#I still need to recovered to the end of the serie...

[that-one-girl2020]

HEY!!! loved the story series!!! And the mini ones!

I have an idea after reading “confrontation”

What if while searching through the archive Saja boys and Zoey and Mira find an old box that was sealed tight and when they open it they find it filled with pictures of Rumi and (Y/n)’s baby photos maybe even a note book that their parents documented them growing up in the short time they had with them.

And in those photos they see part of the reason of why Celine hated (Y/n) so much and it’s because she looked more demon while Rumi only had the smallest or patterns, maybe like glowy eyes and baby claws, which maybe explains why she wasn’t able to connect with the Honmoon?

Honestly, it mostly after the releases of the original storyboard where we could have seen Rumi’s parents and the release of the official art of her father and mother.

Baby Photos

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: This concept was originally requested by @lazyemmy so that’s why there’s two versions of them finding baby photos. The first half of this is more light hearted while the second is a little more solemn and is based on the official art of Rumi’s parents. You don’t need to have read my short series to have this make sense but I still recommend it!

Synopsis: After kicking Celine to the curb, the nine of you begin your search through the household for answers. But you are waylaid by certain photos being found.

TW: Hints of Celine’s toxic parenting

Word Count: 2,544

Master List

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, Abby = Kwan)

The Hunters’ training grounds had been taken over by five demons, two half demons, and two humans. Plus a blue tiger and a three eyed magpie.

Celine had been kicked to some place far away yesterday and the nine of you had taken the rest of the day to emotionally recover. It ended up in a puppy pile sleep over in the den.

This morning, you had all stirred slowly. Jinu or Rumi might have been the first ones to wake up—you’re not sure but they’re the ones that were making breakfast when you woke. You didn’t want to get up, surrounded by the cozy warmth of several bodies around you. But you all had work to do.

After breakfast, the nine of you had split up throughout the house. You, Hyeon, and Kwan were in the basement storage, going through different chests which held different scrolls, tapestries, and other antiques.

“I think I remember this from my time…” Kwan mused, pulling out an old wooden mask. He held it up to his face.

“Please don’t break it…” You smiled fondly at his antics.

You all turned when you heard pounding footsteps and the female maknae’s voice, “Guys! Guys! Guys!” Zoey peeked her head down as soon as she was far enough down the stairs. “We found Rumi and (Y/n)’s baby pictures!”

You blinked as you struggled to process what she had just said.

Zoey was already running back up the stairs. Kwan and Hyeon also took a moment before Kwan shouted after her, “Wait, what?! Really?!” With a grin, the man ran after her, rushing up the stairs with a grin.

You called after him, “Wait, Kwan!” You turned when you noticed movement out of the corner of your eye. Hyeon was jogging after them. “Hyeon!”

“Sorry, not sorry, princess.”

You sighed, following after them as well.

The group had gathered back in the den, surrounding two boxes—one was a lot dustier than the other. Celine definitely had her preferences.

“Ohhh, little baby Rumi and (Y/n) in hanboks!~” Zoey was already cooing over a photo in her hand.

“Little (Y/n) and Rumi with the cherry blossoms,” Mira couldn’t help but join in, going through a stack of photos in her hand.

“So you guys were homeschooled?” Chungae noted as he looked at a picture of the two of you studying in one of the libraries.

“I didn’t think your aunt was the sentimental type to take all these photos…” Jinu said curiously, a photo of Rumi and you running around with sparklers in his hand.

Rumi—who was going through the photos curiously—answered mindlessly as you joined them, sitting by the dusty box of your photos. “She wasn’t. Aunt Maggie was the one who took the photos.”

The boys and Mira and Zoey blinked. “‘Aunt Maggie’?”

You and Rumi looked at each other. ‘Had neither of you really ever mentioned Aunt Maggie for that long…?’

“Yeah. Aunt Maggie was the third Sunlight Sister with our mother and Celine. She helped raise us for a while even though she and Celine fought a lot. They eventually had a really bad falling out and she left to one of the other Hunter properties,” You explained, digging through all the photos to the very bottom, where some of the few photos of you, Rumi, and Aunt Maggie were.

“Woah,” The girls gathered around you to look at the photos, the boys following. Rumi smiled fondly over your shoulder, looking down at the photo of Maggie sitting in a field of flowers with baby you and her in matching dresses in her arms.

