, that’s when the energy shifted in the room.

“You have a family? Then… Why are you out here?”

A beat slivered between you, circling your bodies like a ribbon.

“I recognize those dog tags… You’re a firefly? I thought they shut down years ago.” She spoke with rigid shoulders, taking a swig of the Cabernet.

Your hand reached for the thin metal around your neck, decorating your exposed collarbones. There was a disconnect between you and the facility you had grown up in. While you loved the support of the community, as you got older, you wanted something different. “Yeah, after everything shut down, another popped up here—in California. It’s the only one left, I believe.”

She chuckled, cheeks flushed from the alcohol accumulating in her system. “Hm. Are you gonna try and recruit me into your little cult? Is that why you’re still out here?”

Deepening your eyebrows, you peered down at the grout between the tiles under your hands. “Probably… If I still was a firefly…” Slowly, you enunciated. “I haven’t been one for months now.”

“Ah, you went rogue.”

“I wouldn’t say that… But, yeah, I guess.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for the wine bottle. She put it in your hand, leaning her elbow against the counter. E left room for you speak, just boring her hazed eyes into your frame. “I was done with being an asshole for a living— I don’t want to just survive anymore… I want to live.” You take a large swig of the wine, lamenting subtly.

Look where desiring life got you. Locked up as a slave for another bunch of assholes. “I heard from some people that there was a place in Wyoming that wasn’t anything like the fireflies.” You inhaled, sharply. “I could live a normal life there— maybe it’s a stupid idea… I don’t know.”

E deepened her thick eyebrows, leaning forward. “Are you talking about Jackson?”

“Yeah, I think so. There was a map in my bag that had the name. I lost it when the rattlers got ahold of me.”

With scrunched face, she stood to her feet. Running her hands over her face, releasing a tired sigh. “It’s not that stupid of an idea…” Looking back at you, she placed her hands on her hips. “That’s where I’m headed— Jackson, Wyoming.”

“Oh…”

Was this the fated reasoning behind why the both of you met? Both harboring an inner pain and guilt for something or someone. Two damaged souls meeting in the middle—this could be a productive exchange. But what would E receive?

She swore under her breath, running her fingers through her hair, stressfully. “You could come with me, it’s not like you’d get far in your condition alone.” She blinked, casually. You scoff at her words, sucking your teeth. She could never just be kind. Sure, it was obvious that you were injured—in horrible shape—but you weren’t inherently weak. You were a trained individual, something that most people couldn’t say.

“I’d feel like an asshole if I didn’t at least offer. It’s a long journey—“

“Oh, you still come off like an asshole, but I appreciate the offer.” You nod, jumping from the stool. “Those fucks threw me off track— I wouldn’t even know where to start up again… So, yeah, I’ll go with you.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“You don’t make me regret this. I have a bad history when it comes to trusting strangers.” You pressed your lips into a line, leaning against the island for support. There was a slight sway to stance, as the world around you didn’t feel stable.

“Okay, well, you have my word.” She affirmed, sliding her hands into her back pockets. “Do I have yours?”

You inhaled, sharply, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes, you have my word… On the condition that you tell me your name.” She narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her lips curling. “We can’t possibly travel together if we don’t know each other’s names.”

The auburn-haired woman picked up the backpack she threw against the lower cabinets, slinging it over her shoulder. She was preparing to huddle into that bedroom again. Before leaving you in the dim hue of the few lanterns in the room, she spoke. “Ellie. My name’s Ellie.”

She waited by her door for your answer, with a raised eyebrow. You gave her your name, plainly. Straightening the hunch in your back—feigning a level of stoicism.

The only response she gave was a hum, before locking herself away. Releasing a sigh of relief, you smiled. Wyoming wasn’t the pipe dream you thought it to be. Yeah, the experiences you had leading up to that conversation weren’t the best. In fact, those experiences scarred everything about you. But could this have been the reason behind your hellish encounters?

#🪅#millersfinest #ellie tlou #ellie williams #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams x reader #lesbian #mini series #ellie the last of us

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heohl-art · 8 months ago

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I DREAMT THIS (and I HAD TO draw it and share it with the world😭✨)! Get ready to C-R-Y!

• Sleep Dearie Sleep, 1916 •

I'm ✨SO PROUD✨ of this one!😭🩷

Attention: ANGST!

World War I.

Anthony J. Crowley leaves to fight in France. After a year, he is wounded and ends up in the infirmary. There he meets the field doctor Aziraphale Fell, who heals his wounds and somehow manages to warm his heart. He falls in love with him, but he's unable to tell him anything. So, every night in the trenches - when it rains water, fire or mud - he writes letters. Letters and letters that will never arrive.

The war becomes more and more violent, as do his feelings. He steals Aziraphale's fountain pen, then his photograph from the infirmary tent. He puts it in his wallet, to keep it close to his heart.

Each day he advances on the battlefield, he vows to deliver those letters to Aziraphale's caring and gentle hands, but each time he returns, he fails to keep his oath.

One day, the last time he sees the sun touch the ground, he loses his life. In his last moments, the only thing he cares about is not letting blood stain Aziraphale's photograph.

The last thing he sees, just before drifting off to eternal sleep, is Aziraphale's smile.

Two days later, a corporal reaches the medical tent and hands Aziraphale Crowley's last item.

Crowley always thought his love was unrequited, but Aziraphale fell in love with him too, a year earlier, the first time he saw Crowley, playing with a stray kitten and a tender smile.

🩷

That's what happens when I rewatch 1917, War Horse and All Quiet on the Western Front all in one day.

(I had this dream, it was so vivid, I HAD TO put into an artwork. I have no regrets✨)

Bonus: ✨details✨

1. Crowley stole Aziraphale's fountain pen (it has his surname engraved) to write him letters.

2. He keep those letters into his wallet, close to his heart.

3.He also stole Aziraphale's photograph (it's the last thing he saw).

4. Once it's returned to him (together with the letters) Aziraphale sees behind his photo, Crowley's last promise. The one he couldn't keep.

5. Crowley always thought his love was one-sided.

6. But Aziraphale actually fell for him first, after seeing him playing with a cat, a long time before.

✨

HERE THE FULL LETTER💌✨:

Nov 2, 1916

My dear Angel,

As I sit here in the cold embrace of this ditch, the distant echoes of battle remind me of how fleeting moments are. Each day feels like a cruel gift, and yet your sight warms me against the chill. I find solace in thoughts of your gentle hards, the way they skillfully mend wounds while my heart aches for a different kind of healing.

You may never know the depth of my devotion admiration, how your laughter dances through my mind like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

In this world torn apart by war, you are a fragile thread connecting me to something beautiful.

Should fate be unkind and silence fall upon me, remember that affect friendshi love can bloom even in the darkest fields.

If I do not return today, carry with you the knowledge that you were my light amidst shadows, a truth I cherished silently but deeply.

Yours always,

Anthony

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dollyfetti · 1 month ago

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𐔌　𝓒ON𝓢UME 𝓜E ₊˚ ♡

○˚𑄽𑄺˖° SUMMARY: dean wants to be your everything, no matter the cost.

⋆˚✿˖° NOTES: loser!sub!dean x vampire!reader smut blood consumption finger sucking pet names (baby, honey, sweetheart, sweet girl, gorgeous) hair pulling begging dry humping unprotected sex overstimulation they r obsessed with each other!! dean's a little ooc ig meow! it's like semi edited wahh

○˚♡˖° WORD COUNT: 4.4k woah!

˚○ ୨୧ main masterlist taglist navi

dean being with you, a literal vampire, didn’t feel like damnation. it felt like heaven. for all your many centuries of existence and the blood that kept you breathing, you were delicately affectionate from the moment you’d met him. it’s actually what kept him from ganking you during the first few weeks you decided to stick around.

and thank goodness he didn’t.

you practically pacified the sweet boy in just a few months, often resulting in him curled up in your arms like a half tamed puppy after a long day, all of his previous bark and bite from earlier faded to quiet whines and slow blinks as your fingers threaded through his hair.

it’s disgusting the way dean constantly finds himself submitting to you. he’d rip his heart out with his bare, calloused hands and gladly give it to you the second you asked.

he’s screwed.

his love was all consuming, constantly having a dizzying headache of wanting you so bad it scraped his ribs raw. and he figured maybe you had spelled him somehow, to make him want to give up his one and only soul for you, a monster.

because dean didn’t love, not really. he never yearned for someone the way a man in love should. not until you.

he lived for these moments with you, where the shit world he fights against every day is still and kind for once. where he’s shirtless in bed, holding you like he’d fall through the mattress if he didn’t anchor himself to you.

your low cut tank top gave dean a wide view of one of his very few sanctuaries... your tits.

he leans forward to place a small kiss on your chest before tilting his head back to look at you with those hypnotizing green eyes, his hands rubbing your sides to eventually stop at your hips and giving them a light squeeze.

you exhale, lightly rubbing his biceps as you lean back against the headboard. “baby, i haveta.. eat.. soon.” you murmur, gently reminding him of your nature. you’ve always hated bringing it up, having to admit the hunger that stirred beneath your flesh.

he frowns with a sigh, placing another kiss on your chest and nuzzling his head between your breasts like a petulant child, rubbing his nose against the soft skin before looking up at you again with an alluring glance that made your unbeating heart tug.

“jus stay for a few more minutes.” dean grumbles, letting his lower lip fall in a tiny pout as he blinks up at you, his chin still squished between your boobs.

you giggle, petting his hair and bringing up a finger to trace over his pouting lips. “i didn’t say right this second. just soon, kay?”

a soft whine escapes him as the pad of your finger lightly brushes against his lips, like just the small touch from you had blessed him. the large hands resting on your hips slide down underneath your loose shirt, now roaming over your bare skin.

he shamelessly takes your finger between his plump pink lips as you eye him with a soft smile, a little noise of content falling out of you. he sucks and gently nips on it, his eyes never pulling away from yours. you know, like a whore.

you adore when he's like this, all soft and subby. you coo, your free hand still playing with his hair as he swirls his pink tongue around your digit.

he softly whimpers as he reluctantly slips your finger out of his mouth before smooching a gentle kiss on the pad of it. his hands are now soothingly rubbing your back underneath your shirt, his lips trailing down to scatter soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

one of his legs suddenly slip between yours, knee brushing against your core before cooing at your surprised squeak at the contact, your hips automatically jerking at the friction.

“okay,” you rasp, nodding your head in attempt to recollect yourself with a hard swallow. “i said soon as in.. only a few minutes, baby.”

he simply hums before leaning forward and stupidly taking the skin on your jaw between his teeth.

hunger crawls up your throat without warning, blooming hot and desperate. you can smell him more now from this angle— sweat and blood, and god, his awaiting throat is right there.

and he just purrs like he knows how it’s affecting you, the noise vibrating against your skin.

“dean.” you warn sharply, fighting the necessity to indulge in your needs. you resist the urge to sink your fangs into him 24/7, and it's even worse at times like these when he’s all over you.

“i'm hungry, be careful.”

he simply hums again as he places a kiss on your jaw before moving down until his lips press gently against your pulse point, his teeth nipping on the sensitive skin of your throat, almost as if to tease you.

“you’ve already taken my blood before.” he points out with a small grunt, burying his nose into your neck.

you wince at the memory. it was in an empty ghost town where your stash had been destroyed, and you thought your life was over. you’d resisted for hours until you just couldn’t anymore. then dean had offered his wrist with a smile and a “c’mon, sweetheart, you need to. please.”

you didn’t want to, but what other choice did you have? you’d been careful. gentle. he even said it didn’t hurt.

you whine, pulling him closer despite the logical part of your brain telling you otherwise. “that can never happen again, deany.” you murmur, lashes fluttering at his wet nips and pecks.

he huffs against your skin. “why the hell not? nothing happened, right?” he says matter of factly, his tone still soft as his fingers trace patterns over your back. he wants to be what you crave and he wants to be the one to give it to you. he needs to be needed.

“yeah, but,” you start with a pout. “i don’t ever wanna hurt you, honey.” you mumble, eyes following his mouth as he kisses and presses himself all over you like a needy little puppy.

eventually, he lifts his head to look at you again, a small pout of his own on his lips as he stares at you with a pleading expression. “what, you think m scared of you? you’re not gonna hurt me, sweet girl.” he notes with a shift, leaning up to press a soft kiss on your chin, and then your nose.

his knee was still pressed against your center, and he couldn’t help but tauntingly move it, just slightly, enjoying how much it seemed to rile you up.

“i can’t, baby, i can’t..!” you whine, eyes rolling back momentarily. you let out a breathy sigh, a lovesick smile sneaking out as he begins to pepper your face in kisses.

he chuckles, finding your whines and whimpers absolutely adorable. “why not?” he asks with a small coo, his hand petting over your puffed out cheek.

his other hand presses flat against your back, thumb rubbing circles over it as his nose gently rubs against yours. he knew that he was slowly but surely pushing you to give in, and he always plans on getting what he wants.

“because! if i start, i won’t stop— i can’t control it!” you’re quivering now, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded as he rocks his knee against you.

“sweetheart. please?” dean softly hums, his green eyes looking up at you with need. “just a little bite.. that's it.” he murmurs. there’s no hesitation in him. no fear. just a desperate, boyish need to be yours in every possible way.

he further presses his knee against your fabric covered cunt, urging you to grind against him. “fuck, c’mon. let me take care of you.” he exhales.

you let out a heavy breath, hips jerking with a small whimper until you shakily nod. “okay.. your wrist. n-not your neck..” you mumble, listening intently to the sound of his heartbeat.

he can’t hold back from letting out a deep, guttural groan at your confirmation. he brings his wrist up to your mouth, offering it like a gift with pride. “drink, baby...” he whispers huskily, his hand going to your hip to help you rock on him.

you breathily hiss at both the sensation and dean's eagerness to feed his girl, bringing a shiver to your spine. you snatch his wrist into your cold grip before pausing to listen to the flow of his blood, his eyes slightly widening.

“are you sure?” you whisper with closed eyes, hunger twisting low and sharp in your belly.

“yeah, positive.” he breathes, nodding rapidly as he stares at you with pure adoration.

with a flash of movement, you drag his wrist to your mouth, and your fangs sink in.

your nails dig into his forearm as the blood hits your tongue, rich and wild and oh so human. your head spins with the taste of him— it’s overwhelming, addicting, too much, but you drink like you're starved, a low involuntary growl rumbling out of your throat.

dean lets out a soft cry, his entire body pressing up against you. he can feel your nipples poking through your shirt, his forehead dropping to yours as he cradles the back of your head with his free hand.

“jesus christ,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple as his eyes squeeze shut with a grunt.

he bites down on his bottom lip, letting out an involuntary moan. he's never felt something so intense before, the feeling of your fangs inside his flesh, the feeling of you sucking on his skin, and all the little sounds you’re making. he groans as your body arches into him, his jeans somehow getting even tighter.

his body goes on autopilot, hips bucking against yours, desperately in search of more friction. his free hand pulls your shirt up enough for your boobs to bounce out, his tongue swiping over his lips as he stares down at them before glancing up at you again.

“you’re so hungry, aren't you..?” he murmurs, hand moving under the shirt to squeeze a handful of your tit as he plants kisses along your neck.

god, his blood is everything. thick and warm and utterly his, laced with all the things you crave most. his loyalty, his love, the deep desiring thrum of a man who would burn himself down if it meant keeping you full.

your supernaturally tight hold manages to grip harder around his wrist for another greedy mouthful, and you feel him sag into you, breath catching on a ragged sigh. but even still, there's no fear, no hesitation. just dean, wide eyed and adoring, like he’s grateful to be devoured.

and that’s what jolts you back.

you yank yourself away from his arm with a choked gasp, blood still wet on your lips, your heart pounding like it’s about to explode. your fingers loosen their death grip on his wrist as you try to catch your breath.

his hand moves from your breast to caress your cheek, whispering sweet words, only to be interrupted by your snarl. “clean it up before i suck you fucking dry.” you whimper, voice barely holding together.

the sight of dean's blood smeared on your lips and your darkened eyes causes him to let out another low moan. he blinks, drunk on the intimacy still coiling between you.

“fuck...” he whines quietly, his hand on your head still playing with your hair mindlessly. he can't help himself, you just look so cute and kissable in this moment. he leans in closer, fingers going under your chin to lift you up a little, wanting a taste of your bloody lips.

you exhale, eyes shutting as you shake your head and press a hand against his chest to stop him.

his gaze flicks down to his bloody wrist. he lifts it up to his mouth and begins to leisurely lick the blood away, his tongue leaving soft, slow drags on it.

you groan at the sloshy sound, eyes tightening further as you put your hand over your nose, the smell getting to you.

a slight smirk forms on his lips like he knew him swiping up his blood so lewdly would push your buttons. his tongue continues its slow, meticulous work before he mumbles, “m glad you like it. tastes kinda salty.”

one second he’s all teasing and smirking, and the next you’re on him, fangs out, fingers like iron shackles around his wrist as you drag it back to your mouth.

but even at that, which should scare him, even as a hunter, doesn't bother him in the slightest. he lets out a soft coo, his free hand slowly moving up to gently caress your cheek as you settle on top of him.

he doesn't even care that he might provoke you in this state when he murmurs, “so fuckin pretty, honey,” like he’s delighted.

you hover just above the open wound on his wrist, trembling with your mouth parted and full of blood you still haven’t downed. your eyes flash, dark and feral and a little wild— and he just keeps staring like he’s witnessing something holy. like you’re absolutely fucking divine.

his blood lingers on your tongue, warm and metallic. and despite your bloodthirsty disposition, you’re really not seconds away from losing it and all hell breaking loose like you assumed. you know it.

and dean does too. your stupid, gorgeous dean, presses a kiss to your bottom lip, messy with red liquid.

he slowly pulls his wrist away from your grip, but he doesn’t move far. his palm stays cupped against your cheek, grounding you, like he wants to be tasted.