“You were so cute~” Jinu cooed teasingly, pinching your cheek and tugging on Rumi’s braid.

You swatted his hand, “You boys are just lucky that your baby things are long gone.”

“I say we take these with us when we go,” Jum chimed, curiously going through the photos. His eyes were slightly wide—he likely has only seen children or babies a handful of times before coming to the human world with the other boys. So seeing the young photos of you must be strange to him.

Chungae lit up, “We can make a photo album then!” You could see Chungae’s mind racing with ideas. While you wanted to protest, embarrassed by everyone cooing over pictures of young you and Rumi, Chungae was too excited for you to shoot him down.

Zoey also lit up, “Yeah! That would be so cute!~”

Rumi groaned, “Do you guys have to?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Definitely.”

“Mhm.”

“Obviously.”

“Already filling up my Amazon cart!”

You and Rumi had no say. They were all going through the boxes of photos, calling out descriptions of the pictures to each other so they could shove it in each other’s faces to share. You think you saw a few of the boys tuck photos into their pockets. Mira and Zoey might have done the same.

Rumi was ruffled over all the cooing and awing, her cheeks red, but she was going through the photos too, enjoying the memories that she couldn’t remember well.

Mira found a photo of you and Rumi first starting to learn to dance not long after you both learned to walk.

Hyeon pulled out a photo of you nursing an injured baby fawn back to health.

Jinu tucked a photo of you pouting over a kid sized acoustic guitar into his pocket. He made a note to ask if you wanted him to teach you.

Zoey laughed over a picture of Rumi covered in flour on the floor of the kitchen, her eyes teary as she sulked.

Kwan chuckled as he held a photo of baby you splashing in a little kiddie pool while Rumi pouted at the splash you had soaked her with.

Chungae was aweing over a picture of you doing some kind of arts and crafts, your little hands covered in glitter and paint smeared on your chubby cheeks.

Jum smirked at the photo of little baby you in a raincoat and boots, sitting in a puddle with wide eyes, as if you were shocked by your own fall.