“you good, buffy?” he grins, soft and teasing with his eyes locked on your face, searching for any signs that you might still be hungry.

“mhmm,” you hum, pecking his thumb with a small smile. you shift in his lap, adjusting your weight until you’re draped over him, tucked into the warmth of his body.

“yknow,” he starts, voice low. he peers down at the blood smeared on his wrist, lips parting with an aroused exhale. he clears his throat before turning back to you, still brushing your face. “you can take it whenever you need to, baby.”

you smile softly at the words, shaking your head. you wouldn't do that to him. “thank you, but-”

“no, i'm serious.” dean cuts you off sharply, voice desperate, and eyes intensely staring into yours like a promise. “don't fight it. swear to god i'll give you everything- don't haveta eat from anyone else ever again.”

you swallow, lashes fluttering as you blink profusely. you shakily breathe, and you find yourself nodding, eyes darting back to the blood seeping out of his wound. you can feel your meal sliding down the back of your tongue, thick and warm.

��please, baby, please,” he whispers huskily, his hands roaming down to grip the globes of your ass. “wanna be your everything. please.”

your hand shoots up, fingers curling around his throat, and you shove him back into the headboard— not hard, but needing. his heart's racing as he stares straight at your perfect fangs baring out to him.

and god, he loves it. he loves you. the soft, sweet side you show the world and the raw creature underneath. the monster with blood on her lips and love etched into her bones.

dean groans out your name, wanting you to take everything he has to give. he looks at you with a desperate look in his eyes. you need me, it screams.

his fingers tighten around your thighs, nails digging in. there’s a tremble in his jaw he doesn’t even try to hide. he should feel pathetic, he thinks, being this far gone over you. but he feels chosen. he wants to be consumed. in fact, he wants to cry from how much he wants you, how much he wants you to bite him, and take everything he has to give.

you growl, a sound you don’t even mean to make, and the way dean reacts is almost embarrassing. he shudders underneath you, hips twitching slightly, eyes rolling back.

your bottom lip juts out into a small pout as you squeeze his throat tighter, eliciting a small whine from him.

you shove your lips onto his, licking and sucking feverishly. he immediately kisses you back, returning your lust driven bites with needy twirls of his tongue around yours. it's gross, spit drooling down your chin with your mouth moving in the most uncoordinated motions, but neither of you care. if anything, that's what makes it so good.

your hand around his throat squeezes, and you can feel his pulse hammering against your palm. his heart’s beating like it’s trying to climb out of his chest. he pants your name against your mouth like a prayer, almost dizzy with how much he wants you.

you pull away with heavy breaths, lips bitten and soaked wet with his saliva. he groans, tilting his neck closer to you, his hand gripping your wrist to pull it away. you moan loudly, staring at the skin with eager need.

he breathes, “take me”, and you’re gone for the second time tonight.

you surge forward, fangs sinking into his throat. his blood pours over your tongue once more, thick and alive. your body jolts like it’s been electrocuted as you moan against his skin.

dean cries out, a raw, broken shout as his eyes squeeze shut. his hips buck under you and his entire body arches up into yours.

he’s completely at your mercy, letting you take whatever you need, just as long as he can get that delicious feeling of you biting him, and the crazy pleasure he gets from being your source of nourishment.

his love floods your senses, overtaking every thought. you weren’t starving before, but nothing has ever felt so good as this. as his blood, your dean.

his eyes are heavy lidded and glassy, pupils blown wide as he feels himself being drained. there’s a tear slipping from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t even feel it, too busy whispering your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

“fuck,” he chokes, voice wrecked and boyish. “you’re gonna kill me— oh god, baby—”

you pull back a little, just enough to lick some seeped blood from his neck. your lips are stained crimson, eyes still half feral, and he's fighting to not completely sob at the sight.

you kiss his pulse point, slow and wet. “you're not gonna die, sweet boy.”

“i love you.” he blurts, like the words are punched out of him. he groans, squeezing the fabric of your shirt as he rolls his hips up. “oh, i love you. drain me, fuck me, take me— fuck, please!”

you moan loudly, right in his face as you grip it, holding him like he’s fragile. and he is. he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted so badly.

he can barely even think straight, his thoughts spinning with need and desire. he wants to be the only one you ever need. he groans, eyes rolling back and his hips bucking against yours mindlessly, seeking any sort of friction.

you let out a large exhale, practically shoving your hand to the front of his jeans, tugging down the zipper with little struggle and much need. his eyebrows are pinched tight, lips parted as he yanks his pants down, kicking them off his feet.

he snatches your tiny top into his large hands, pulling it up and over your head before leaning forward to kiss you again, tongue exploring every crevice of your mouth while you slide down your panties with quiet mewling sounds.

he immediately slips two fingers past your entrance, earning a moan from you while his other hand grips the side of your face, keeping your mouth on his. he skillfully slips his digits out before shoving them right back in, over and over again.

you bite his lips, more blood drawing from the stab of your fangs.

he groans, eyes rolling back before pounding his fingers harder into you, the spongy spot of your cunt massaging against them.

you cry out his name as you reach your high, his fingers dripping like water with arousal. he whines, staring down at them. he quickly takes them into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the skin like a man starved. you tug down his boxers, mindlessly throwing them across the room.

he smiles gently, pulling his fingers out with a small pop before flipping you to lay on your back. he bends down, leaving wet kisses along your neck and boobs as you whine with need. “i know, honey.” he coos a little shakily as he starts to drag his tip up and down your folds.

you gasp at the stretch as he slides further into you, eyes squeezing shut at the tight fit. you’re babbling like a fool in love, hands gripping his hair with a death grip. once his dick is fully inside, he pauses, waiting for the go as he murmurs words of praise into your neck.

“please, move, please..!” you plead, tugging his hair to pull him away from your skin, latching onto him as you suck on his bottom lip with a little buck of your hips.

dean moans, sticking his tongue out automatically as he starts to rock into you, thrusting at a steady pace filled with tender care despite the blood still dripping from his wounds.

a hand squeezes your nipple, twisting it between his fingers as your legs wrap around his waist. he shakes his head, using his free hand to pull under your thigh and lift a leg onto his shoulder. you cry out as he starts to hit deeper inside you at the angle, arching your chest into his.

your walls clench around him, girthy cock hitting all the right places. his balls slap against your ass as he slams into you, the lewd sound echoing throughout your apartment. his fingers slither down to your sensitive little clit, starting up small circles against it as you mewl.

it feels like he's staring into your soul as he rubs all over your clit, letting out soft whines at your wanton expression.

you’re frantically babbling, hand still tugging his hair. “g-good boy, dean, mmph..! it's so good, s-so s'good...”

your fingers swipe through the aching crimson mark on his throat, earning a mix of a grunt and moan from him as you kitten-lick your stained digits. he desperately thrusts into you, leaning forward with his tongue sticking out to copy your movement, tasting himself on your skin. it's almost creepy the way you both get off to it. your tongues brush against each other as you keep licking from your fingers, and it's enough to get you close to your release.

he notices, of course, and rapidly speeds up his fingers below, moaning your name as he pinches your puffy nub. you squeal, head tilting back as your hips jerk into his hand.

“shit, sweetheart.” he whines, releasing his grip on your nipple to spread kisses against your other tit, tongue lathering saliva as he spits down on the perky bud. “my sweet girl, fuck, i love you!”

your pussy squeezes around him like a vice as you finish. you both feel like you’ve been doused in a mind numbing drug as you cum at the same time. his jaw drops, red stained lips locked apart and eyes shut as he shoots his cum into you. he kisses your thigh on his sweaty shoulder, your cunt twitching as he lays your leg back down on the bed.

he lets out loud whimpers, cock still inside you as he feels your mix of releases seeping out of your pussy.

you open your eyes, cooing immediately at the sight of his dazed eyes, his head probably still fuzzy from the blood loss. he notices your glance and brings a hand to his neck, wincing as he touches the puncture marks left by your fangs.

he smiles sweetly. he can't help but be filled with joy from you taking his blood and seed.

god, he can barely string words together, barely even remember how to speak at all— but manages to let out one little word.

“more..” he whispers, voice barely even audible, as his hands grip your hips again.

you whine softly, shaking your head as your hands reach for his face. “no more, baby.” you exhale, still panting heavily. “mm, did so good, sweet boy..”

he sighs in defeat, but nods nonetheless. he's tired as fuck, and he did good, he pleased you. that’s all that matters.

you tiredly lean over to the nightstand, pulling out a tissue from the box before putting it against his neck. the pressure causes a slight sting, but he doesn’t mind. he loves the feeling.

his eyes flutter close as he listens to your sweet nothings, feeling a sense of delight washing over him. not wanting to lose contact with you, he grabs your hand, bringing it up to press a kiss on your knuckles. his grip's a little weak as he tugs you closer, laying down on your body.

both of you slightly wince at the aftershocks. you lean closer to give him a peck as you pull him onto you, hands threading through his hair.

he looks up at you with glassy eyes as you lazily suck on his lip, his body relaxing even more. his hand goes up to gently brush some hair away from your face before shutting his eyes. “we should clean up..” he murmurs lightly, tone all soft and sugary, and a little slurred from his fatigue.

“i'll do it.” you coo, pressing a final kiss against his mouth. he hums in content, turning his head sideways so his cheek squishes against your chest as sleep takes over him after one more declaration of love from his lips.

so, yeah. that sick, endless love dean winchester has always quietly craved is here in the grasp of a vampire. and good luck to any fucker who tried to separate them.

꒰ 𑄽𑄺 ⠀you have a new message from dolly!

sorry for any mistakes !!! this has been sitting in my drafts so i kinda just wanted to get it out 😓 i love crazies mwah lowk inspired by this bot !!

taglist: @multiversefanfics @misticsilver

also tagging spn moots cough …! (lmk if u dont wanna be!!! <3) @soldiersgirl @deanstubble @losers-clvb @jaredwnch @mostlymarvelgirl @manicpixievixen @sapphic-destiel @cherrygirlfriend

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dolicekiss · 1 year ago

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Hi I'm not sure if you're taking requests (i don't know how the request work so sorry)

Could u write a one-shot, where Reader and Duncan have a mission and them go to the place but before do the work, they arrive at a hotel and them only rent a room with one bed (obviously) Duncan tells her that he'll take the bed and she'll sleep on the floor, then he go to take a shower and she doesn't care about his request and takes the bed, Duncan comes out and them start to fight because she didn't listen him, until she suggests that both take the bed (Duncan don't like the idea but don't decline and just does it) after a while she stars to tempt him at first he's angry bout all the situation, but the moment takes another path and u alr know (smut) if u r comfortable with ofc. (And sorry my english isn't great sorry for the type errors)

This is an idea of one chat with a bot of c.ia but the bots r not as good as a writer <3

♡: anon i know about this bot and i have done some freaky stuff w it 🤭 i love this request

Contumacious

PAIRING: Duncan Vizla x Bratty!Reader

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni), unprotected sex, age gap (reader is in her twenties), bratty reader, dominant duncan, tension, oral (male receiving), duncan calls reader ‘little girl’, overstimulation, choking, hair pulling, biting, slight blood, degrading, talkative duncan, slight (very minor) fluff at the end.

SYNOPSIS: On a mission, Duncan decides to stay at a hotel room for further planning and to rest. But when he orders you to take the floor and decides to stake his claim over the bed, things become heated between the two of you.

Duncan didn't expect to see a single bed in the room when he stormed in, along with you, who carried your own bag of basic necessities.

Frustration was as clear as water on his rough features when he realized he'd have to sacrifice a good night's sleep if he were to allow you slumber along him.

So he didn't sacrifice shit.

The man dropped his duffle bag over the bed, in a way branding it as his. “I get the bed, you get the floor.”

You couldn't even oppose because he'd already left for the bathroom, assuming to take a shower. Your lips formed a frown, brows furrowing. Just who did Duncan Vizla think he was? You both were equals on this mission, sent by Damucles to strike down a Mexican mob boss.

Duncan being older didn't mean he could do as he wished. You stood firm on give respect in order to receive it, age had nothing to do with it. You also placed your bag on the bed and slipped off your boots, sprawling across it.

If you had to take the bed forcefully, then so be it.

When Duncan was finished with his shower and came out, he was the least bit pleased with the sight afore him. You on your stomach, laying on the bed, feet up in the air and oscillating.

His bushy eyebrows scrunched in irritation. The man stormed towards you, standing right in front of you and you lifted your gaze up fron the pistol in your hands. Only to acknowledge him before going back to toying with the weapon in your hands.

That only worked to raise his anger more.

“I told you the bed is mine. Get your little ass off it.” You lifted your head, to face him and then slid off the bed. Now standing right in front of him — gaze unwavering and posture strong. Duncan knew you were one hell of a stubborn brat. He'd come across you before and he hated every bit of it.

You placed your hand on your hip.

A pose that struck him with a lash of irritation.

“It is a big bed and who are you to claim it first? Just because you're old, you think you can come in here and order me around?” Duncan’s eyes flared up. Nostrils expanding and the anger on his face was like embers swirling in lava.

He took a step forward. “Listen here, little girl. I might be old but you could never reach the amount of missions I have been successful at, nor do you know real struggle. Try sleeping in the Siberian Winds with no clothes, not a single thread to cover your damn body.”

You couldn't believe it.

He was rubbing his life experiences in your face as if he didn't himself chose to work for Damocles.

He became the black kaiser because he wanted to.

In the heat of the prickling anger, you also stepped forward. Your chest brushing against his. “You chose that for yourself but I won't let you choose the bed. Either we both sleep on it together or you take the fucking floor. There's no way in hell I'm sleeping on the floor.”

Duncan groaned.

He knew of the abundance stubbornness you possessed. There was no way you would back out, knowing that the way you got yourself snuck into his mission was by being completely adamant and demanding money if not allowed in.

But he too couldn't retreat, as his pride was on the line. “I could easily throw you on the floor, little girl.”

You snickered. “I'd like to see you try.”

Duncan stared at you. Drinking in your petite form and how small you were in comparison to him. Primal and dark was what stirred within the base of his abdomen when his mind finally grasped on how pathetic you were. Indeed you were a trained killer, amazing at martial arts too but Duncan knew against him you stood no chance.

Due to the diligence of your work and mission, Duncan never really focused on your features.

Your challenge nearly caused him to pick you up and toss you on the damn floor. Duncan raised his hand — fingers opening to wrap around your throat. The inside of his fingers brushed across your throat and you swallowed tightly, waiting for him to act out his aggression.

Duncan’s hand fell.

Your brow raised at his defeat. “Fine but you better keep at your side. If I see a damn leg or arm of yours on my side, you best believe I'm choppin’ it off.”

You dismissed him with your hand and Duncan’s hand formed into a fist. He really wanted to teach you a lesson. Hating how you paraded around Damocles like you were the only one, an egoistic but skilled assasian.

Just for the sake of the mission, Duncan let it go.

He settled on the bed on one side and watched you take out your own clothes from the duffle bag, making your way to the bathroom. In your hand were some panties and a loose, button up shirt. It was what you'd managed to pack in a hurry when you were told about your mission with Duncan.

Honestly, you sort of looked up to him.

No one was as heavily respected in Damocles as he was.

The Black Kaiser.

Aim perfect and sharp. He knew so many ways to discard the enemy and you'd only witnessed a few of them on this mission. It filled you with unbridled excitement when you'd finally landed yourself with him.

Your shower was relaxing. Warm water soothing all your strained muscles — the combat sure taking its toll on you. Slow hands caressing the skin, ridding of it any dirt that lingered. After done shampooing your hair and washing your body, you dried yourself and changed into your clothes.

The outfit was sultry to say the least but you knew Duncan was a man who would never find you attractive.

You knew of his irritation and annoyance aimed at you. It was honestly adorable at times how he got pissed, finding joy in pushing at his buttons.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, Duncan’s head snapped into your direction and his expression hardened. There you sauntered towards the bed with bare thighs and plush breasts peeking out from within the confines of your shirt.

He swallowed, his adjustment of himself not slipping past you.

You laid down on the bed and let out a sigh, finally finding peace. A good night’s rest was surely needed and this bed could provide it all. As you shifted to find a comfortable position, your shirt rose up in the friction exposing the black lining of your panties.

Duncan caught a glimpse of it.

His eyes darkening.

“Could've worn something warmer.” Duncan said, not looking at you. A scowl made its way across your face as you sat up, body strength on your palms. Leaning forward made your loose shirt fall by your sides, cleavage revealed.

“You got a problem with everything, old man.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Is that your only retort? Calling me old?” He snapped, staring at you. For a moment his gaze lingered to your lips and then back up to your face. Eyes filled to the brim with frustration and something – dark too. Lust or maybe anger.

“Are you not old? I bet you can't even get it up anymore.” You chuckled and that seemed to have crossed the line. Duncan reached for you, hand entangling in your hair. You felt him tug on the roots and pull you closer, face only a mere inches away from yours.

Your breath hitched.

Fighting him right now could get really dirty and you wanted to see how far Duncan was willing to go. His action only working to entice you. “You really should watch your damn mouth, little girl. I don't take nicely to such disrespect.”

You let out a chuckle. “Accept it. You cannot get it up, old man.”

Duncan’s fist tightened, nostrils flaring at your impolite words. You stared at him, your tongue slithering out like an enticing snake and running across the plump of your lips in an attempt to seduce him. “Or can you? I've heard older men fuck better. Is that true, Duncan?”

Duncan growled.

He tugged you down, to between his legs. Duncan nuzzled your face against the tent in his trousers. His bulge protruding as he shoved your face against it. “Does that look like I can't get it up, little girl?”

You shook your head slowly, hands hastily moving to pull down his trousers, paired with his briefs. His cock sprung out, nearly hitting you in the face and a soft gasp escaped your lips. It was big — fucking massive and you hadn't expected a man of Duncan's age to have such a big cock. Precum sheened over his tip.