You decided to ignore the cooing and just go through your own lost memories.

~~~

Alternatively:

You, Hyeon and Kwan were in the basement storage of the household. It was vast, filled with chests and crates that held scrolls, tapestries, paintings, and antiques from times long past. The others were upstairs, spread out throughout the household.

“What’s this one…?” Kwan mused quietly. Tucked between two old chests was a much newer wooden crate underneath an old tapestry, hidden. He lifted it easily, it was relatively small and not heavy. He took it over to the table the three of you had taken down here to make it easier to go through things. He used the crowbar, easily prying it open and blinked at the contents of the box.

“(Y/n), you’ll want to see this.”

You looked up at the serious tone of Kwan’s voice. You set down the painting you were looking over, making your way over to the table, “What is it?”

Kwan merely pushed the open box over to you silently, Hyeon coming over to join curiously. You were unsettled by the serious look on Kwan’s face, the solemn look in his eyes with a glint of awe.

You looked to see what the contents of the box were and froze, your eyes widening. Immediately, you scooped the box up in your arms and ran up the stairs, calling for your sister, “Rumi! Rumi!”

You rushed into the den, bouncing on your feet as you waited for your sister to join you from wherever she was. Within seconds, she had ran into the room, panicked and a little on edge as she looked around for a threat, “What!? What is it?! Are you hurt?!”

You shook your head, “I’m fine, come here!” You said before grabbing her wrist to pull her to the middle of the den where your blankets, cushions, and pillows were still laid out. You pulled her down to sit with you before placing the box carefully between the two of you. You reached in and pulled out the picture that had been the first thing you saw earlier. Rumi gasped, her eyes beginning to water as she took the photo with a trembling hand. Your own eyes began to water as you leaned close to her so you could both look at it.

A man and a woman with two babies. The woman had long black hair pulled back in an elegant braid, her eyes soft as she held a finger out to the two babies in the man’s arms. The man had a fond smile on his lips, his amber eyes on the woman as he cradled the two babies carefully in his purple tinted arms, patterns covering his skin. One baby had purple hair and happy brown eyes, a hand around the ribbon of the man’s hat and little patterns on her arms. The other baby had (h/c) hair and glowing amber eyes like the man, patterns across her arms and little fangs in her grin as her little claws reached for the woman’s finger.

“It’s our mom and dad,” Rumi gasped, smiling. Because it was. Instead of the vague figures the two of you called your mother and father, suddenly they were mom and dad.

You couldn’t help but sniffle and laugh tearfully, “You really do look like mom.”

Rumi laughed just as wetly, “Yeah. And you look like dad.”

And it wasn’t something to be disappointed by. Instead of the labels that Celine had shoved onto the two of you, it was a pride. Your parents, who had defied logic and reason by falling in love with each other.

You didn’t notice the rest quickly joining the two of you until they were sitting around you, offering comfort with hugs and arms around the shoulders as they looked curiously. “Genetics are funny…”

Reaching in, you pulled out the next item of its contents, a leather journal. Opening it, it had both your parent’s names in it—they seemed to take turns writing in it as they documented their time with you and Rumi.

They knew from the beginning that the two of you had taken more after one parent than the other. Sometimes, when Rumi giggled or cooed, the Honmoon would flare around her. And your demonic features would surface more often in times of intense emotions like happiness, joy, sadness, anger, etc. It would be some time until your body naturally learned to blend in with humans.

Your parents hypothesized that due to this difference between you and Rumi, you would never be able to connect to the Honmoon and Rumi would never have full access to her demon side—flying, glamouring, enhanced physicality, the heightened senses, all of this would probably always be out of Rumi’s reach. But they said it would make you all the more fearsome when the two of you fought at each other’s sides.

“Our darling girls are two halves of the same coin. They will do amazing things one day and I am sure of that. Together, they are a storm that will change the world.”

“I never thought I would have children, not after all of my mistakes. But Rumi and (Y/n) are the pieces of my heart that I didn’t know I was missing until I held them in my arms for the first time. The bond between a father and his daughters was something I couldn’t have fathomed until now.”

You and Rumi couldn’t help but laugh and cry as you read the journal, lingering on the handwriting of your mom and dad as you flipped through the pages. The others were quiet around you, knowing this was a moment for you and Rumi but they remained as silent comfort and support for both of you.

There were more photos too. Newborn Rumi and you in your exhausted mom’s arms. A family photo of the four of you in formal hanboks, Rumi in your mom’s arms while you were in your dad’s. Your dad struggling to bathe you and Rumi while the two of you splashed him and each other with giddy joy. Your mom walking around a garden, the sun shining on her as she walked with two babies swaddled across her chest. You and Rumi asleep on your sleeping dad’s chest, his mouth open in a snore. A pout on your mom’s lips that matched the one on yours and Rumi’s as you both refused the spoon she held out to you.