It was thick and you knew the pain of the stretch inside you would be delicious. Veins ran from its base, disappearing underneath the pink tip. Your mouth watered at the sight, fingers gently wrapping around the girth.

A sweet hiss fell from Duncan’s lips.

You parted your lips and pushed out your tongue, running it in little licks over his tip, managing to taste his salty precum. Duncan’s breath grew heavier along each lick — chest moving in a slow rhythm.

His fingers still drowned in your hair. Duncan tugged harder, an indication for you to pick up. So you did, wrapping your lips around his tip and sucking it in, taking his fat cock all the way into your tight mouth until it had fully disappeared. You could feel it slip past the little uvula hanging in the air of your mouth, the warm flesh feeling like embers over your tongue.

“Jesus, you're pretty good at taking a cock.”

A giggle almost slipped — you attempted to breath through your nose and salvated around his throbbing dick. Your eyes met Duncan’s drowsy ones and as you whimpered, the vibrations from your throat shot straight through his abdomen.

His hands guided down your head furthermore, burying your nose into his neatly trimmed pubic hair.

Duncan pulled you up, only to slam his cock back inside your mouth. A repetitive action, his thighs shaking and flexing whenever the wetness and constriction of your throat welcomed him. Panting like a hungry beast, he fucked himself into your mouth.

Hips snapping up in desperate thrusts to gain his release.

“Good little girl. This is what your mouth is made for—what it's supposed to do.” He grunted when your struggles began in the form of small hands lightly punching at his thick thighs. “You're only a cocksucking little bitch.”

Tears stung your eyes from how horribly you gagged all over him. His tip repeatedly hitting the back of your throat while moaning out loud. Divulging his pleasure to the people outside the hotel room.

Duncan loved the way you gagged around his cock. Tears sitting prettily in your beautiful eyes and he couldn't help but feel himself come near at the sight of you, this weak and pathetic underneath him. If he'd known sharing a bed would lead to this, the man would've given up in one single breath.

“Fuck—fuck. I'm close, I'm so fuckin’ close, my little girl. Keep suckin’ my cock like that, like the filthy bitch you are.” Duncan was vocal.

That was for sure and you enjoyed every bit of it.

After fucking your mouth for quite some time, Duncan finally shot loads of warm fluid down your throat. You struggled, kicking and thrashing everywhere but he didn't let go. He only continued to ride out his orgasm, feeling his own cock lubing up in the process of fucking his cum down your throat.

When he let you go, you promptly pulled back with a loud gasp. A sharp intake of oxygen. Cum and saliva dribbling in rivulets down your chin, tears wetting your cheeks. Duncan watched as your tits rose up and down, bouncing down slightly whenever you dragged in air.

Your eyes widened when you saw how Duncan’s soft cock suddenly became hard again, rising up. Curved and strong — tip caressing his abdomen. It was embarrassing for you because you'd called him out for not being able to get it up, here he was. In his late fifties, ready to fuck you dumb.

“Fuck you lookin’ at? Hop on.”

Your pussy throbbed. An insatiable ache that only his delicious cock could satisfy. You tossed one leg over his waist, while holding his cock with your hand. Aligning it at your hole, you finally sunk down on it. Duncan and you groaned in unison.

Feeling his cock enter you was such an indecipherable feeling. He filled you all the way, his tip reaching your womb almost. You placed both your palms over his chest, running your nails into the grey and black hair on his chest. Your lips parted, eyes rolled as you fully consumed him.

“Such a hungry fuckin’ pussy you've got. Taking me all the way in.” Duncan raised his hand and smacked your ass. “Cmon, move now.”

You obliged — beginning to grind your hips. In a slow back and forth rhythm. Duncan’s head was thrown back, pressed into the headboard while both his hands settled at your hips. Helping you grind down on his cock. You didn't even want to move, that's how much you fucking relished in him filling you up but then he lifted you, slamming you back down on his cock.

“Yeah, just like that.” He growled when you started to slide up and down. Hopping like a damn bunny in heat, feeling his veiny thick cock rub at your sensitive walls. Your whines were loud and prominent through the room as you held tightly onto his broad shoulders.

Lips agape and hair wet from the shower, it made you appear ten times prettier than you were. Duncan’s cock only hardened more, if possible inside you. The tremor in your whole frame was slowly becoming known to him and he scoffed, a breathty grunt leaving his lips. “Can't even fuck yourself on my cock and you have the audacity to speak to me with disrespect.”

“I'm sorry,” came a whimper from you. Nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, dragging them down into tiny slits.

Duncan helped you ride him, both his hands tugging at the flesh of your rear. He drove himself into you, in and out, in a fast rhythm. It was all too hot. Your body felt like it was boiling up and Duncan’s hands moved up to hold your breasts, thumbs flicking the nipples.

Dark brows furrowed and lips fallen apart, he let out aggressive grunts like some hounddog that couldn't have enough of you. “Pathetic whore. Jus’ a pathetic little whore who needed to be fucked. If—fuck,” he grunted, balls throbbing. “If you craved a cock this badly, you could've said so.”

Your eyes squeezed shut and walls gripped him like a vice. Duncan leaned forward and bit down on your shoulder, teeth digging into the skin hard enough to draw blood. He continued making you ride him, loving the way your tits bounced in his hands. A feeling driving him delirious.

The sound of skin against skin grew.

A languorous heat spread in your lower stomach. An indicator of your upcoming orgasm. Duncan’s hands kept playing with your soft mounds — his teeth littering bite marks at where your neck and shoulder became one and the way his hammered his cock inside your cunt was enough to push you over the edge.

Your arms flew to his shoulders, holding him tightly. “Duncan, ‘m gonna cum. ‘m so close, please.”

He looked up at you, loving the warmth you produced when you'd clung onto him like a koala to a tree. He pressed his lips over yours, something he himself was in shock at. His teeth tugged at your lower lip, sucking on it and as the kiss warmed, so did your cunt.

Duncan groaned as you slammed down on his cock repeatedly. A strong and soul chilling orgasm tearing through you. Eyes rolling back to your head and whimpers of sensitivity echoing in the room. He held you tightly as you came, enjoying how your little frame suffered from convulsions under his hold.

Duncan didn't give you a chance to even register your climax. He'd already began thrusting up your cunt, arms wrapped around your waist in a bone crushing hold. “Wait—wait! I still— oh my god.”

He didn't let you relax.

After all he too needed to cum.

Duncan could feel the throbbing sensation in his balls and the pulsating of his fat cock inside you. With a few, harsh strokes delivered inside your pussy, he released himself and your head buried in his neck from the feeling of being filled to the brim. His hot cum shot out, rope by rope, decorating the gummy walls of your pussy.

You could feel all of it.

Heightened sensitivity.

Your body went limp over his, leisurely dropping and Duncan held you. Both of you panted like wild animals who'd just got done finishing their preys. Your breathing was uneven and your throat was parched. Duncan heaved out, his low groans sending waves of sparks to your aching cunt again.

Thick fingers running up and down your bare back, with his other hand he caressed your hair. He wasn't rough when it came to sex but at times he felt like destroying your cunt whenever you'd speak to him in that stuck up, vicious little tone.

Duncan’s hand that played with your hair suddenly tightened, fingers pulling on the soft locks and you whimpered.

You were thrown off his lap on the bed. Appalled at his actions, you turned to look at him but Duncan only pressed your head further into the bed with his large hand. His other hand pulled your lower body, bending your knees.

“Wh-What are you doing?” You gasped out, the question coming out muffled.

Duncan let out a chuckle. “You thought we were done, hm? There ain't no way we're done with one round, little girl.”

You couldn't even resist as Duncan sunk his cock into you. Back arching and spine curving, a muffled whine of need and satisfaction echoing. He held you down as he thoroughly fucked you, his hips colliding with yours. Balls hitting the swollen stripe of your cunt.

“Look at you.” His bated breath increased your libido, as you were also speechless at his. Duncan was still ready to go on meanwhile you were struggling with staying still. Tired and drained from all his harsh strokes.

His grip on your hair tightened as he pulled you up to his chest, locking you firmly. Duncan pulled out then pushed right back into you, his tip reaching your womb. A small bulge forming on your stomach everytime he slammed back into you. Tears of overstimulation dropped like pearls on your face and Duncan moaned in your ear.

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He praised.

Your walls clenched.

Duncan hissed and felt his strokes become steady, dragging across your spongy walls to feel them. Then he climaxed inside you, filling you up again once more. This time his cum dripped out of you, making a mess on his own cock and your thighs. Pussy glistening from the slick, cum and your own climax.

Duncan pulled out and pushed you back down on the bed.

He also collapsed next to you.

Chest rising up and down, breath a broken rhythm. You sniffled into the pillows, thighs shivering the overstimulation you'd suffered at the hands of Duncan. He wasn't as cruel as you'd depicted him to be. Duncan reached for you, pulling you closer to him and wrapping an arm around your waist.

His large arm covering the expanse of your chest.

“Sorry, little girl. You piss me off a lot.” He whispered and you flipped to face him, burying your face in his chest. “And I'll continue to piss you off.”

Despite the fact that he'd pretty much blown your back out twice, you still held on to your defiant traits. He let out a laugh, reaching over to grab a cigarette and light it up.

Dragging in a smoke, he brought the cigarette to your lips and your parted them, allowing him to settle it between them. You pursued his actions and released the smoke through your nostrils.

“That feels good.”

Duncan smiled. “Better than my cock?”

“Oh shut up.”

#duncan vizla smut #duncan vizla #duncan polar #polar fanfic #polar smut #mads mikkelsen #mads mikkelsen smut #duncan oneshot #mads mikkelsen fanfic #Duncan vizla x reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter smut

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mariahcarreyyy · 1 year ago

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i hear u are looking for landoscar x reader smut ideas, and i raise you oscar domming tf out of lando and reader!!

CAUGHT ORANGE-HANDED, ln4 [+ op81 ]

pairing lando norris x fem!reader x oscar piastri

plot oscar catches you and lando touching each other without permission

wc 2.6k

warning(s) smut 18+, dry humping, brat!lando and brat!reader, brat-tamer!oscar 😉, caught in the act, male masturbation, cock denial (?), orgasm control, cumming in pants, lan and reader r obsessed with oscar's cock, mutual oral sex (m!recieving), lando gets a facial😵‍💫, degradation kink (slut & brat), and lots of swearing

“I'm home!” Oscar’s voice echoes along the long, carpeted hallway of his shared hotel room.

He frowns at the response, or lack thereof. Shrugging his midnight blue puffer jacket off his shoulder, the younger Mclaren driver toes out of his shoes and scopes out the miniature living room in search of his two lovers.

When he reaches the end of the hall, he’d half-expected you and Lando to be lazily splayed against the couch, legs entangled with one another while watching your latest Netflix obsession.

But you two aren't.

Oscar had come ‘home’ aggravated and sweaty and in some serious need of a long, warm cuddle with the two people he knows he could unconditionally count on, and you two aren't fucking here.

He lifts his hand to thread his fingers through his hair, tugging on it out of frustration, before pulling out his phone to text, Where are you?, to either one of you.

And then he ascertains his answer without needing to ask.

A string of desperate moans and whines, a man’s and a woman’s, slide through the cracks of his bedroom door and slowly fill the air around him. Oscar scoffs; they really can’t spend a second together without needing their cocks wet and pussy stuffed to the brim, huh?

Somewhere amidst the non-existent space between your covered, wet pussy and the bulge in Lando’s tight boxers, the fear of Oscar catching you looms over the lust-filled haze enveloping the room.

“Osc’s s'posed to be on his way, baby,” Lando manages to gasp out like he wants you to stop, but his hands’ metal grip on your waist never falters and his green eyes never leave yours.

It was a weak warning; Lando was aware, but the sight of you on top of him, steadying yourself with your palms flat against his stomach to move your hips fervently against his crotch—fuck, it made him even weaker.

You hum nonchalantly in response, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his trapped cock nudges at your neglected clit again, “Don’t care, need you, Lan.”

The curly-haired boy groans at that, planting his feet on the bed to meet your languid movements. The friction was so much and still so little, so far from what you two truly wanted.

“Fuck, me neither.”

When you double over and pucker your lips slightly above Lando’s, he can’t help but grin into the kiss. It’s desperate, laced with unimaginable hornyness and clashing teeth, and Lando can’t fucking stop.

“Pathetic, honestly, y’sluts couldn’t even wait a couple hours for me?”

You gasp into your boyfriend's lips, halting every one of your movements (much to the displeasure of the stirring pit in your lower stomach). Lando pinches your waist, resulting in you scrambling to sit upright and crane your head back to look at a very beautiful, very angry-looking Australian standing in the doorway.

“Hiya,” Lan smirks mischievously at the muscular frame of his boyfriend behind you, lifting his head slightly to do so.

You mentally palm your forehead.

“Hiya?” Oscar furrows his brows, advancing towards the edge of the bed. “That all you got f’me? C’mon, Lan, you wanna come tonight or not?”

Your eyes roll back, this time in annoyance rather than pleasure. “Knock it off, Oscar, it’s not that big of a deal. We were horny, so what?”

Oscar’s big brown eyes meet yours for the first time since he’d arrived, and you fight the urge to crawl in a hole and die because, judging by his glare, he’d murder you instead. The paler boy raises a questioning brow, his eyes flitting between you and Lando, never leaving your curious glances when he begins ripping every piece of clothing adorning his body off.

And fuck, his body was something to gawk at. Oscar’s abs are still tense and sweaty from the workout his trainer put him through earlier, but the real sight for sore eyes was his thick, hardening dick between his even thicker thighs.

Evident with the hopeless roll of Lando’s hips, Oscar had the same effect on him as well.

“Oscahhh, c’mere,” the man underneath you demands, one of his big palms leaving your waist to make grabby hands at the paler man standing beside you.

Much to your surprise, Oscar complies. Big, stoic, text-book-dom Oscar Piastri fucking crawls up the mattress from behind you—his breath tickles your neck and a pathetic whimper slips from your lips—reaches over your shoulder to tug Lando up forcefully from his hair and starts noisily kissing him.

Right over your shoulder, beside your face.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. They had no right to look that good, like they were carefully sculpted by the Greek gods themselves, made for each other. Made for you, too.

Lando presses himself impossibly closer to Oscar's lips, his chest flush against your perky tits and Oscar’s against your arched back—you are sandwiched between them, and it does nothing to help the growing dampness on your panties.

A minute passes. Somehow, neither of them has lost their breath, and you want to absolutely sob because the ache between your thighs is screaming for relief. Huffing at the lack of attention, you grind your hips: first, downward against Lando, and then, grinding your ass against Osc’s heavy cock.

“Oscar, come on!" You whine, tilting your head back to bury it in the crook of his neck.

Like a light switch flipped, Oscar rips his tongue out of Lando’s mouth and nudges his shoulder to push you off of him before whispering hotly, “It’s not that big of a deal, y/n.”

There it was. The big, stoic, text-book dom places his hands under Lando’s on your hips, squeezing painfully at the itchy lace of your panties. Also making you so fucking horny.

“Osc, c’mon, y’know she didn’t mean it li-,” Lando’s words die in his throat at the sharp glare Oscar shot at him.

“A slut defending a slut? Hm, nothing’s changed, I see." Oscar trails his palms up the sides of your frame, passing over Lando’s darker hand as he continues. “I really don’t get why you guys didn’t just wait for me, would've given one of you m’cock.”

You and Lando whine in unison, and it's music to Oscar’s fucking ears.

Jutting your bottom lip out, you counter, “You still can, Osc.”

Oscar's lips twitch upwards, grabbing Lando’s hand and placing his index and thumb on your tits, tweaking at the nub through Lando’s long fingers. A needy moan escapes your lips, grinding on Lando’s covered dick and shit, you need it now.

Your fingers glide downward through the hardness of Lando’s abs, tugging desperately at the hem of his boxers.

Oscar tuts disapprovingly, dropping Lando’s hand from your tits—you and the pleasure pooling in your stomach whine in protest—before ordering, “Y’two can grind on each other till you come, but the underwear stays on.”

Lando pouts, his hands moving up to palm your hardened nipples, flicking at the nub, and talks to Oscar behind you like you aren't writhing on his lap.

“Lan,” you gasp when his squeezes escalate faster and rougher, the hint of pain overshadowed by the pleasure coursing through your body.

They both ignore you.

“Osc, please,” Lando begs, helpless at this point, tears brimming at his waterline because, my god, his boxers were about to fucking rip open at the sheer size of his hard cock.

You want it stuffed inside you so bad.

You can’t see it, but you feel like you can when Oscar grins behind you, pulling his heated body away from the curve of your back and crawling up to the bedpost beside Lan.

Now, you could see both of their faces clearly: horny, hot, and flushed. The younger driver places one arm behind his head, his bicep bulging to the size of your head, while the other grips at the base of his throbbing cock.

Holy shit, your panties were absolutely soaked, seeping through their seams and wiping the slick of your pussy onto Lando’s boxers.

“C’mon,” Oscar urges, lazily stroking his precum around the length of his cock. “I wanna watch.”

Lando lets out a low groan before his hands leave your tortured tits to cup your cheeks and press his lips against yours. It was messy and a bit awkward, and you couldn’t care less. When Lando slides his crotch against the dampness of your underwear, you're powerless to resist a loud moan.

“Fuck,” you whine against his pillowy lips, meeting Lando’s desperate ruts and arching your back when the head of his cock nudged at your swollen clit.

When you detach from him for air and glance at Oscar, you finally register the loud wetness of him fucking his dick into the circle of his fingers. And shit, the thought of him getting off on the sight of you and Lando desperately humping each other makes you way hornier than it should.

“Fuck, baby,” Lando moans, eyebrows furrowed, and mouth caught in a permanent ‘o’. “Y’so good, so good, y/n, fuck, I’m close.”

You whimper, head hazy at the sound of the three of you getting off to one another, and your thighs burn at the erratic movements of your hips. That doesn't deter your hips from moving frantically as you get drunk on Lando’s mewls and Oscar’s raspy groans.