All these moments you didn’t remember but couldn’t help but treasure.

You and Rumi leaned against each other. This weekend really had left them emotionally drained, but this time it was nice. Your heart ached with the loss of what could have been.

‘What would have been different if they were still alive? What would they think of the women you and Rumi had become? Of Mira, Zoey, and your boys? Would dad have grilled them before they let them date the both of you? Would mom have helped the two of you with your dreams, guiding the two of you with a smile?’ You would never know the answers to these questions.

For now, you would be okay with these fragments of moments.

“Ohh, you and (Y/n) were so cute when you were babies,” Zoey cooed softly, leaning her head against Rumi’s shoulder.

Jinu chuckled, “Yeah, I can’t believe how cute your little claws were.” He held up a photo of you looking at the camera with teary eyes, your mouth open in a cry as you reached towards whoever was behind the camera.

“Little fangs,” Hyeon agreed, looking at a photo of you and Rumi asleep in your shared crib. Your mouth was open sleepily, showing off the little fangs as you and Rumi slept comfortably curled into each other.

“It’s so sickeningly adorable,” Mira smirked but her tone was soft and fond as she looked through the photos. She held one of their mom pulling Rumi’s little wispy hairs up into pigtails.

Chungae chuckled at the photo he had found, showing it to Jum who smirked. It was of a little baby you sitting in your dad’s arms, marker in hand as you scribbled on his arms, following the lines of his patterns. They mentally noted to themselves to ask if they could draw on your patterns.

“I’m not getting baby fever…” You heard Kwan murmur to himself under his breath and you looked over to see he had a silly grin on his face that matched the other boys. He had a photo of the four of you having a picnic in a bamboo forest, Rumi in your dad’s lap while you were in your mom’s.

You shook your head at your boyfriends.

You and Rumi would take the box with you when you went back to the city. You would make copies of every. Single. Photo. And scan the journal so there wasn’t ever a risk of you losing anything that had been left behind by your parents. Chungae would help you make a photo album and Zoey would do the same with Rumi so that you could carry the moments with you wherever the two of you went.

A/N: I swear I’m working on the smut, I’ve just never written a smut before and it’s hard to work out the mechanics with five partners. I’ll let you all know in an author’s note if I decide not to post it but for now I’m working on it.

Outtakes:

You: *Trying to learn how to teleport but keep hiccuping and teleporting into furniture*

Saja Boys: *cooing and aweing* “It’s like watching a baby fawn learn how to walk~”

You: “Just help me you assho-!“ *Hiccup*

…

Rumi: “So, where did Celine end up…?”

Mira and Zoey: “Don’t worry about it.”

Celine: *Freezing*

…

Zoey: “Soo…does this make you a monsterf***er?”

You: “…”

You: “Yes and no.”

Zoey: “???”

You: “Technically, the boys are also monsterf***ers. So are you and Mira, technically.”

Zoey: *shrugs* “True.”

Rumi and Mira: *Looking at the two of you with wide eyes*

Zoey and You: *Casually drinking your drinks*

…

Hater: “How am I single, and yet this girl has five hot idol boyfriends?!” *Waving their arms at you*

The Poly Pride: *Flipping them off*

…

Tag List: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374 @esposamultifandom

[lovethegenuine]

Cut From the Same Cloth.

Art by: urinecrust on tiktok!

Read it on ao3! (kudos appreciated)

pairing: stalker/human!hector x afab/stalker!reader

Summary: An alternate reality where you've taken up stalking your next-door neighbor, Hector, only to find out he has the same sick and filthy obsession for you.

Warnings: Obviously +18, this is literally porn in essay format. non-con voyeurism (hector hides under your bed), oral sex, pnv sex, mutual stalking, biting/marking. Let me know if I missed something!

Notes: I love writing alternate realities, so don't kill me. I wanted to stalk him as much as he did for the player. Hector has me WHIPPEDDDD he's been all over my fyp so I cracked my fingers and got to fucking WORK. Originally, this was gonna be a series, but I already have a series going, and I can't focus on one thing to save the life of me, so one-shot it is! If this gets a good amount of attention, I'll consider turning this into a series. (more notes at the end for no spoilers!)

Word Count: 5.0k

Additional Notes: need that submissive hvac system

You'd always been the obsessive type.

As a kid, you would often become attached to various things, alive or material. It never did get better as you got older. In fact, the right person would consider it worse than before. However, you weren't the right person. If anything, you thought of yourself as charming. Wouldn't it be nice to be worshipped? To be loved beyond comprehension? This was always your way of justifying a lot of your weird behaviors. And it was the same for your new obsession: your next-door neighbor.

You had only seen him once, when you ran into him while leaving your home. You had given him a smile possibly too wide that he returned with a flushed face and pouted lips. That was more than enough for you to fall for him. He avoided you like the plague after, but given that you both lived side by side in an apartment building, you could hear him plenty, and you reveled in this.

All the times he spoke, coughed, or cursed. You heard it. The walls weren't thin enough to distinctly make out words, but you knew what his voice sounded like, and that's what mattered to you. Even on the nights when he moaned out just a bit too loud, you heard and cherished it.

After a month of having your new crush, you had already collected two beloved keepsakes—a recording of his moans and a piece of mail addressed with his full name.

Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado.

Sort of a mouthful, not that you minded. But, for the sake of quickened pleasure, you preferred to moan just his first name as you dreamt of all the ways you could confess to him.

Hector, I love you.

Hector, I need you.

Hector, let me be yours as you are mine.

Never mind the fact that you had only witnessed his existence once. Still, you continued to trace the outline of what little memory you had of him in your mind. From his brown skin, curly hair, and bushy eyebrows, to his crooked nose and faded mustache. You didn't care if these were the only traits you could recover. It was a blessing to you, nonetheless, and got you off many times.

You did, however, start to wonder if he was genuinely avoiding you, given that you never saw him again after you'd seen him in the hallway. If it weren't for the occasional sneeze or cough, you would have thought he was dead.

You did attempt to take it upon yourself to perform several wellness checks on Hector, but you could never catch a time when his door wasn't attentively locked.

Were you ugly? Was your smile too tense? Weren't you easy on the eyes? Didn't he want to see you too?

Every time you questioned yourself, it made you hot with anger. Can he see how fucking hopeless it made you to live without him? How crazy you became just at the idea of him? You started to suspect that he'd been depriving you of his presence on purpose.

He liked it—loved it, actually, to see you wallow and sulk around like a lost puppy. It was a test; you were sure of it. A test to see if you needed him as severely as you said you did.

After a whole day of working at your customer service job, you became especially riled up. You passed by his door as you did daily, but this time you stopped. Hector continued to stay hidden in the confinements of his home. Shifting your feet, you placed yourself directly in front of what now looked like the gates of heaven to you. You let one gentle fist raise as you contemplated the idea of giving his door a knock. Would he answer? What would you say if he did? I love you?

You eventually gave up and trailed back home, still yearning for just one interaction.

As you lay awake in your bed that night, you recounted that same series of questions you were forced to ask with no answer to follow. As you stirred in your anger, you slowly let your hand trail down to the waistband of your shorts. You teased yourself, pretending as if Hector was the one controlling the pace. Once you eventually let your hand enter your pants, you danced around the fold of your lips, gently dipping your fingers in and out, not yet probing yourself as you continued with your odd fantasy.

"Please, Hector. Let me feel you." You shuttered.

You hoped for a second that he'd manifest from the darkness of your apartment to take care of you. You wished so badly that he'd sense your pain and ease you with a pleasure only he could provide. If only he'd take control.

What did he smell like? What were his hobbies? Did he think you were pretty? What would he say as he fucked you? Would he be sweet or controlling? Honestly, just getting to know what he felt like would've been a gift alone. Was it bigger in width or length? Did his erection have a curve? What made him hard? What did he prefer in a partner? It didn't matter. You could become anything he wanted you to be at the drop of a hat. You'd do anything.

You eventually became so bothered that you lost control and began penetrating yourself. With two filthy fingers, you found yourself stretched around your digits as you continued to call out for Hector.

That is, until you heard his voice.

It was soft but close enough that you heard exactly what he said.

Your name in a soft whimper.

You thought for a second that you might've been mistaken, considering how close it was. It sounded crystal clear, like he was in the room with you. You put your masturbation on pause as you contemplated your sanity. Were you so pent up with lust that you started to have audible hallucinations?

Then came a soft exhale. It was crisp, not like the muffled quality you were so used to. In fact, you had half a mind to believe it came from under you. In all honesty, if Hector really were under your bed, you would jump for fucking joy. Just the idea made you shiver with delight. So, for fun, you decided to take a look.

You gathered yourself out of bed and bent under to take a peak. Aside from the occasional dust bunnies, the space under your bed was usually clear. On any night, you could look under and see the moonlight reflect off the floor across the other side. However, there was now a black mass in place of the empty space. It took your eyes a second to not only adjust but comprehend what was in front of you. When you eventually did, you were met with the awkward face of,

Hector.

His eyes were wide like a deer in headlights, frozen in place, waiting for your reaction.

You took a short breath, letting your body fall back in disbelief.

He took this as disgust and immediately fumbled awkwardly from under your bed.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll leave. I'm leaving now." He couldn't even look at you as he rambled on, apologizing profusely as he scrambled to fix himself.