So, when Lan’s rugged fingertips brush against your sensitive nipples once more, you can’t help yourself when it throws you off the edge; your back arches almost uncomfortably with your head thrown back and bottom lip between your teeth, filling the room with a symphony of high-pitched moans.

“Shit, shit, shit." Lando throws his head back against the pillow, and you bend to place your wet lips against his wide neck.

You nibble, kiss, and suck the canvas of his neck, muffling the sound of your overstimulated moans as Lando chases his high against you.

“Fuckk, you two’re so fucking hot,” Oscar groans, hastily sitting up on his calves to jerk his dick off beside Lando’s face. Lan instinctively opens his mouth, tongue poking out slightly and hips stuttering, when Oscar paints his face with beads of milky cum.

Naturally, you whimper—both at the sight of your boyfriends and the feel of Lando’s boxers dampening more when the mix of his own cum and yours stain the cotton.

Fuck, you'd be inexplicably horny right now if you hadn't just come. Oscar’s still kneeling beside Lando, frozen and wide-eyed and panting for air. And, even after reaching his high, Lando’s hips slow but do not stop from under you, like he can’t fucking help but grind against you.

The last thing your eyes registered before falling pliant against your boyfriend's chest was Oscar gathering his cum on Lando’s face with his thumb. Lando’s lips part, and he obediently sucks on Oscar’s thumb with a muffled moan.

You could die happily like this, you think, sinking further into the bed when the warmth of both your lovers arms encircles your frame.

“You two still aren’t getting my cock for a week, by the way, serves you brats right.”

And Lando, because he can't take a fucking hint, grins at Oscar and asks, "Can I suck you off?"

You start, "Lan, you dumbass-"

"M'kay," Oscar cuts you off, retracting his arm from around your waist and scooching up the bed to lay his head on the bedpost.

The grin etched onto Lando's face only widens, his big hands hauling you off of him before crawling into the V of his boyfriend's legs. Oscar, despite having come a few short minutes ago, is already half-hardened at the sight of Lando gazing dumbly at his cock.

"Desperate much?" you coo from beside him, although you too felt the pit in your stomach stirring again.

Not so pleased, Oscar extends his arm to the space between his legs and motions you towards Lando. You don't blink before obeying him. In fact, if it meant touching or feeling his cock in any way, shape, or form, you think you'd do anything he'd ask of you right now.

You mimic Lando's position: lying down beside him on your chest with your face millimetres away from Oscar's dick. A familiar fire courses through your abdomen as Oscar shoves his hands into your and Lando's locks.

"How 'bout whoever sucks me off best gets my cock, hm?" Oscar says it like a question, but you and Lando know better than to reply. "That sound good for you brats?"

The two faces behind his cock nod frantically with a newborn competitive glint in their eyes. At the confirmation, Oscar wastes not a second before tugging on Lando's roots to wrap the elders' lips around the head of his cock.

You bite your bottom lip, rubbing your thighs to try and ease your pussy screaming for attention—it does fuck all. Oscar has his head thrown back, silent moans escaping his parted lips as his boyfriend lapped at the underside of his length.

"Shit, Lan, just like that, fuck," his hips buck uncontrollably, lifting Lando's head off his cock—who only whined at the loss—and pulling you down onto him instead.

With a slight jerk of your head, your hot mouth closes around his cock, hollowing out your cheeks to suck more of him. You swallow the gag threatening to leave your mouth when his length hits the back of your throat, the hand on your hair clenching painfully but oh-so-beautifully.

Oscar's groans bounce off the walls, nearly overpowered by the lewd slurps and gags from his cock in your mouth, "Holy shit, oh fuck, Lan, fuck, yes, yes."

Your brows furrow, gazing up at Oscar's fucked-out face, before the realization that Lando had managed to sneak a hand around the base of Oscar's cock, mouthing desperately at his balls, dawns on you.

You pull off Oscar with a cough. "Lan, fuck off, j's lemme have this, Jesus."

With a fond mix of a chuckle and a moan, Oscar hesitantly bats Lando's hands and mouth off of him, motioning for you to continue. So, you do. You clasp your fingers around the parts of Oscar's cock that your throat couldn't reach and cup his balls with your other hand, bobbing your head mercilessly up and down his length.

Lando whines (he doesn't know if he wants to be Oscar or you, but he pouts anyway), and you continue absolutely wrecking Oscar.

"You're so good, y/n, fuck! So good, so," Oscar groans, his chest rising and falling rapidly; his sweaty abs contracted ethereally, one of the few indications that he was close.

Humming around his cock, you pull off reluctantly for breath, and Lando, that sly bastard, takes it as his cue to replace you. Your throats' fucked raw and the exhausted flush on your face trails over your entire body, so you tiredly rest your forehead on Oscar's inner thigh, occasionally kissing and mouthing at the flesh.

Oscar's hand leaves your hair and places both of his palms on Lando's bobbing head, fucking up once, twice into his boyfriend's throat before groaning loudly, "Fuck, shit, holy shit, I'm coming, I'm co-."

Ropes of hot cum dribble down Lando's chin when he hauls himself off of Oscar's length, and you have to resist the urge to lick it clean. A loud exhale leaves Oscar's lips, his dick slowly softening and his hand returning to the top of your head to stroke your hair fondly.

"So?" you question, your voice raspy and lust-filled.

"Lando won," the younger man grins hazily, chuckling when Lando lets out a proud 'hmmph' directed at you.

You gasp, "Liar!"

"Y'can't tell the guy who just came from my mouth a liar, baby," Lando quips, nudging your shoulder with his.

"I can when he's a liar," you mutter bitterly before your eyes light up. "I call for a rematch!"

authors notes thank you @ashiekins ur request was also inspo for this fic and to @cafekitsune + @saradika for the dividers xx

lemme know how you liked this story or give me some feedback in the comments or my inbox! 💬🌷

taglist @lorssworld @multifandomwhore-003 @lewislcver @millinorrizz @starz4me1 @uniquesludgeoperabonk @cinnamongirlontv @avngrsz @sydneyxposts @annahowardsworld @eternally-writing-main @leeangelis @i-wish-this-was-me @elisim @forza-dolce @serenity-contreras @tiredallthetimex @golden-flora @landosgirl @beyond-the-ashes @simple-soul-searcher @formulahuh @piastrification @topguncultleader @peachyplumsss @jenniferrvsesi @lonely92world @ashes2ashesweallfall @d4mi3nn @babyblue-99s-blog @poppyr22ussell @crimeshowjunkie @simpingcorner @aexitizen-ln4 @danielmarie @2412kcal2000 @eddiesbitch83 @sigistarkstrom @cassielikereading @tsukishimawhore

p.s reblogs and likes are always appreciated 💕💕

2K notes · View notes

hisfavegirl · 4 months ago

Note

Hey girl, I love your HOTD reactions sm! What about like how they would react if you did a VS or Skims collab for a Valentine’s day set or something??

HOTD Characters Reaction To Your Campaign With Skims

Aegon was in the middle of scrolling through his phone, lazily lounging on the couch when his screen suddenly froze.

The SKIMS Valentine’s Day campaign.

Your face. Your body. Draped in lingerie so sheer it might as well be a second skin. Red silk, lace, curves accentuated perfectly—a vision of absolute sin. The shot that made his blood boil the most?

You, on a plush pink bed, biting your lip, fingers tangled in your hair—wearing nothing but a dangerously tiny bra and lace garters. The caption?

“Indulge yourself this Valentine’s Day. ❤️ #SKIMSLove”

The likes and comments were flooding in, men thirsting over you in real-time:

“THIS is what I want for Valentine’s Day.”

“Bro, she’s actually unreal.”

“Forget flowers, I’m sending divorce papers to my wife.”

“I just know her man is LOSING HIS MIND.”

Yeah. He was.

Aegon shot up, phone clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. His jaw? Tight. His eyes? Dark. His entire body radiated possessiveness, his breath coming out in ragged bursts.

His first instinct? Call you. Right. Now. But then he thought—No. No, you fucking knew what you were doing. Posting this without telling him? Letting the entire world drool over you while he was just supposed to sit there and take it?

His next move? Damage control.

The internet absolutely lost its mind.

The moment Aegon dropped the video on his Instagram story, everything went insane.

The clip was short but devastating—you, bent over his bed, skin flushed, your bare back marked with his claim, trembling, moaning his name like a prayer, wrecked beyond comprehension. Aegon’s hand came into view, gripping your waist, his voice low and smug, whispering,

“Didn’t think I’d let that SKIMS stunt slide, did you, baby?”

The internet? BROKE.

Twitter/X Exploded:

“THIS MAN JUST ENDED THE ENTIRE MALE POPULATION WTF”

“Aegon Targaryen is the pettiest, most unhinged man alive and I respect it.”

“She posted SKIMS, he posted HER. This is WAR.”

“HOW is this allowed on Instagram? WHO reported it? WHOEVER YOU ARE, WE FIGHT AT DAWN.”

“Bro turned Valentine’s Day into a public execution.”

Instagram Comments on His Last Post:

“Sir. Some of us are SINGLE.”

“That’s it. I’m deleting my boyfriend.”

“Y’all seeing her LEGS SHAKING??? Nah this man is different.”

“I’m not okay. I will never be okay.”

“We were thirsting over her SKIMS shoot and Aegon said ‘bet.’”

TikTok Reactions:

POV edits of Aegon with captions like “When your man reminds the world who you belong to 😵‍💫🔥”

Audio clips of “I want what they have” over slow-mo replays of the video

Girls fake crying into the camera with captions like “Me realizing I’ll never be this girl”

Reddit Threads:

r/popculturegossip

“Aegon Targaryen just HARD LAUNCHED his revenge arc, and I’ve never felt so single.”

“This is the most unhinged flex of all time, and I need therapy.”

“So we all agree he’s the pettiest man alive, right?"

Instagram eventually took the video down—but it was too late. Screenshots, edits, and memes had already flooded the internet. Aegon had won the war, and the internet was never recovering.

The second Aemond saw the photos—you, draped in delicate lace, barely covered, staring into the camera with that knowing, sultry look—his jaw clenched so tight it could snap.

His phone nearly cracked in his grip as he scrolled through the thousands of comments under the post:

“Mother is mothering.”

“Aemond is officially the luckiest man alive.”

“The male species has been defeated. We are but peasants.”

“You’re telling me this woman goes home to HIM??? Jail.”

A deep, dark chuckle left his lips—but it wasn’t amusement. It was pure, seething possession.

His eye twitched, his breathing heavy as he saw the likes flooding in—from men. From verified blue checks. From random nobodies who had no business looking at you like that.

“The fuck is this, darling?” His voice was deadly calm, but the way he stalked toward you, phone in hand, told you everything.

“A campaign.” You blinked at him, innocent. “For SKIMS.”

“A fucking campaign?” He scoffed, throwing his phone onto the table as he cornered you. “So that’s what we’re doing now? Letting every goddamn man on the internet see what’s MINE?”

He was pissed. Jealous. Possessive. His fingers traced up your arm, then gripped your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“Tell me, did you enjoy it?” His voice dropped lower, dangerously soft. “Did you like having them all drooling over you?”

His eye burned into you, jaw tight as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Because now you’re going to remind them who you belong to.”

Aemond never lost control—but tonight? You were in for it.

The second Aemond posted the video, the internet broke.

It wasn’t just a thirst trap. It was a declaration. A warning. A final nail in the coffin for every man who thought they had a chance.

The clip was grainy, filmed through the dim light of his bedroom—his signature aesthetic. You were wrecked on his bed, wrists bound, body shaking, barely able to form a word except his name—moaned like a prayer, like a confession.

And Aemond? His signature smirk could be heard in his voice when he murmured:

“This is what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

Instagram Exploded :

“IS THIS EVEN ALLOWED???”

“So we’re just posting full-course MEALS now????”

“The way she’s literally trembling… yeah, I lost.”

"‘This is what happens when you forget who you belong to’ BRO CAN WE BREATHE???”

“The SKIMS campaign was for US. This? This was for HIM.”

“Aemond said, ‘You wanna model lingerie? Fine. Now model MY BED.’”

“The way she’s just a mess for him… If my man doesn’t love me like this, I DON’T WANT IT.”

Within minutes, Twitter (X) was on fire.

#AemondTargaryen

#SheBelongsToHim

#TiedUpForAemond

#OneEyedKing

Trending. Everywhere.

TWITTER/X MELTDOWN:

“I HAVEN’T EVEN RECOVERED FROM HER SKIMS SHOOT AND NOW THIS????”

“This man really said ‘revenge’ and ENDED US ALL.”

"Aemond Targaryen is a MENACE. I hate him. (I’m lying. I love him.)”

“THIS IS THE MOST POSSESSIVE, FILTHY, UNHINGED, HOTTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN. HELP ME.”

TIKTOK COMMENTS UNDER THE VIDEO:

Pinned by Aemond Targaryen : “Revenge is sweet, baby."

“My FBI agent just logged out. This is TOO MUCH.”

“This is NOT just a revenge post—THIS IS A WARNING.”

“Imagine posting a SKIMS campaign and your man drops THIS as a response… She WINS.”

“Her Skims photos were for US. Aemond’s revenge was for HIM.”

Meanwhile, Aemond? He just sat back, smirking at his phone as he watched the world come to terms with what they already knew.

You were his. And there was no escaping it.

Jace never had an issue with you modeling. Until now.

He was in a meeting when his phone started blowing up. At first, he ignored it—until Aegon sent him a link with nothing but:

“LMAO. You good, bro?”

Frowning, Jace clicked.

And there you were.

Draped in red lace. Skin glowing. Eyes hooded. Posing in a way that had every man on the planet foaming at the mouth. The SKIMS Valentine’s campaign had dropped, and you were the star.

The moment he saw the lingerie—saw the way your body looked in it—his jaw locked so tight it could crack.

And then he saw the comments.

“I just KNOW Jace is punching the air rn.”

“She’s too fine. If he won’t wife her, I WILL.”

“Jace, be so serious… How does it feel to lose?”

“Why does she look single in these photos???”

“Jace, if you fumble, I’m RIGHT HERE.”

The moment the meeting ended, Jace stormed out of the office, grabbing his phone and calling you immediately.

You picked up, cheerful—which only pissed him off more.

“You having fun?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You giggled. “Jacey, baby, did you see the campaign?”

“Oh, I saw it. So did the rest of the fucking world.”

You hummed, unbothered. “And?”

Jace ran a hand through his curls, breathing hard. He could see the photos in his mind—how every man was lusting over you.

His girl.

And the worst part?

You knew exactly what you were doing.

“And,” he growled, “you better be home when I get there.”

“Why?” you teased, voice all sweetness and sin.

Jace let out a dark chuckle. “So I can remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

One minute, people were thirsting over your SKIMS campaign, and the next?

Jace dropped a bomb.

A video.

A very explicit video.

You, bare, ruined, trembling on his bed. Voice completely gone. Every breath ragged. Body shaking violently. Jace’s hand on your ass, smacking every time you tried to move away. His voice? Dark. Dangerous. Possessive.

“Was it worth it, baby? Hm? Letting the whole world see you like that? Look at you now—can’t even talk, can’t even move. Next time you wanna tease me, remember who the fuck you belong to.”

And his caption? Head Shot.

“Since y’all were so thirsty for her SKIMS campaign, here’s what happened after. Enjoy.”

Instagram Comments :

“JACE, WTF IS THIS? I CAN’T BREATHE.”

“He saw the SKIMS campaign and said ‘bet.’”

“NAH, THIS IS BIBLICAL. HER VOICE? GONE. BODY? FINISHED. JACE?? LAUGHING IN HER EAR?”

“This man took it PERSONAL LMFAO.”

“I ain’t never seen a man HUMBLED this fast 😭”

“THE WAY HE’S WHISPERING TO HER AND HIS HAND?? Y’ALL. I NEED HOLY WATER.”

“Her body shaking and his palm smacking down… Yeah. Yeah. That’s a man.”

“Jace saw the SKIMS campaign and said ‘MY GIRL. MINE.’”

“You just KNOW he was PISSED when he saw those lingerie pics 😭.”

“She went from SKIMS model to Jace’s favorite meal real fast.”

“THE WHOLE VIDEO IS JUST HIM RUINING HER LIFE AND HER LETTING HIM 😭.”

“I need everyone involved in this video ARRESTED.”

“Bro uploaded this like a warning. Like, ‘you thought you were single in those photos? Here’s your reminder.’”

“HE REALLY POSTED THIS AS REVENGE FOR SKIMS. THIS IS A POWER MOVE.”

TWITTER REACTIONS : Trending Topics:

#JaceVelaryon

#JusticeForHerVoice

#SKIMSRevenge

#IsSheAlive??

Comments :

“Jace is actually insane for posting this. HER BODY IS SHAKING. HER VOICE IS GONE. AND HE’S JUST THERE, WHISPERING AND LAUGHING??? HELLO???”

“You KNOW he was mad about SKIMS cause why is this video a whole RESPONSE??? 😭”

“If my man doesn’t ruin me like this after I piss him off, I don’t want him.”

“Jace: ‘You wanna do a lingerie campaign and let men thirst over you? Cool. But they’re gonna watch you break for ME.’”

“Jace really saw those SKIMS pics, picked up his phone, and said: ‘hold my beer.’”

“THAT MAN POSTED A WHOLE MOVIE. AMAZON PRIME COULD NEVER."

TIKTOK REACTIONS: Viral TikTok Caption

“POV: Jace Velaryon took his SKIMS revenge to another level and now we’re all screaming, crying, throwing up.”

Sound: Cardi B screaming “WHAT WAS THE REASON?!”

“Y’all, Jace didn’t just claim his girl. He PLANTED HIS FLAG.”

“Her legs shaking and him laughing about it…? Yeah. I need therapy.”

“Jace’s hand on her ass, the way she arched, the way he smacked down??? I HAVE NEVER KNOWN PEACE.”