He was touching himself. Not just anywhere, but under your bed. It was perverted, disgusting, horrific even. But above all things, it was filthy.

And it was your type.

Just as Hector was about to rush out of your room, you grabbed hold of the cuff of his jeans. It made him trip slightly, but it also got his attention. He looked back at you, angling his head downward to meet your eyes. He'd been so quick with his attempted exit that you hadn't really gotten a chance to look at him. Now that he was out from under the shadows of your bed, you could take in his appearance, just as you did the first day you met him.

His face was flushed, presumably with embarrassment. He looked at you like he was about to pass out. This was accompanied by his ragged breath and shaky legs. It was cute, just as you knew he would be.

"Why are you rushing to leave?" You pleaded.

You'd finally gotten what you had wished for: mutual attraction. Which is what you also assumed he'd hoped for. So you couldn't understand why he would even fathom leaving you again.

"Don't you want me to?" He squeaked.

You furrowed your brows in confusion.

"Did I say that? Come on, don't do this to me, Hector." You begged. It was slightly pathetic, but you were shamelessly desperate, and not an ounce of you could care less.

He raised his eyebrows, obviously surprised. You continued to look up at him, waiting for him to do anything. Letting go of his cuff, you watched the gears seemingly turn in his head. He looked at the exposed window in your room for a breath and then shuffled his feet to face you. You almost lost your breath as he squatted down to your level, his face now inches from yours. You felt your jaw falter as you became lost in his appearance. His mustache was fuller than before, as were his eyebrows. His brown skin was glossed with sweat that you knew would taste just as delicious as it smelled. One more second, and you would've taken your tongue to lick up the sweetness that seeped from his flesh.

He turned away from you with the same pouty lips he had in the hallway.

"Please, don't stare at me. I can't tell if you're disappointed or not." He mumbled.

His voice was meek. You could tell he wasn't much of a stand-up guy, given how hesitant he was in front of you. Was this the test? Was he behaving like this to see if you really were desperate? You finally had him, or would eventually have him. Not only that, but he presented himself to you. How sweet was he to not only return your affection but to stay.

"Disappointed?" You hurriedly closed the gap between you. With one swift motion, you took your tongue and slid it across his shut lips.

This was your way of giving your beloved consent, not that you felt he needed it. If he wanted you, he could've had you.

You leaned away for a moment to catch a glimpse of his reaction. He fell back, unable to handle his weight after your cheeky taste. He then lifted a shaky hand to cover his now immensely flustered expression.

"I've seen you already, haven't I? Hector. Valentino. Airnesto. Condicionado." You made sure to emphasize how well-known he was to you. How much care you had put into getting to know him with what little material he'd given you.

"If I was disappointed, would I be so eager to fuck you?" You leaned back into Hector's bubble, letting your hot whispers caress his slick neck.

You felt him shift under you with one nervous whimper. The faint light from the lamp on your bedside reflected off his sticky neck. Just one more inch and your teeth would collide into his sweet skin, finally getting to know what he tasted like.

"Ah, you, uh, know my full name." He sighed, his voice trembling with every word.

"Is that bad?" You replied without a beat, taking a moment to look at him from under his chin.

He fumbled over his words, taking quick looks at you before averting his eyes with growing embarrassment.

"No. It's just, well." You knew he had more to add to that thought; however, you became too impulsive at the moment.

Letting your greedy mouth take control, you began to suck at the side of Hector's neck. With every suckle, you listened as he attempted to put his thoughts into words rather than gibberish.

"God, I can't, my love, when you, please..." He tried to push you off with one weak hand to no avail.

He tasted rather salty in a way that made sense to you. It was gritty, rich, and a bit sour. Overall, it wasn't a bad taste by any means.

"I can't, I can't meet you like this." He whined.

"I'm sorry for being so desperate. Fuck!" He let out a tiny yelp once you added your teeth.

Once you had finished sucking, you unlatched your teeth from his neck. You looked at the spot you'd been working on to find a dark, purplish hickey in its place. A disgusting grin spread across your lips as you admired your creation.

As if you'd sucked out all of his energy from one kiss, he fell back now with his body entirely on the floor and under you. Seeing him sprawled out on your floor was practically a dream come true. What would you do with him first? Get to know him or get straight to business?

"This isn't how it was supposed to go!" Hector whined again, his body trembling as he attempted to slide out from under you.

"I was supposed to take you out first, get to know you, make your night. I was supposed to court you like a gentleman!" He haphazardly cupped one side of his face with one hand as he moved up.

You countered his attempts by stepping over him with every shuffle backward.

"Please, my love. I can't have you like this." He pleaded with you.

"You're a hypocrite, you know that, Hector?" You chuckled.

"You need to court me? Be a gentleman? Do gentlemen hide under the beds of the people they plan to pursue?"