FINAL VERDICT:

The internet is absolutely UNWELL. Jace won. You? Finished. The SKIMS campaign? Irrelevant.

The moment Daemon sees the SKIMS campaign, his entire demeanor shifts. He had been lounging in his office, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone—until your face, your body, wrapped in delicate lace, fills his screen. His jaw clenches, his grip on the phone tightening as he watches you pose effortlessly, seductive and stunning, every inch of you made to be worshipped.

And so were the thousands of comments under the post.

“She’s an angel AND a sin. How is that fair?”

“I need her. No, actually, I’ll die without her.”

“Whoever her man is, I hope he knows he lost her to the world today.”

Daemon lets out a dark chuckle, but there’s nothing amused about it. His blood is boiling, his possessiveness clawing at his insides. Lost you to the world? They had no idea who they were talking about.

With a sharp inhale, he slams his phone down on the desk and gets up, pacing the room. His mind races. He knows you love teasing him, knows you like pushing boundaries—but this? This was a direct challenge. A test. And Daemon Targaryen does not lose.

Grabbing his car keys, he heads straight for you. No calls. No texts. You knew what you had done. Now? Now, you’d deal with the consequences.

The internet exploded within minutes of Daemon’s post.

No caption. No explanation. Just you, completely wrecked—your expression dazed, mouth parted as soft whimpers left your lips. His hand cradled your face, slapping your cheek with a teasing, mocking rhythm. And though his other hand wasn’t in frame, the wetness sounds that filled the video left no room for imagination.

Twitter/X:

“WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST WATCH???”

“Daemon just said ‘she’s MINE’ without saying a single damn word.”

“This man saw the SKIMS shoot and said ‘bet’ 😭”

“HELP ME I CAN’T BREATHE WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE SOUNDS???”

Instagram Comments:

“Okay but the way she looks at him?? That’s not just lust, that’s ruin.”

“He posted this just to remind everyone he owns her and honestly? It worked.”

“WHO ALLOWED THIS TO BE ON MY FEED??? I have work in the morning.”

“I feel like I just saw something I shouldn’t have… and yet I can’t stop watching.”

TikTok Reactions:

Edits of the SKIMS shoot transitioning to Daemon’s video with captions like:

“She teased him, and he answered.”

“SKIMS said ‘sexy’—Daemon said ‘MINE’.”

Compilation of reactions to the sound alone, with people throwing their phones across the room or covering their faces in shock.

Reddit Threads:

“Daemon Targaryen just changed the internet forever.”

“The SKIMS campaign was a declaration. Daemon’s video? A WAR CRIME.”

“How do we recover from this? WE DON’T.”

While some were losing their minds over the intensity, others were spiraling at the undeniable claim staked in that video. Daemon wanted the world to know—you were his, and no amount of cameras or campaigns would ever change that.

Tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @ashblooddragons @callsignwidow

Thank you to @zaldritzosrose for letting me using your dividers ❤️‍🩹

195 notes · View notes

riddlesrizzler · 2 months ago

Note

SELECTIVE!mute r w mr

I NEED

1. Animagus reader w mr

2. Sick reader like so sick he's worried

3. Stressed reader

4. Yule ball

5. First argument like heated argument

6. Date night gone wrong

Any one of these or or my most FAVORITE

Setting the scene

We are laying in bed after not getting out of bed for the whole day because it's raining and IRONICALLY ENOUGH we have a pretty window right next to our bed so we're starring out and BOOM INCOMW CANNONBALL WORRIED MATTHEO RIDDLE SNACKS ON SNACKS ON SNACKS MOVIES CUDDLES AND MORE CUDDELS AND GUES WHAT???? MORE CUDDLES IM TALKING IN DEPTH DETAIL OF HOW THE SHEETS FEEL HOW HE SMELLS HOW OUR BREATHING IS IM SYNC THE WAY HE HOLDS US I MEAN COME ON DUDE LIKE PUPPY DOG "ILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU"

I MEED HIM ON HIS TOES AT ALL TOMES HE NEEDS SOMETHING IM TALKING WHIPPED!!!!!!

But yeah anyone of those will do 🙄😉

Sincerely, Thalia who absolutely adores selective mute!reader with mattheo riddle 💜

THAILIA!!!! YOU'VE GOT MY BRAIN WORKING!!!!!

he would be just sweet and patient with her because he is so used to screaming and fighting and now that there is silence, he is almost confused on how to handle it. my sweet babies!!!!

You sat curled up on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, knees tucked tight to your chest. The sky stretched out above you, wide and endless, but your chest felt small, squeezed tight with everything you couldn’t say.

The words were there-caught in your throat like tangled thread. Too many thoughts, too much pressure, too loud. You didn’t need to be alone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to explain it either.

The door creaked open behind you, but you didn’t look. You knew his footsteps by now-slow, careful, like he was always trying not to scare you off.

Mattheo didn’t speak. He never did right away. He just sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, and held out his hand, palm up.

You stared at it for a long moment before slipping your fingers into his. Warm. Steady.

His thumb traced slow circles across the back of your hand. You didn’t have to look at him to know his eyes were watching you-not with pity, but patience. Like he was willing to sit here forever if that’s what you needed.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quietly. “You don’t even have to think, if it hurts too much. Just… breathe, love. I’ve got you.”

You blinked hard, the pressure in your chest softening just enough to let a tear slip down your cheek.

Mattheo leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “When you’re ready,” he whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

#slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #my works #ask the rizzler #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #sweet matty #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo x reader #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x you #selective mute! reader

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hypnobeauty · 1 month ago

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the longest echo - a bob r. x ofc story

summary: two strangers touch and glimpse each other’s deepest wounds, their lives quietly entwined by something neither can explain nor escape. cw: depression, suicide ideation, substance abuse, childhood trauma, emotional neglect, domestic violence, ptsd, addiction. sorry! also, soulmates/invisible thread au if you squint really hard. word count: 14k / no beta we die like men a/n: hey! i watched thunderbolts* and i've been thinking about bob a lot. i think his character has a lot of potential and i love to write people suffering. no physical description, i just thought it would be easier to write with an oc than reader. enjoy xx

2009

the first time robert reynolds thought of disappearing, he was twelve years old, folded in half between two plastic crates in the far corner of the attic, his knees jammed against his chest, his cheek pressed to the cold, splintered floorboards. the air was thick with the dry, fibrous scent of mothballs and old cedar, so sharp it made his throat prickle, but he didn’t cough. he didn’t even breathe deeply. he was too afraid the sound might give him away.

it wasn’t a dramatic thought, the kind you read about in books or saw in movies—no lightning bolt of revelation, no cinematic sob. just something small and tired, so quiet he almost missed it: you could leave.

not run. not fight.

just… leave.

vanish.

stay right here, tucked between the storage boxes labeled in his mother’s neat, looping script—“xmas lights,” “tax docs,” and, almost absurdly, “bob’s school stuff”—as though even then, she’d already packed away the parts of him she didn’t know what to do with. he let his fingers slide across the taped edges of that last box, feeling the ridges of the marker ink through the brittle cardboard.

the attic was hot, the insulation thin, but it was the only place in the house where the walls didn’t pulse with his father’s rage. up here, there were no footsteps thudding across the linoleum, no sudden crashes of glass shattering on the tile, no sharp, wet sound of flesh meeting flesh.

downstairs, he could hear it all—muffled through the wood and drywall, but unmistakable. his father’s voice, thick with bourbon and venom, slashing through the evening:

“are you even listening to me?”

and then his mother’s voice, thin and breaking, barely audible:

“i’m sorry… i’m sorry, i—”

crash.

the unmistakable sound of something—maybe a plate, maybe her—hitting the floor.

robert pressed his palms harder against the floorboards, grounding himself against the jolt that traveled up through the house, all the way into the attic’s beams. his chest tightened until it felt like something knotted and heavy was wedged beneath his ribs, making every breath shallow, insufficient.

he wanted to go down there, to stand between them, to do what he’d promised himself he’d do since he was old enough to understand that this was not normal, not right. but he couldn’t.

he never could.

his father’s words came back to him like an old bruise you press just to see if it still hurts:

“too weak, bobby. always too fucking weak.”

he closed his eyes and listened to the floorboards creak faintly under his father’s heavy, aimless pacing below, the sound distant but constant, like the groaning of a ship in some dark, endless sea. every few steps: a slurred bellow, incoherent but sharp enough to make robert flinch even here, cocooned in fiberglass and dust.

the attic had become his sanctuary, his bunker.

he liked how the air barely moved here, how the dust settled slowly in the golden beams of late afternoon light slicing through the slats in the wall.

up here, time seemed to slow, to pause. up here, he wasn’t the boy who couldn’t protect his mother, who couldn’t fight back, who couldn’t even yell. he was just breath and skin and silence.

but by the time he turned fifteen, the attic wasn’t enough.

the ache inside him had grown teeth—small at first, but sharp, gnawing quietly at the corners of his days, leaving him hollowed out by morning and restless by night.

he didn’t want to hide anymore. he wanted to stop feeling altogether.

the boys he fell in with didn’t ask questions. older, sharper, already wearing the armor of recklessness like it had been stitched into their skin. they met behind the strip mall on saturdays, leaning against graffiti-scarred walls, trading smokes and stories no one else would believe.

robert—or bob, as he’d started introducing himself now, shaving his name down to something less like his father’s—fit into their spaces like smoke curling into a broken window.

he came because he knew they used stuff and he wanted some of that too. he wanted the numbness they carried like a secret, the easy, half-lidded way they looked at the world, like it couldn’t touch them anymore.

at first, it was just cigarettes–that was easy. familiar.

he’d been stealing from his father’s desk drawer since he was thirteen, sneaking out onto the back porch late at night to light up, the bitter smoke scratching his throat raw and making his eyes water, but it was worth it.

that first drag had made him feel something he hadn’t in years: like he was choosing this. like there was something, anything, he could control.

and now, there were pills too.

little white ovals and round blue tabs, pressed into his palm behind the gas station by hands with calloused knuckles and hollowed-out eyes. promises of soft erasure whispered into the humid florida night, as easy to accept as candy at halloween.

no one asked him why he wanted them, no one had to. they could see it in him the same way as he saw it in them. the same brittle exhaustion, the same quiet desperation to stop being inside their own heads for just a fucking minute.

that night, he didn’t hesitate. he stood under the buzzing, half-dead fluorescent light by the gas station’s side entrance, the parking lot stretching out before him in a wash of cracked asphalt and oil stains, empty but for an old sedan missing a hubcap, idling with no driver in sight.

the air was thick with the syrup of gasoline, the stale aftertaste of fast food grease from the dumpster behind the building, and something else—something he couldn’t name, but that settled low in his gut, heavy and immovable–maybe it was grief, maybe it was older than that.

in his palm a small pile of tablets, his thumb tracing the edge of one, slowly, like he was flipping a coin he already knew how to call. then, without ceremony, he tipped them all back into his mouth, swallowing them dry, barely flinching as the bitter chalk caught at the back of his throat.

bob exhaled, a slow, controlled release of air, like a diver letting go before sinking beneath the surface. his shoulders sagged, and he leaned back against the cool brick wall, his head tipping up toward the vast, indifferent sprawl of the night sky above him.

a flat sheet of gray, as oppressive and close as the attic ceiling used to be. the edges of the world were already starting to blur, the sharp corners of reality softening as the pills threaded their way through his bloodstream, dulling the things that usually screamed inside him.

he let his eyes fall shut, his body slumping lower against the wall. maybe this time, he thought, vaguely, distantly, as if the words belonged to someone else, someone already gone. maybe this time, you won’t come back. maybe you’ll just… let go.

but even now, in this self-made quiet, his body betrayed him by continuing to breathe. he stayed there, eyes closed, letting the humid night press in around him, waiting to see if the world would bother pulling him back.

or if it would finally—mercifully—let him drift away.

across the country, in a city always dry and glittering with heat, alice blake sat cross-legged on the polished wood floor of her bedroom in phoenix, the late afternoon sun unfurling itself through the wide, spotless windows her mother had chosen for their view of camelback mountain.

the mountain rose in the distance, immutable, jagged and ancient, its silhouette etched sharply against a cloudless sky that burned white around the edges. but alice didn’t look at it, she rarely did.

it was one of those things adults pointed to when guests visited—the view, the light, the perfect angles of arizona landscape filtered through glass—while alice traced her attention elsewhere: to the speck of paint on her toe, to the way the air conditioner rattled faintly in the vent, to the pool below catching sunlight in fractured diamonds on its sterile blue surface.

the sketchbook lay open in front of her, thick and heavy, the paper already buckling slightly beneath the weight of watercolors layered again and again. her small fingers, sticky and stained with streaks of ochre and viridian, worked with an intensity that narrowed the world to the page in front of her.

the colors bled together uncontrollably—no matter how careful she was—into chaotic rivers and bruises of blue and sickly green, spilling over each other, not quite making the thing she had wanted to make but becoming something else entirely.

her brow furrowed, the pink tip of her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth in concentration, as she tilted her brush at a new angle, tried to rein in the edge of the green as it seeped too far into the yellow.

it didn’t work, it never worked. but she kept going.

at ten, alice hadn’t yet learned how to name the hollow feeling that had begun blooming beneath her ribs, expanding quietly in the silences between violin practice and sunday brunches at the biltmore.

she only knew that some people—her parents especially—moved through the world like their bodies fit perfectly inside it, like their gestures had all been rehearsed long ago: her mother’s smooth, arcing wave of a hand toward a painting at the gallery; her father’s clipped, efficient signatures at the dinner table as he signed contracts between bites of ribeye.

they wore their lives like tailored suits—impeccable, precise, impossible to imagine any other way. alice, on the other hand, always felt like her sleeves were too long, her sentences too slow, her laughter either too much or not enough. there was no handbook for being her, not one anyone had left behind.

her mother’s gallery downtown was filled with paintings alice was not allowed to touch, though she longed to—the surfaces calling to her fingers like forbidden fruit, textures she wanted to trace to understand how they were made, how they could be so beautiful and so untouchable at the same time.

sometimes, she’d stand at the edge of those cold, echoing red walls, watching her mother glide effortlessly between clients in tailored linen dresses, the low click of her heels punctuating softly measured explanations of brushstroke techniques or the tortured biographies of artists alice had never heard of.

her mother’s voice never changed between subjects; it remained the same smooth, curated thing whether she was talking about a late modernist’s obsession with despair, or about what kind of salad they’d be having for dinner that night.

once—just once—alice had left a drawing on her mother’s desk. it was a crayon sunflower: bright, ungainly, its petals too fat on one side and too sparse on the other.

she had pressed it flat on the desk mat, smoothing out the wrinkles, her small heart pounding wildly with the strange, terrifying hope that maybe this time her mother would see her. when her mother walked into the office later that afternoon, she’d glanced at the paper, her manicured fingers pinching the corner delicately, as if it were something left behind by the cleaning staff.

“oh,” she said, her voice the same bored hum she used when reviewing invoices. and then, without pause, she dropped it into the wastebasket beneath the desk and reached for the rolodex to make a call.

no malice, just… indifference. that was, in many ways, worse.

alice never left her drawings out again, but she didn’t stop drawing. it had begun as a call for attention—see me, notice me, tell me i’m good, or interesting, or something—but over time, it shifted into something quieter, more private. not so much an invitation anymore, but a map she was drawing in secret, charting out the strange and tangled territory inside herself that no one else seemed interested in exploring.

now, as the shadows dragged longer across the room, the molten stripes of sun shifting up the pale walls in slow, inevitable ascent, she dipped her brush in water again, let the pigment pool in the belly of the bristles, and watched as it bled into the paper, expanding in wide, unstoppable veins. her legs were folded neatly beneath her, the hem of her soft cotton skirt—chosen by the nanny, like all her clothes—draping over her knees in careful pleats.

in the far corner of the room, leaning like a silent accusation against the wall, was her cello case–she hadn’t touched it in days. the practice schedule was written on the whiteboard by the door, neatly outlined by her tutor: monday, wednesday, friday at 4 pm. but alice hadn’t gone to her lesson that afternoon and no one had noticed. or, if they had, they hadn’t said anything.

her parents were… somewhere. maybe in the house, maybe across town closing a deal, maybe halfway to paris for a show opening.

it didn’t matter. she didn’t wonder anymore where they went, didn’t ask. the last time she’d asked, her father had glanced up from his laptop, blinking slowly as if she’d interrupted something important, then said, “work,” in the tone of someone closing a door.

so she stayed, she watched, she painted. slowly, patiently, her small brush moving in wide, careful arcs, letting the colors blend and muddle into something that wasn’t beautiful, wasn’t precise, but was hers.

the air in the room smelled faintly of lavender from the oil diffuser one of the nannies had set up that morning, the scent soft but impersonal, like everything else in this carefully arranged house. outside the glass doors that led to the balcony, the pool filter hummed steadily beneath the low whine of cicadas, a mechanical heartbeat that filled the silence.

in florida, a boy not so different from her in ache but oceans away in everything else, slid down against the rough brick behind a gas station, the pills already working their slow, silent erasure inside him.

the edges of his world blurred and folded in. he wondered, dimly, whether his mother was downstairs cleaning up broken glass again, biting her tongue the way she always did.

bob wondered if she’d noticed he was gone. but the thought floated away before he could finish it, slipping into the soft dark like a stone dropped into deep water.

alice dragged her brush across the paper one last time, a wavering stroke that bled out too quickly at the edges. she sat back on her heels, letting the brush slip from her fingers, staring at the mess she’d made.

not beautiful, not correct. but hers.

she reached out and pressed her fingertip lightly to one corner of the damp page, smudging the paint into a dull, streaked bruise, then quietly set the sketchbook aside beside her with the kind of reverence she wished someone else might give to it– or to her.

she sat there for a long moment, spine straight, hands resting softly in her lap, staring at the empty space of floor where the sunlight had been, but now wasn’t.

not thinking of anything, not waiting for anything.

2010

robert reynolds woke to the sterile hum of a hospital room, the fluorescent light above him flickering faintly, as though even it couldn’t muster the effort to burn steadily for him.

his throat was raw, scraped and torn from the tube they’d shoved down it to pull out the pills—their bitter dust still lingering in the back of his mouth, a reminder of how close he’d come this time and how easily they’d undone it.

his skin, under the thin hospital blanket, looked sallow and pale. he blinked once, slowly, and the cracks in the ceiling paint above him branched out like veins, thin and spidery, reaching toward corners they’d never quite get to.

he didn’t cry, he didn’t do anything. just lay there, eyes open, counting the rhythm of the heart monitor beeping steadily beside him, not because it comforted him, but because it was the only thing confirming that he was still here.

the door clicked open softly, and he turned his head just enough to see the doctor enter—a woman with dark crescents under her eyes, a clipboard clutched loosely in one hand. she didn’t look up at first, just scanned his chart, flipping through the pages with the disinterest of someone who’d done this a thousand times.

“robert reynolds?” she asked, more out of protocol than genuine inquiry.

his voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges when he answered, “yeah.”

she nodded, made a note.

“how are you feeling?” she asked, but not like she expected an answer worth writing down.

“fine,” he lied, throat catching on the single syllable.

she flipped another page, pen poised. “do you know why you’re here?”

bob swallowed, the taste of plastic and antiseptic still coating his tongue.

“yeah,” he said again, staring past her at the faint smudge on the far wall where the paint had been chipped away.

the doctor let out a breath—whether relief or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell—and scribbled something down.

“you said you made a mistake?” she asked, and this time he could feel her eyes on him, trying to locate something in his face. he nodded.

“yeah. a mistake.”

there was a beat—just long enough for her to ask more, for her to ask the thing that might have pulled all of it out into the open: why? what happened? is someone hurting you?

but she didn’t. or if she did, it was so couched in the generic language of intake assessments that he didn’t recognize it. or maybe he recognized it, and chose not to hear.

either way, the result was the same. he shut the door before it could open.

after three days in the psych ward—three days of mandatory group therapy sessions where he sat in the corner, arms crossed, staring at the stained carpet as other kids sobbed or screamed or begged for someone to call their parents—he was discharged.

three days of locked windows and bland food, of staff with practiced smiles and patients with wristbands in various shades that meant something he didn’t bother to learn.

he hadn’t said much during those days–what was there to say? that he didn’t want to be here? that he hadn’t really wanted to be anywhere else either?

so when the social worker handed his mom the discharge papers and said, “you’re free to go,” he stood up, slipped his hoodie back over his thin frame, and walked out. his mom went home, bob went somewhere else.

later, when he walked through the front door of the house, the afternoon sun slanting low through the broken blinds, his mother barely looked up from where she stood at the sink, wrists submerged in soapy water, scrubbing a plate with the mechanical repetition of someone who’d forgotten what it meant to be done with something.

“hey,” he muttered, more out of habit than expectation.

“dinner’ll be in an hour,” she said flatly, as if that were all that needed saying–and maybe it was.

from the living room, he could hear the soft hiss of a beer can being cracked open, then the worn leather of the recliner creaking as his father shifted his weight.

a pause and then his father’s voice, low and amused:

“well, look who made it.”

bob glanced over, caught the smirk hanging off his father’s lips like a weapon sharpened long ago and still kept within easy reach. he didn’t bother getting up, just raised the can lazily in his direction, as if offering a toast to the one who hadn’t even succeeded at leaving.

bob didn’t respond, just turned, walked down the hall, and shut the door to his room quietly behind him.

spring came heavy and restless, the humidity pressing down like a hand on the back of his neck. his gym teacher had pulled him aside in april, clapping a heavy, too-cheerful hand on his shoulder and saying, “you should try out for jv football, reynolds. might do you some good.”

build character.

give you discipline.

all the usual clichés men like that threw around like confetti at boys they didn’t know, couldn’t understand. bob didn’t say no–in fact he didn’t say anything, just showed up to practice the next week, suited up, and let himself get hit.

over and over.

the bruises layered easily, seamlessly, over the ones he was already collecting at home, the purple fading into green into yellow into nothing, until he couldn’t tell where the field ended and the house began.

he didn’t mind the other guys on the team, most of them weren’t bad. some even nodded at him in the halls, shoulder-checked him lightly in ways that might have been friendly if he’d known how to recognize it.

but being part of a team meant being seen. it meant people noticing when you didn’t show up to practice, or when you flinched a little too hard at a hit, or when your eyes kept drifting somewhere else when the coach shouted your name.

and being noticed felt like the most dangerous thing in the world for bob–so he quit.

after about a month, he stopped showing up, left the uniform in the locker, and walked out without telling anyone. no one asked why, no one called after him.

and that was fine, that was what he wanted–wasn’t it?

on the days when the air was thickest, and the whole world smelled like wet pavement and regret, he’d sit on the back porch late at night, a cigarette tucked between his fingers, the ember flaring briefly in the dark as he inhaled, letting the smoke curl out from between his lips in slow, practiced ribbons.

counting his breaths again, waiting for something to change but knowing it wouldn’t.

what he kept doing was writing.

it wasn’t intentional at first, not something he woke up one day and decided on. it just… happened.

small scraps of words, furious and unfinished, scrawled across the backs of loose worksheets, the inside covers of textbooks, the margins of notes he wasn’t really taking. it always seemed to happen around three in the morning, when the house was dead quiet, his mother long asleep—or pretending to be—and his father passed out cold in the recliner, a half-empty bottle sliding slowly from his fingers to the carpet.

bob would sit on the floor of his bedroom, knees drawn up tight to his chest, pen clenched so hard between his fingers that his knuckles ached, pouring out jagged, breathless sentences that never made sense the next day.

not poems, not essays, not stories just static.

trying to siphon out the raw, high-pitched noise that lived in his head all the time—the things he couldn’t say, couldn’t even fully think, only bleed out onto paper where they could live in someone else’s language.

at first, he’d tear the pages out, crumple them, shove them deep into the trash under candy wrappers and used tissues, but after a while, he started keeping them in a box under his bed, filled with spiral notebooks so warped and overused that their spines barely held together, their pages warped with sweat and ink smears.

later, in his senior year, it became something more deliberate. not passion, not anything as noble as that, just inertia.

and why not? he had to be somewhere after school—somewhere to sit that wasn’t home, somewhere to let the hours burn away in relative quiet, so he joined the school paper.

bob showed up to the first meeting and sat in the back while the editor—a girl who always wore leather jackets too big for her—explained the deadlines, the column inches, the ad placements. they needed someone to cover boring shit: new vending machines in the east wing, updates to cafeteria menus, a write-up about the freshman fundraiser car wash.

“any takers?” she asked, holding up a list.

bob raised his hand. the editor blinked, then shrugged. “cool. they’re all yours.” and that was it. just like that, he had something that no one else could take from him.

for a while, it felt bearable. he liked the solitude of it—the way he could sit in the back corner of the library, next to the window that looked out onto the main road, and tap at the yellowed keys of the ancient desktop they kept there. no one leaning over his shoulder, no one asking him what he was doing, why he was quiet, why he never smiled.

just him and the soft clatter of the keyboard, the click of the mouse as he rearranged his thoughts into neat lines, like stacking bricks into a wall that might finally hold back the flood. there was something about the rhythm of it—the weight of words sliding into place, each sentence giving shape to the noise inside—that made it feel like, for a moment, the static could be contained.

at seventeen, when his guidance counselor called him in one afternoon and asked the same rote question they asked every senior—“so… any thoughts about college?”—bob had just shrugged, wiped his palms on the knees of his jeans, and said, “english.”

the counselor didn’t even look up. just scrawled it onto a generic form with a blue ballpoint, checking a box that didn’t mean anything to either of them.

bob didn’t bother adding the rest: that sometimes, when he was sitting in that quiet library corner, he thought about teaching someday. maybe standing in front of a room and talking about books, about language, about all the beautiful, terrible things words could do. maybe he could teach someone how to arrange their thoughts too, how to find a way through.

or maybe not. maybe that was bullshit. maybe it was just about getting out. getting far, far away from this town, from this house, from the man who had split his lip open just last week over something neither of them could even remember now.

escape. simple, sharp, necessary escape.

that night, after another fight—one that didn’t last long but left his brow split—bob left the house. the blood dried sticky and dark along his face as he walked, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his torn hoodie, head down, shoulders hunched against the thick, metallic breath of the rain that hadn’t yet broken.

the streets were empty except for the rhythmic, distant wail of a siren and the low, guttural groan of thunder crawling somewhere out of sight. his sneakers scuffed across the uneven sidewalk, carrying him without thought or direction until he found himself standing in front of the all-night diner on main—the one with the flickering red neon “open” sign that buzzed angrily in the humid air.

he pushed the door open, the tiny bell above it letting out a weak, apologetic chime.

the place was empty except for the waitress behind the counter, leaning against the coffee machine and flipping through a magazine, and a man in a trucker hat slumped in a booth near the back, snoring softly into his plate of half-eaten pancakes.

bob slid into the corner booth—the one by the window with the cracked leather seat—and didn’t bother picking up the sticky laminated menu.

the waitress walked over, pen already poised.

“coffee?” she asked, eyeing the crust of blood on his face but not mentioning it.

he nodded. the mug landed on the table with a dull thunk, steam curling up into the still, heavy air.

“let me know if you need anything else,” she said, already turning away.

bob wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep slowly into his fingers, the rough ceramic edge grounding him just enough to keep breathing.

he sat there for hours, not drinking much, just staring out the rain-streaked window at the parking lot outside, the slick asphalt gleaming under the harsh buzz of the sodium lights overhead.

beyond that: the highway.

stretching out into the dark like a long, gray artery, pulling away from this town, from this life, from everything he couldn’t quite figure out how to leave. he let his forehead rest lightly against the cool glass of the window, his breath fogging a small circle in front of his mouth. and he wondered—not for the first time—what it would feel like to just… go.

to push open the diner door, cross the parking lot, step out onto that road, and keep walking until there was nothing left but his own footsteps fading into the dark.

the waitress refilled his coffee once, then left him alone after that, recognizing something in him—something she’d probably seen a hundred times before.

by the time he finally stood up, the rain had passed without breaking, leaving the air heavy and expectant, like it was still waiting for something that never quite arrived.

alice blake sat alone at the massive dining table in her parents’ apartment in phoenix, her fork idling against a stalk of grilled asparagus, gently nudging it back and forth across the pristine edge of the white plate.

the asparagus gleamed faintly, drizzled with lemon oil and plated with the meticulous care of someone paid to make food beautiful rather than nourishing. the butler hovered discreetly at the edge of the room, as always—his presence so practiced in its invisibility that it didn’t even register as company anymore.

twenty chairs lined the sleek, obsidian table, spaced evenly like sculptures, cold and indifferent. tonight, as most nights, only one of them was occupied.

her mother was at the gallery downtown, hosting an opening for some new exhibit—probably something conceptual and cold, monochromatic canvases paired with long-winded descriptions about deconstruction or absence, things alice had learned never to ask about. her father was in san francisco, tucked inside some anonymous conference room high above the city, delivering presentations to other men in suits about shipping lanes and margins and quarterly growth.

the apartment was silent except for the faint, distant hum of the ventilation system and the occasional clink of her fork against porcelain. alice barely noticed the emptiness anymore; it was just the water she swam in, the air she breathed—an ambient silence that filled every grand, beautiful space her parents had so carefully designed around her.

the gallery-like living room, where modern art hung in perfectly lit arrangements no one ever sat and looked at. the marble kitchen, all imported stone and chrome appliances, where no meals were cooked, only served. the private rooftop terrace, its sculptural succulents perfectly arranged by an expensive landscaper alice had never met.

she tried to remember the last time someone had asked her how she was. not about grades, not about which extracurriculars padded her future applications, not whether she’d practiced her cello that day.

but really: how are you?

the kind of question that told you someone wanted to know—not for the data point, but for you, she couldn’t remember, and by now, she’d learned not to expect it.

she speared a piece of asparagus, chewed it slowly, tasting nothing. swallowed. another piece. then stopped. she set her fork down gently, the metal making the softest chime against the plate, and looked up at the butler, who was already stepping forward.

“finished, miss blake?”

his voice, as always, was gentle but detached, pitched somewhere between service and absence. she nodded. “yes… thank you.”

he collected her plate with a fluid movement and retreated through the side door, leaving her alone again with the cavernous quiet of the dining room, the darkening sky pressing softly against the floor-to-ceiling windows. alice sat for a moment longer, fingers drumming faintly on the edge of the table, then exhaled, pushed her chair back with a faint scrape of polished wood against stone, and stood.

she padded barefoot through the apartment, her steps echoing faintly off the high ceilings and clean, cold surfaces, her toes sinking slightly into the plush, pale carpet as she passed through the hall. the housekeeper had vacuumed that morning; she could still see the neat, symmetrical lines left behind, like careful brushstrokes across an otherwise blank canvas. her fingers brushed along the smooth, lacquered wall as she walked—just to feel something real beneath her skin.

she reached her bedroom and closed the door behind her with a soft click, sealing herself into the only space in the apartment that bore her fingerprints.

her sketchbook lay open on the floor near the wide window, the thick paper curling slightly at the edges where yesterday’s painting still dried. pale streaks of gray and blue ran down the page in soft, hesitant lines, pooling together in irregular blotches that almost, but not quite, resembled rain.

she crossed the room quietly, folding herself down beside it, tucking her knees up to her chest, her chin resting gently on the tops of them.

the city lights outside flickered faintly through the window, casting long, fractured shadows across the smooth white walls. beyond the glass, the night was already cooling, but inside, the air was still thick with the faint trace of lavender from the diffuser the housekeeper had switched on that morning.

everything here always smelled like something artificial—like something meant to comfort but never quite succeeding.

alice didn’t cry. she rarely did anymore.

she had learned how to let the numbness carry her instead, how to let the days flow together in long, unbroken threads, smooth and detached, without expecting much, especially without asking.

alice picked up her brush from where she’d left it beside the sketchbook, dipped it lazily in the jar of water, and watched as the pigment spiraled out from the bristles—soft, soundless blooms of color unfurling into the clear water like ink dispersing through a vein.

then, she let the brush fall onto the page with a faint, wet splatter, the new stain seeping into the old ones, merging without resistance.

she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes as her head tipped up toward the ceiling, the faint hum of the pool filter outside rising and falling like some mechanical heartbeat keeping time for a house that never really woke up.

2014

alice stood in front of the full-length mirror propped awkwardly against the cinderblock wall of her tiny dorm room in new york, the pale, winter-blue light of the city slicing through the half-open blinds and striping across her bare legs like some quiet interrogation.

she ran her hands slowly over the soft cotton of her skirt, smoothing it down over the constellation of small, fine-line tattoos that climbed delicately along her left hip, winding higher, disappearing beneath the hem of her cropped t-shirt and wrapping, almost protectively, around her ribs.

her fingers paused there for a moment, tracing the faint raised ridges of ink, the private map she had etched onto herself over the last few years—quiet, deliberate rebellions against the sterile, curated life she had left behind in phoenix.

each mark was hers alone: no explanations offered, none required. but always, always hidden beneath layers of fabric, like all the other parts of herself her parents had never known what to do with. the tiny silver stud in her nose, too—another secret, easily concealed with a practiced tilt of her head, the same way she concealed her sharpness, her hesitation, her grief.

she adjusted the skirt again, even though it didn’t need adjusting, watching the way the fabric fell over her hips in loose, forgiving folds.

the mirror reflected not just her body but the room behind her—the clutter of secondhand books stacked precariously on her desk, the chipped mug half-full of cold tea, the little potted succulent on the windowsill struggling valiantly to survive in the anemic winter light.

the radiator let out a sharp clank behind her, then settled into its usual low, metallic hiss. outside, the city moved indifferently, its sounds filtering in through the drafty window: the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of a bus, the murmur of a couple arguing two floors down.

the tattoos had come at seventeen, inked in cramped, low-ceilinged studios with buzzing machines and artists who didn’t ask questions, only nodded when she showed them the sketches she’d made in the margins of her notebooks. they weren’t big or ostentatious. not something you’d notice unless she showed you, unless you were close enough to press your lips to her hipbone and feel the faintest resistance of ink beneath skin.

but they were hers. her own language, her own claim over the body that had always felt like it belonged to someone else. and still, despite the thousands of miles she had put between herself and that apartment in phoenix, the silent, insistent question lingered, buried somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach:

would they be proud of me?

she wasn’t sure why it still mattered, she wasn’t sure it ever stopped mattering.

maybe it was something about how a child learns to look for approval before they learn to look for oxygen—how the hunger for it doesn’t disappear just because you pack up your life and move across the country.

she had left phoenix the week after graduation, her entire life folded into two suitcases and a carry-on, standing alone at the terminal while her parents hovered several feet away in their usual elegant detachment. her mother had adjusted her glasses, barely looking up from her phone, and said, “call us when you land,” as if alice were heading off to a conference, not leaving home for good.

her father had glanced at his watch, murmured something about traffic, and then they had both offered her quick, polished smiles that felt no different from the ones they used with gallery clients or board members.

neither of them had hugged her. neither of them had asked if she was scared, or excited, or ready–and she hadn’t offered it either, just picked up her bags, turned toward the gate, and didn’t look back.

but new york—new york had been a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in her entire life. here, in the gray, muscular sprawl of the city, she could be someone else—someone softer, looser, messier than the carefully mannered daughter they’d raised.

she worked at the starbucks two blocks from campus, learning the quiet intimacy of strangers’ coffee orders—the woman with oat milk and no foam, the man who always ordered a double espresso with two packets of raw sugar he never stirred in.