He'd crawled out to the middle of your living room, making no progress in the sheepish attempt to escape from under you.

"I'm sorry, I truly meant to be patient, but after countless nights of hearing you moan my name, it was hard to stay forbearing." He finally looked up at you, meeting your eyes with a sulking expression.

"I don't need your apologies. Neither do I need you to woo me properly." You knelt your head back down to meet him almost at his lips.

"Wanna know the best way to win me over?" You snarled with bated breath.

Hector eagerly nodded his head.

"With every ounce of my being." He whispered back at you.

You cut the remaining inch between you and planted a gentle kiss on his warm yet dry lips.

"Fuck me." It was rather forward, but there was no other way to say it. You needed him.

He followed your lips as they left his, yearning to meet them again in the middle.

"Ok, I can, I can do that for you." He mumbled, returning the kiss with a more hastened attitude.

You found a comfortable spot on his lap as you finally laid your body onto Hector. With the way that you were positioned, you could feel the outline of his hard-on prodding at your pussy through the fabric of both his and your pants. It was wonderful—this moment of intimacy you could finally behold. You were on top of your cherished next-door neighbor, and kissing him at that.

After a minute of tender kisses, Hector let his hands finally touch you. Your whole body shivered as they began to roam across whatever exposed skin you had. He started at your shoulders, and soon his fingers traced down your arms, then to your back, where he rolled up the bottom of your loose tank to travel up your spine. You had planned to take advantage of the position you were both in by exploring every inch of Hector's skin, but he kept you low to him while slowly working towards eliminating your tank top. You let a series of small moans spill from your lips into the kiss. You felt his lips curl into a cheeky smile before you had to break the contact to finally remove your top.

"Contain yourself, my love. We haven't even started." Hector chuckled, still slightly awkward, but he was beginning to become more charming nonetheless.

Your chest was now exposed to him, given that you weren't ever wearing a bra. He tried to take a good look to marvel at the shape, but soon he became preoccupied again with marrying his lips against yours. So, he left it up to his hands to get to know every inch of them. He fondled your breasts with such a gentle touch that it was almost as if he believed they would shatter if he were to apply any more pressure.

You broke the kiss, which earned you some complaints in the form of whimpers from Hector. While it was cute, you paid no mind to it. Instead, you became concerned with something else: the skin under his shirt. He kept his warm hands on your breasts, groping and pinching at the tips of your nipples while you slid your hands under his top. Your fingers slowly started to become acquainted with the details of his exterior. This was, however, a challenging feat to accomplish because, with every pinch Hector gave your nipples, you tensed up with unfathomable pleasure. You felt your arms stall at his chest hair as you tried to twirl the hairs between your fingers to no avail. You didn't think you would ever be this sensitive, but soon you found yourself trembling from his comforting touch.

"Something wrong?" He cooed.

You could only whimper in response, which was pleasantly pathetic. The palms of his now increasingly hot hands slid off your delicate chest, down the sides of your quivering torso, finally finding themselves at the waistband of your shorts. With one sly finger, he tugged at the fabric, watching—waiting for your reaction.

You didn't realize it, but you'd closed your eyes shut, and it didn't occur to you until you had felt the sensation of his fingers creeping into your pants. You looked at him with eager eyes that he read immediately. Sitting up, Hector shifted his arms to cradle you as he turned the tables on you. You soon found yourself in the position he was in just a moment ago, under you. Your bare back lightly hit the cold floor, and once you were settled, he began to remove not only your shorts but your underwear as well. It was apparent that he was just as anxious to get what he'd wanted, just as you were.

"I do want to apologize for my growing absence, my beauty." He was practically salivating as he knelt down to face the entrance of your aching core.

You tried to keep a keen eye on Hector by elevating your body with your elbows, but you became so nervous that your head fell back, leaving everything he did as a surprise.

He parted your folds with two fingers and began to practically talk into your entrance.

"It was, embarrassing, to even consider showing my face after our premature meeting."

His hot breath played with the sticky skin of your cunt. With every flattering word that hit your filthy flesh, you grew more flushed and impatient. He was just as desirous but enjoyed watching you yearn for whatever—however he planned to please you. He was certainly at your service, but he planned to take his time just relishing in this newfound intimacy. He toyed with the idea of making you beg, but his lust was already unbearable. Besides, he couldn't fathom the thought of your sad puppy dog eyes as you whined for his touch. He didn't need the confirmation. Hector already knew how badly your body craved his. After all, he'd spent nights listening to your desperate yet soft cries of delectation. He couldn't bear to listen to them any longer.