she learned the art of pouring milk into perfect spirals, the hiss of steam, the weight of the ceramic cups. the job stained her fingers faintly with coffee and made her hair smell perpetually like roasted beans, but it was hers. her money, her time, her life.

she had friends now—the kind who didn’t care about art auctions or charity galas, who didn’t ask where she’d gone to prep school or which country club her parents belonged to. friends who borrowed her clothes without asking, who dragged her to midnight movies, who sat with her on the floor of their dorm kitchen eating boxed mac and cheese straight from the pot.

she had lovers too—brief, sometimes kind, sometimes careless—but all of them chosen by her, for her. no arrangements, no negotiations over cocktails. just encounters that began and ended on her terms, leaving behind the sweet ache of a body remembered but not required.

she majored in english, minored in humanities—a subtle, defiant echo of her mother’s world, but tilted toward the things she loved rather than the things expected of her. literature classes where she could disappear into the voice of someone else, into novels that felt more honest than any conversation she’d ever had at her family’s dinner table. seminars where she could raise her hand, argue, laugh too loudly, mispronounce french theorists’ names without being corrected.

on weekends, after long shifts closing the cafe, she’d walk through washington square park with a takeaway cup of tea, weaving through the chess players hunched over their boards, the musicians busking near the fountain, the street performers contorting their bodies into impossible shapes.

the city moved around her with a pulse she’d finally learned how to sync with, its breath filling her lungs without asking for anything in return. sometimes, she thought of phoenix—the dry, punishing heat, the manicured sterility of the family home where even the plants were chosen for their ability to survive neglect—and felt the memory recede like a shoreline viewed from far out at sea, growing smaller, less distinct, until it was just a smudge on the horizon.

she didn’t look back much now.

but at night, in the stillness of her dorm room, when the sirens curled through the open window like long, desperate fingers and the radiator clanked in the corner with its familiar, arrhythmic sigh, she sometimes pressed her fingertips to the inked skin of her hip, letting them trace the shapes she’d chosen for herself.

and in those moments, she’d think, quietly, simply: you made it out.

and most nights, that was enough, at least for now.

upstate, bob lit a cigarette with a hand that barely shook anymore, the worn metal of the lighter warm against his palm, its familiar weight a comfort as reliable as anything else left in his life.

he leaned his shoulder into the cold brick wall behind the humanities building, the rough surface pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt, grounding him with its static indifference. the flame licked briefly to life, then vanished as he sucked in a slow breath, holding the smoke tight in his lungs before exhaling, watching as it curled into the crisp, early spring air.

the sky overhead was the pale, washed-out blue of a postcard left too long in the sun, and somewhere, just beyond the quad, someone was strumming an acoustic guitar with more enthusiasm than skill.

he ignored it. focused instead on the steady unraveling of smoke as it dissolved in front of him, disappearing molecule by molecule until there was nothing left but the faint trace of ash on his tongue.

he went by bob now, never robert. robert was his father’s name. saying it felt like dragging a rusted anchor behind him everywhere he went—heavy, corroded, useless, the kind of weight that left stains long after you cut it loose.

his professors still called him robert sometimes, glancing down at the attendance sheet, their voices flattening it into something bureaucratic and lifeless—“reynolds, robert?”—before moving on without waiting for correction. he only corrected the people who mattered, and there weren’t many of those left anymore.

a few classmates, maybe. a barista at the coffee shop near campus who scribbled “bob” on his cup every morning without asking, like they’d made some unspoken agreement about who he was allowed to be here.

that was enough.

he’d made it to this place—this cold, gray upstate town on the edge of nowhere—on a partial scholarship and the kind of pure, stupid stubbornness that burns you alive before you even know it’s happening.

clawed his way out of florida with a transcript that barely scraped by and a personal essay that, looking back, was probably more confession than application—a raw, aching mess of sentences about leaving, about escape, about the impossible act of survival when the people who should love you don’t even know how.

and someone, some admissions officer drowning in their own stack of desperation, must have read it and thought, why not? so here he was. he majored in english because it was the only thing that made any sense.

the only thing he could do without wanting to put his fist through a wall. books didn’t ask anything from him but attention, they didn’t yell, they didn’t bruise. they just sat there, quiet and consistent, offering up their worlds for him to crawl into when his own felt too sharp to touch.

his minor was in journalism, though by senior year, he could barely drag himself to the 8 am seminars about media ethics or news cycles, sitting through lectures while the classroom’s flickering fluorescent lights drilled relentlessly into his skull.

he’d started out thinking maybe it could be something—this writing thing. that he could become a journalist, cover real stories, dig into the fractures of other people’s lives and make meaning out of them, maybe even change something. maybe be someone, but now…

now the nights were long and cold, the parking lot outside his dorm always slick with rain or oil or something worse, and the little orange bottles tucked beneath his mattress emptied faster than he could keep track of.

weed, pills, cigarettes, coke, whiskey, when there was enough money left after rent and groceries, which wasn’t often. the old comforts and only constants. then, harder stuff—meth, opioids.

by twenty-two, the sharp edges of his ambition had been sanded down to something dull and silent, like a blade worn smooth by too many years of dragging it through stone. he still turned in essays, but they barely passed—thin, anemic things, stripped of the energy he used to believe writing required.

he sat in the back of lecture halls with his hoodie pulled up, fingers jittering against his knee, counting down the minutes until he could leave, until he could walk out into the open air where at least the world didn’t press in so hard.

he wasn’t even sure anymore what he was running from or if he was running at all, or if he’d just stopped somewhere along the way, sat down in the middle of the road, and let the rest of the world keep moving while he stayed perfectly, perfectly still.

he still wrote, though. not for class or for anyone.

but in battered composition notebooks he kept tucked at the bottom of his backpack, pages thick with ink and sweat, filled with half-coherent thoughts, long strings of barely legible handwriting, drafts of lives of people he saw in cafes—the woman in the red scarf who always ordered warm milk, the man with the limp who played chess alone in the park.

fragments of conversations overheard in laundromats at 2 am, the hum of machines spinning out their endless, cyclical songs while strangers argued softly in spanish or kissed in the corner or cried quietly over phone calls that ended too soon.

he wrote it all down, these scraps of other people’s lives, collecting them like proof that the world was still happening, even if he didn’t always feel part of it. it was the only thing that made the numbness shift, even just a little, the only thing that reminded him that he was still here still breathing.

sometimes, late at night, he’d sit on the fire escape steps by his window, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, the ember flaring briefly in the dark before collapsing into ash. he’d flip through those notebooks, thumbing absentmindedly through the pages, catching glimpses of the person he might have been, once—before the weight, before the static, before the long slow erosion of what he used to think of as hope.

but he never looked for long, never let himself linger on those pages, on those fragments of himself, for more than a breath. because it hurt too much. it reminded him that somewhere, buried beneath all this smoke and silence, there had once been a boy who thought he could get out clean.

and he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember that anymore. so instead, he just sat there, leaning against the brick wall, watching the smoke curl up and vanish into the soft, indifferent sky. and when the cigarette burned down to the filter, he flicked it into the gutter, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and walked back inside.

alice untied the knot at the small of her back and pulled the green apron over her head, folding it absently as she clocked out of her shift, her thumb pressing the worn button on the register with a faint mechanical clunk.

outside, the city was finally starting to thaw after months of bone-deep winter—the air softening at the edges, warming enough to make her uncoil a little as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the bulk of her jacket slung casually over her arm.

her breath didn’t cloud in front of her anymore. she stretched her neck to the side, rolling out the tightness from a long shift, and tilted her face up into the dimming march light, letting it brush warm and tentative across her cheekbones.

she walked with her usual unhurried stride, weaving past delivery bikes and a man yelling into his phone, her free hand tucked into the deep pocket of her skirt. the sounds of the city poured over her: the shriek of a siren somewhere blocks away, the rustle of a newspaper caught in a breeze, the hum of conversation bleeding from open bar doors as evening crept steadily in.

as she moved toward the subway station, her thoughts drifted lazily, circling an idea she’d been entertaining all week: another tattoo. something small and quiet. maybe behind her ear, where it would hide beneath her hair unless she wanted someone to find it. or on the inside of her wrist, a place only she would see when she reached for a cup, when she brushed her hair back, when she wrote in her notebook on slow afternoons.

the idea made her smile faintly—barely a twitch at the corner of her mouth—as she imagined the sharp, precise sting of the needle, the controlled burn of ink seeping into skin, the slow, meditative breath she always took just before the first puncture.

she adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder as she pushed through the turnstile, the metro card flicking in her hand with practiced ease, the rubber soles of her sneakers slipping slightly on the smooth tile as she descended the station stairs.

the train pulled in just as she reached the platform, a gust of warm, metallic air rushing past her as the doors slid open. she stepped inside without hesitation, turning sideways to slip through the crowd, gripping one of the cool metal poles as the train shuddered into motion. the doors sealed shut behind her with a hydraulic sigh.

as the car lurched forward, she caught sight of herself in the darkened window—her reflection superimposed faintly over the blurred walls of the tunnel beyond.

for a second, she just looked, as if seeing herself there for the first time: the smudge of coffee still faintly staining her gray uniform. the silver glint of the necklace she always wore, just barely peeking above the neckline of her shirt. the small, tired but undeniable softness around her eyes.

she tilted her head slightly, considering the reflection the way she used to consider her mother’s paintings at the gallery back in phoenix, standing just close enough to see the brushstrokes but never quite close enough to touch. she looked… okay. maybe—finally, improbably—free.

not all the way, not every minute. but here, in this moment, with the city pressing in around her, its veins and arteries pulling her forward through the dark, she felt something that hovered just on the edge of possibility.

far away, in a different quiet, bob tossed the last of his blunt into the gutter behind the stem building. he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunching reflexively against the chill that still lingered in the shadows.

his boots echoed across the empty quad, the rhythmic scuff of leather against stone keeping time with a campus that had long since gone still for the night. above him, the stars were faint, barely visible through the orange haze of the campus floodlights bleeding into the sky.

but they were there, still there, scattered and distant. bob paused, tilting his head back just slightly, letting his gaze drift upward toward them, but he didn’t stay there long.

just long enough to remind himself that they hadn’t gone anywhere. that they were still there, somewhere, and so was he.

2020

alice unlocked the heavy front door of the three-bedroom walk-up in brooklyn, the metal key grinding stiffly in the old lock before it gave with a reluctant, familiar click.

her fingers stayed curled tight around it even after the door swung open, knuckles whitening slightly, as if part of her wasn’t ready to let go, as if the simple ritual of entering this space still required a kind of deliberate permission. she stood there for a moment in the doorway, letting the city sounds behind her fade into the hallway’s muffled quiet—the distant hum of a neighbor’s television, the faint shuffle of feet upstairs, the soft sigh of the building settling into itself for the night. then, slowly, she stepped inside.

the apartment smelled of ever-present haze of nag champa her roommate insisted on diffusing in the living room, its rich muskiness always a little too much, edging into the cloying by evening.

but it was home–or close enough to something that passed for it.

alice toed off her sneakers by the door, her socks sliding slightly against the worn hardwood floor, and dropped her canvas bag beside the thrifted couch that sagged endearingly in the middle from years of communal use.

without thinking, without even bothering to turn on the lamp by the window, she sank down to the floor, letting her back press flat against the cool, smooth boards, her arms stretched out loosely at her sides as she stared up at the cracked ceiling. she let out a long, slow breath, her ribs expanding, then emptying completely as the last of the day peeled away from her body like old skin.

it had been a long day.

twenty children packed into the small classroom on the ground floor of the community center, finger-painting with the kind of unrestrained, joyous anarchy only four-year-olds could summon—smearing streaks of neon color across their paper, their aprons, each other’s cheeks, and sometimes, inadvertently, her.

alice had let them. of course she had, she always did.

she loved the way they barreled through the world, oblivious to consequence, untouched by the internalized scoldings adults wore like invisible armor strapped too tightly around their ribs.

that was why they adored her too. because she crouched at their level, eye to eye, letting them whisper nonsense into her ear like it was sacred gospel, because she didn’t flinch when they smeared paint across her sleeve, because she let them color outside the lines without ever offering correction—only sliding another sheet of paper in front of them when they ran out of space.

she could still feel their sticky fingers tugging at the hem of her skirt, their voices echoing in her ears, small and bright and unstoppable.

she’d told herself, when she first took the job, that it would be temporary. a placeholder. something to fill the space while she figured out what she was really supposed to be doing.

but now, a year later, she couldn’t imagine not being there. couldn’t imagine not walking into that room each morning to be greeted by the shrieks of recognition, the rush of small bodies hurling themselves at her legs, the riotous mess of paintbrushes and paper that filled her afternoons.

it was exhausting, yes. but it was also… pure. and there weren’t many things in her life she could call that.

every weekend, she biked down to bed-stuy for the community art workshops, setting up canvases on folding tables for kids whose faces lit up at the sight of paint. she showed them how to mix colors until they made something new by accident, how to smear paint with their fingers when the brushes felt too clumsy, how to make a mess and call it art without needing to explain what it meant. she watched them approach the canvas the same way she once had—as an invitation, not a test—and in those moments, she could feel something loosening inside her, something she usually kept tightly wound.

by twenty-four, she’d finally moved out of the shared apartment and into a small studio near the park—a space that was hers alone, with no one else’s clutter or rules or incense permeating the air. the walls were lined with gifts from her students: crayon drawings of dinosaurs with uneven limbs, lopsided hearts, abstract blurs of red and purple labeled “miss alice” in scrawled block letters that made her chest ache in a way she didn’t fully understand but didn’t try to explain.

above the sink, on the open shelving, she’d arranged her own ceramic pieces—mugs with uneven handles that felt steady and right in her grip, like they’d always belonged to her hands even before she made them. there was something about their imperfections that felt comforting, a reminder that things didn’t have to be symmetrical to be whole.

she drank too much tea—boxes of it stacked haphazardly in the narrow cabinet, local brands, gifts from friends who went abroad. her nails, always kept short for work, flashed with glitter polish as she wrapped her fingers around the warm curve of the porcelain, leaning her hip against the counter as she stared out at the street below.

the window stayed cracked year-round, even in the brittle cold of winter, so that the studio never smelled too much like the clay she worked or the lemon soap she used to scrub the paint off her wrists.

she liked the air moving through the space, liked the way the city slipped in with its noise and scent, reminding her that she was not sealed away from it, not trapped in a silent, sterile home like the one she’d left behind in phoenix.

her boots—worn-out doc martens, their leather scuffed and softened from years of walking too far in them—sat by the door, always ready, always waiting to pull her back down to earth when her mind started to drift too far.

some nights, she stood barefoot in the middle of the room, letting her toes press into the cool wood, running her fingers lightly over the old plaster walls, tracing the faint cracks that spidered up from the floorboards like quiet, persistent reminders that everything breaks a little over time, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still hold.

and sometimes, in those moments, she’d think: this is mine.

and that, most nights, was enough.

not all nights—there were still the quiet hours when the city outside went still and something sharp and old inside her woke up, gnawing softly at the edges. but most nights? most nights it was enough to stand there, to breathe, to be. to know that, for all the places she had left, she had made this one for herself.

at twenty-seven, bob disappeared.

there were no messages left behind. no half-hearted status update posted at three in the morning, no vague tweet about needing space or finding himself, no sudden block of friends or family. he just… left. like vapor through a crack in the window.

like a man who’d been practicing his own absence for years until, finally, he could step into it fully. the city—whatever city it was by then, because even he had lost track—swallowed him whole, the way it always did with men like him.

men whose ghosts were already more present than their bodies, men who knew how to vanish without anyone asking where they’d gone, because no one really expected them to stay in the first place. he slipped through back streets and borrowed beds, hitchhiking when he had to, sleeping on couches when luck broke kindly, on cardboard when it didn’t.

his arms grew raw with bruises and pinpricks, the veins running up the pale terrain of his skin like dry riverbeds. his body thinned out, hollowing beneath the weight of nights spent curled beneath overpasses or locked in bathroom stalls, the fabric of his clothes wearing thin, fraying at the cuffs, threadbare under the slow, relentless press of too many hours spent out in the weather.

some days were better than others.

the good moments came like rare birds landing on his outstretched palm—fragile, fleeting, impossible to predict. on those days, he’d buy minutes for a burner phone and call his mother, voice cracking as he said, “hey, mom,” into the receiver like it was a normal call, like it wasn’t months since the last one.

he’d sob quietly then, breath hitching between words, while she made soft, uncertain sounds on the other end, asking if he had food, if he was safe, if he was warm. she never asked where he was, maybe she knew not to.

since his father disappeared in the snap in 2018, things had been marginally better for her. not free—abuse didn’t slip off like a coat just because the man who wore it turned to dust—but quieter. the house didn’t echo with slammed doors or breaking glass anymore.

the bruises faded, the air inside no longer smelled like bourbon and rage. bob hated himself for thinking of that quiet as a kind of relief, but it was, ff course it was.

in those better stretches, he’d find work somewhere—slinging drinks behind a bar, unloading trucks at a warehouse, washing dishes in a diner that paid cash at the end of each shift. he’d try, then, really try.

he’d scrub the grime from under his nails, find a place with a shower, string together two, sometimes three sober weeks like beads on a fraying thread. and in those brief stretches, he could almost believe he was still a person moving through the world with something like purpose.

but the bad moments always came back. the days when the shakes started before he even opened his eyes. the days when his hands fumbled uselessly at zippers and buttons, when his heart galloped too fast in his chest as he sat in a public bathroom, the sour stench of bleach and piss rising around him as he shivered through withdrawal.

the nights spent curled behind convenience stores, his back pressed against cold brick, stomach turning itself inside out as he vomited bile and whatever else was left in him, the dark edges of his vision pulling tight as he tried, uselessly, to remember how he’d gotten there.

and yet, somehow, one good stretch stretched further than usual–almost a year. long enough that he started to tell himself stories about the future again. not grand ones, no, no. not a house, or a family, or anything so concrete. but something quieter: maybe a job he could keep. maybe a town where no one knew him but might still wave when he passed by. maybe—impossibly—a version of himself that didn’t look for the bottom of every bottle.

that was when he spent the last of his savings on a flight to malaysia. he told himself it was for “self-discovery,” the way those travel blogs always framed it—white boys on motorbikes taking selfies on cliffs, getting tattoos in back alley shops, meditating barefoot in temples, coming home tanned and enlightened.

but the truth was simpler: he didn’t know what he was looking for. or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to say it out loud. he would either find himself there–or find more drugs.

either way, the outcome felt the same, disappearance by another name. on the day bob boarded the plane at dtw, the cheap boarding pass crumpled tight in his fist like it might fly away without him, the boarding call echoed through the nearly empty terminal, brittle as glass. his hands trembled as he stood at the gate, staring out the long, flat pane of windows where the plane sat idling in the gray light, engines humming like something half-asleep. whether it was withdrawal or nerves, he didn’t know— didn’t care. he swallowed hard, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and walked toward the gate.

when he first landed in kuala lumpur, jet-lagged and sour-mouthed from the recycled air of the long-haul flight, he did what you were supposed to do. he wandered the crowded markets, fingers brushing the beaded jewelry laid out on mats, the sharp tang of durian and frying oil filling his lungs.

he ate food that burned his tongue, made his eyes water—laksa, satay, things he couldn’t pronounce but devoured greedily. he smiled politely at the vendors, refused politely the offers pretty girls made him, at the strangers who didn’t look through him the way americans did. for three days, he didn’t drink, didn’t use.

didn’t even crave it, not really.

on the third evening, he climbed the long, steep steps up to the batu caves, his legs aching by the time he reached the top, sweat gathering at the base of his neck.

he stood there, staring out at the sprawl of the city as dusk slid over it in molten gold, the skyline catching the last light like a breath held too long. and for the briefest moment, he thought: maybe this could be something else.

but on the fourth day, he let himself have a drink, just one. the old rationalization whispered smoothly in his ear: just to take the edge off. just to loosen the knot. on the fifth day, he was doing lines of coke off a dented metal table in a bar that smelled like bleach and stale sweat, the music a relentless, shapeless throb that made it impossible to hear himself think.

and on the sixth day, he met russ–an american. clean-cut in that precise way that always meant trouble, the kind of neatness that only men running their own cons could ever really manage.

“hey, man,” russ said, sliding onto the stool beside him, casual as a burn mark. “you looking for some extra cash? some easy work?”

bob barely looked up, barely shrugged. didn’t have the energy to muster even the vague indifference that used to serve him well. russ just smiled, unfazed, leaning in like they were old friends sharing a secret.

“just a med trial. legit. some new drug. they’re paying well.”

then, after a beat, almost like a promise: “you’ll be more than you’ve ever been.”

the room they brought him to was quiet, cold, low-lit, sterile. it smelled faintly of disinfectant and something else—something chemical and faintly sweet that raised the fine hairs on his arms before he even sat down.

bob didn’t ask questions, didn’t need to, didn’t want to. he had pictures taken, signed so many forms that by the last one, the repetition of his signature made it stop making sense.

he already knew he was already less than he’d ever thought he could be.

across the east river, in bushwick, alice climbed carefully down from the scaffold, her thighs trembling faintly from hours spent balancing on the narrow, metal planks, the muscles in her calves stretched tight from holding herself steady as she reached, again and again, toward the top edge of the mural.

her boots found the cracked concrete with a dull, satisfying thud, her knees flexing automatically to absorb the drop. she straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders back, then placed her hands on her hips as she looked up at the wall in front of her—the vast expanse of brick now covered in layers of pigment and shape that had taken her weeks to build.

two hands, fingers outstretched, reaching for one another, almost touching but not quite. that deliberate, impossible space between them—half an inch of air rendered enormous by the scale of the wall—felt like the thing she had been painting toward all along, even if she hadn’t known it when she first sketched the design.

the air around her was sharp and cold, cutting through her layers as she yanked her mask down beneath her chin and dragged in a long, steady breath. it filled her chest in a way that the shallow, paint-fumed inhales on the scaffold never could, expanding the tight space between her ribs before slipping out again.

there was a kind of brittle beauty to days like this—when winter hadn’t fully let go, but the promise of warmth hovered just at the edge of things, waiting for the courage to arrive. she stood there for a long moment, paintbrush still gripped loosely in one hand, the frayed bristles stiff and drying at the tip.

around her, the neighborhood shifted in the subtle, habitual rhythms of late afternoon: the distant clatter of a delivery truck’s ramp slamming against the curb, the murmur of voices spilling from an open window above a bodega, the faint pulse of bass from a car idling at the light three blocks away.

and then—unexpected, uninvited—a sensation rose through her chest. a strange ache, low and shapeless, like the lingering vibration of a sound she couldn’t quite hear, couldn’t quite name. it settled behind her sternum, soft but insistent, as though something just beyond the edge of her awareness was trying to call her attention, to remind her of something she didn’t know she’d forgotten.

alice blinked hard against it, her lashes sticking faintly where sweat and paint dust had gathered. she let out a sharp exhale, forcing the breath past her lips like she could empty herself of it, like she could push whatever it was back down to where it belonged.

then, with the same practiced efficiency she brought to everything, she crouched and began gathering her brushes, slipping them one by one into the worn canvas bag at her feet, their wooden handles knocking softly against one another in the quiet.

the mural loomed behind her as she worked, vast and silent, the space between the two painted hands still there—still empty, still unresolved. an absence that, no matter how much paint she layered around it, could never quite be filled.

2025

the city had changed so many times that alice had stopped trying to keep track of who it used to be. new york in 2025 was no longer a place moving forward, but one suspended in a permanent state of aftermath.

whole neighborhoods stood hollowed out, the bones of them stripped bare by everything the last decade had chewed through: alien fire that carved scorch marks into buildings like signatures, battles that collapsed structures under their own exhausted weight, government contractors who came to clean up the mess but left behind their own versions of ruin.

years of absence where half the city vanished mid-step, half-drunk coffees abandoned on cafe tables, apartment plants dying quietly in sunless corners, toothbrushes left damp by sinks that no one came back to. and then the blip—the sudden, violent return, like time had only paused, like the world could simply unfreeze itself and carry on without splintering.

but it had splintered, in ways that no amount of construction could plaster over. alice had lived beneath it, above it, through it—her apartment just another unit stacked in a city that had been redrawn by loss.

the apartment above hers had sat empty for all those years of the snap, sealed in like a tomb, gathering dust and silence while alice listened to her own footsteps echo more loudly than they ever had before. and then, one day in 2023, the door upstairs creaked open again.

the family returned, their same coffee mugs still sitting on the counter, their same shoes lined up neatly by the door, as though time had merely blinked and forgotten to carry them forward.

those of them who remained had grown thin and wiry, hardened by the quiet terror of survival, of walking a city that had once felt infinite but now felt fractured and contingent—like the ground itself could vanish beneath their feet at any moment.

alice had lost friends. two of them, gone in an instant, mid-text—one of them telling her about a date they were nervous for, the other asking if she wanted to grab coffee. the screen still lit up in her hand as the messages stopped coming, then they returned, five years later, they were the same, but the ones who stayed weren’t.

the city strained under the weight of it all: housing shortages that left families piled in makeshift apartments, bureaucratic chaos so thick it swallowed people whole, insurance companies inventing new, bloodless language to explain why they wouldn’t cover the damage left behind by battles fought in the sky. "acts of god" clauses now included alien invasions and superhero crossfire, rents spiked.

and then, more recently, manhattan had gone dark—literally, not metaphorically—as a vast black void swallowed entire blocks, a silence so dense it changed the air itself.

alice had walked to work one morning, only to find herself standing at the edge of an absence she couldn’t comprehend, the skyline folded inward like paper, the space where buildings had been now reduced to a nothing so complete it made her stomach churn. and what replayed in her mind, in those moments she can’t be sure if lasted seconds or years, it was enough to break a whole woman again. even now, weeks later, she avoided looking in that direction when she walked home at night.

the new avengers had repurposed the old stark tower, turning it into what the news anchors breathlessly called the watchtower, with sleek glass panels and a new emblem stamped high above the skyline, but alice didn’t look up when she passed it on her commute. no one in new york looked up anymore. there was always something in the sky, and it never meant anything good.

her family had called her reckless for moving here in the first place, and worse for staying. “you’re not going to college in that war zone,” her mother had said, aghast, her voice sharp with the incredulity of someone who couldn’t imagine choosing discomfort, choosing risk. but alice had smiled quietly, bought the plane ticket herself, and never went back, she stayed through all of it.

now, new york existed in that in-between place: not broken, not whole, a city living in the permanent shadow of what it had survived, scaffolding draped like bandages across its frame, streets funneled by construction cones and barricades meant to fix things no one really believed could be fixed.

but it was still here and so was she.

the grocery store was busy but not crowded. alice steered her cart along the wide, polished floors, the synthetic brightness of the overhead lights casting everything in a kind of antiseptic sheen. she passed a display of canned soup stacked precariously into a makeshift sculpture, cans leaning into one another as though holding each other upright.

she weaved past them, turning into the cereal aisle with the absentminded precision of someone who had done this too many times to think about it anymore.

but then she stopped. standing there for a long minute, staring at two boxes side by side, biting at the corner of her bottom lip as if the choice between them was a moral dilemma. one was an organic granola, dense with oats and dried fruit, the kind of thing she bought when she was pretending to be good to herself. the other was a sugar-bomb masquerading as breakfast, the kind she secretly loved but always told herself she shouldn’t buy.

the boxes leaned against each other on the shelf, conspiratorial, like two friends egging her on, daring her to pick one over the other. her hand hovered just above them, fingers flexing in the space between deliberation and surrender.

and then, suddenly, another hand reached out beside hers, the skin warm and unfamiliar, brushing lightly against her fingers as they both reached for the same box at the same time. he moved through the aisle with a presence too large for the space, shoulders broad, posture unavoidably imposing—but his movements were careful, almost rehearsed, as if he were constantly, quietly trying to make himself smaller.

his hands stayed close to his body, his steps measured, soft-soled, so that the sound of his sneakers didn’t echo too loudly against the polished linoleum. even here, in something as mundane as a grocery store, he was still calculating how much space he was allowed to take up. how much was safe to take.

his eyes—tired, rimmed with the faint shadows of sleepless nights but kind in a way that had always disarmed strangers—glanced toward her briefly, and then back to the shelf, to the box he was reaching for. the same one she was about to take.

he hadn’t even noticed at first. just another task to complete: grab the cereal, avoid alexei causing a scene, get out of here with minimal incident. but then his fingertips brushed against hers.

it hit fast and sharp as a pinprick, but spreading instantly, like electricity arcing through water. both of them recoiled inward, but there was no time to pull away. the images came all at once—blunt, raw, more sensation than memory—threading between them, back and forth, as if their bodies had been wired into the same current.

for a split second, alice felt her body lean instinctively into the contact, as if gravity itself had shifted its axis, as if something fundamental had been altered by the briefest touch of skin against skin. but what came next wasn’t hers—at least, not entirely.

what she saw, or felt, or somehow inhabited, arrived in disjointed pieces: a life unfamiliar, moments that weren’t hers flickering past like half-formed dreams, raw and jagged and utterly foreign, until, impossibly, they weren’t. until, with a quiet inevitability, the unknown began to feel familiar, as if she had always carried this other life somewhere deep within her body, written in invisible script beneath her skin. she didn’t recognize the attic or the precise taste of those pills on her tongue —but her chest tightened, her breath shallowed, and her eyes burned as if all of it belonged to her, as if she had lived it, or could have.

and on the other side of that same instant, bob was standing there too, rigid, his fingers curled tighter around the box of cereal as images he didn’t recognize sluiced through him in sharp, bright cuts, flaring and fading too fast to catch, and yet leaving behind the heavy, unmistakable weight of knowing.

it was unfamiliar, completely, horrifyingly unfamiliar—until it wasn’t. until the quiet house became a house he had known, until the lonely girl with watercolors staining her hands and tears staining her face was someone he felt he had spoken to before, though he hadn’t. the moments bled together, indistinct in detail but overwhelming in force, as if their traumas—separate, distant, fully formed in isolation—had been forced into contact, bound now in a way neither of them had chosen, but neither could resist.

and then—almost mercifully—the flood of images snapped into something else. not her life nor his. but something shared, something fused by whatever strange, impossible thread had just been tied between them. it rose in their minds at the same time, vast and undeniable, stretching across the cold, gray brick of the building long since gone. the familiar sweep of midnight blues and purples, stars smeared into motion across the background, hands suspended in a perpetual almost-touch.

for alice, the image was ingrained in muscle memory—every brushstroke, every shade carefully layered during long afternoons on the scaffold, legs aching, fingers numb with cold as she painted that deliberate gap between the outstretched fingers. for bob, it was something he had never seen in waking life, yet now it was as vivid as any memory he owned: the two hands hanging in that suspended, impossible moment, the gesture frozen in time.

except now, it wasn’t. now, in this shared vision, the mural had changed. the fingers were no longer reaching. they were already entwined, laced together tightly, seamlessly, as if they had always been that way. the gap was gone, erased not by another layer of paint, but by something deeper, more permanent, more real than the brick ever was.

alice gasped quietly, blinking hard as the vision snapped back, the store’s fluorescent light suddenly too bright, too clinical. her hand recoiled an inch, instinctive, the ghost of the mural still burning behind her eyes, but that wasn’t right—she knew how she’d painted it.

she remembered the deliberate, impossible space between the fingers. they never touched and that was the point.

wasn’t it?

she hadn’t seen the mural in years—the building was gone now, reduced to twisted steel and scorched concrete in one of the otherworldly battles, so she couldn’t check. maybe—maybe she was misremembering.

it had been five years. so much had happened.

hadn’t it?

bob inhaled sharply too, the small, reflexive sound of someone pulling out of deep water, his eyes catching hers with a brief, flickering intensity— like he was seeing her for the first time, or maybe recognizing her from somewhere neither of them had ever been.

his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the box, anchoring himself to the ordinary as something vast and incomprehensible uncoiled just beneath his skin. but then it passed like it always did.

alice dropped her gaze first, a small, involuntary shudder passing through her shoulders as she smoothed her hand over the handle of her cart, trying to make the world familiar and normal again.

bob cleared his throat softly, offering the box with that same quiet, instinctive deference.

“sorry,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges.

but she was already shaking her head, her mouth forming the familiar words. “no, you go ahead.”

an echo of the same ache carried quietly across different lives, an ache neither had ever fully found words for. a shared vibration in the marrow.

bob reynolds—no longer the boy hiding in attics, not yet fully the man the world would call the sentry—wrapped his fingers around the box and gently pulled it from the shelf, nodding as he took a small step back to give her room.

even now, after everything, after years spent trying to cauterize himself shut, he couldn’t quite stop the instinct to make space for other people. his therapist had said that grocery runs would help with the anxiety, with the agoraphobia, you know, small steps into normalcy. meaningless, low-risk environments: supermarkets, parks, coffee shops.

re-acclimate yourself to people, to fluorescent lighting, to the act of moving your body through the world without imagining catastrophe in every corner. the others had agreed, alexei had, in particular.

after that last incident—when the towering, well-meaning russian had cornered a poor woman in the aisle, trying to convince her that the limited edition wheatios featuring the new avengers was “historic memorabilia, yes? must be collected!”—they’d decided, firmly, that alexei couldn’t go on grocery runs alone.

bob had drawn the short straw today. well, not really short—they all thought it would be good for him. get out of the tower, get some air, be in the city like a person, not just a name in a file or a cautionary headline, but he wasn’t sure they were right.

his skin still felt a little too tight, his pulse a little too loud in his ears, the edges of everything too sharp under the store’s relentless lighting. but he’d ducked into the cereal aisle before alexei could barrel down it and find someone else to accidentally terrify.

and now—this. his hand brushing against hers, over cereal. the most banal of things. and yet, it had stopped him even if just for a second.

alice looked up then, properly, eyes meeting his, holding them with a steadiness that made something in his chest shift. for a moment, everything else—the repetitive beeping of the registers, the low hum of the overhead fluorescents, the muffled laughter from somewhere near the bakery, the rattle of a shopping cart wheel sticking just off rhythm—fell away.

there was just her. this stranger with eyes that seemed to carry something he recognized but couldn’t yet place, and his own breath caught just slightly behind his teeth.

he hesitated for a breath longer than necessary—something about the weight of this moment, this contact—but then nodded, slipping the box into the basket looped over his arm. the motion felt more significant than it should have, like a pebble dislodged at the top of a hill, quiet now but with the potential to gather speed.

for a moment, they simply stood there, side by side, separated by the thin air of the aisle and the silent negotiations neither of them knew they were making. each pretending not to notice the strange, heavy thing lingering between them—the kind of thing that, once noticed, can’t easily be undone. as if the world hadn’t cracked open and stitched itself back together a thousand times already. as if they hadn’t both been walking toward this exact point for years, their lives tracing long, indirect lines that had finally intersected here—between frozen breakfasts and novelty cereals.

bob offered her another small smile, softer now, almost embarrassed by its own existence, then shifted his weight and stepped past her, his steps silent against the polished floor as he moved toward the front of the store. he exhaled slowly as he walked, the breath rattling faintly in his chest, heart still ticking a little too fast.

alice watched him go, standing perfectly still in the aisle, her fingers still tight around the handle of the shopping cart, as if frozen in the gravity of that brief, meaningless contact. she turned her cart around and kept moving, a faint, private smile curving at the corner of her mouth.

farther down the aisle, alexei was already engaged in animated debate with a confused teenager about which cereal had better fiber content, his broad hands gesturing wildly as he mispronounced brand names with cheerful conviction.

bob sighed softly, the sound more amused than exasperated, and kept walking toward the registers. and, unknowingly, toward everything that would come after.

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