With his searing tongue, Hector began to indulge in your flesh. You both had more to say to each other, but with the growing tension in the air, neither of you could take it. So straight to business it was.

Pleasure took control of you in the form of various sounds and twitches. Your hands attempted to grasp at the solid floor while your toes curled over themselves. As Hector sampled every inch of your cunt, he took one of your legs and applied it onto his shoulder. He couldn't determine if he wanted to savor your reaction or taste. For the most part, it was both. While he worshipped you with his tongue, he made sure to revel in every whimper, every moan, and every grunt that made its way from your mouth. It was his work, after all.

Soon, Hector snuck a thick digit into you, which made you yelp in shock. He chuckled while keeping his warm mouth on you. The feeling of his one finger was surprisingly different from your two fingers. Maybe it was because you weren't the one controlling the pace or the pressure. However, giving it some more thought, it was odd. He used his finger as if he were more concerned with finding a specific spot. It soon became frustrating the more he continued.

You finally let your head fall forward to look down at Hector. Once your eyes hit him, you were met with a pair of cunning yet awkward eyes staring back at you. He took his mouth off your clit just enough for you to hear him talk yet also just enough for you to feel the heat of every word.

"Unsatisfying, right?" He snickered.

You furrowed your brow at him, making him laugh harder. He was playing with you, but you couldn't determine his purpose. Frankly, he was fascinated by how you needed him so badly. To say he was aware of your obsession with him would be a significant understatement. The first time he'd heard his own name whimpered through the thin wall of his apartment, he wanted to—well, he didn't really know what he wanted to do. He never thought you would actually take a liking to him ever.

Truth be told, he was the one who liked you first. The day you knocked on his door to introduce yourself after you had moved in, he never answered. But he watched you through the peephole, too nervous to open the door. He saw your sweet, confused face as you left and vowed that one day, he'd work up the courage to ask you out. The only problem for him was his "plain face" and "ugly features". So he kept you waiting for a day when that courage came. If it weren't for how desperate he was to be near you, you would've never seen him again.

"Alright, I'll do it properly." He promised, and soon, his lips found themselves latched onto your now puffy clit while his finger pumped in and out of you at a tantalizing pace.

Once he added a second finger in the mix, it was over. You felt the heat in you boil up as you grew closer and closer to your peak. The way his tongue was shockingly attentive made you eerily jealous. How was he so good? Why was he so good? Was he with others before you? How much practice had he had?

"How are you so good-!" Your growing anger was cut off by pleasure boiling over.

He made you cum. Quicker than you could've ever managed by yourself. It was slightly embarrassing how fast he drew that out of you, but then that shame morphed into agitation as he kept going.

"I came! You can stop, please!" You whined, giving him a tiny slap on the head.

He let out a small grunt but never let up. He helped you ride out your orgasm and then some. You became dizzy and frustrated by the constant feeling of lips licking and lapping at you like a lollipop. Your whines became louder, and the pumping of his fingers grew faster. It wasn't long before he sucked another orgasm out of you. Your body fell back onto the ground as you shivered with overwhelming delight. You almost felt tears collect in the corners of your eyes. It was too much. Thankfully, he finally had his fill after you came a second time.

He crawled up away from your cunt and back up to your rosy face with delicate eyes.

"I'm sorry. It's just that, your taste is something heavenly. I felt increasingly like a ravenous dog as I ate from your sweet, sweet skin, my love." He shuttered a bit as he whispered close to your face.

You could smell yourself on his breath. It was, enthralling, to say the least. You both stared at each other for a minute, taking in the different details that made up the other person. Hector's eyes practically glowed in the darkness of your living room. He was in love, and it was plastered all over his pussy drunken face. You must've made a particularly needy face because suddenly, he leaned back and began to unbutton his pants. You scooted from under him and sat up, watching as he messed with his pants. It was funny; he was fumbling to button up his jeans just a moment ago. Now, here he was, desperate to do the opposite.

"Do you need me to tie my hair up?" You asked.

He froze and peered up at you in confusion.

"What, what do you mean?"

You froze yourself.

"What do you mean what do I mean?" You questioned. "Don't you want me to suck you off?"

"Oh. Hardly." He remarked like it was the most casual thing you could've asked.

He continued to undo the zipper of his jeans as you sat there in puzzlement.

"...Why?" You finally managed to say.

"Do you think I've been blue balling myself just to finally get a blow job? I'm sure your mouth would be something else, but I've waited too long, my love."

Without a second more, Hector pulled his already erect cock out from his jeans. Finally, you could have multiple answers to the plethora of questions you'd asked yourself plenty of nights. It was just slightly bigger in width than length. The size was quite normal but big enough to where you knew it'd hit all corners. He was also circumcised, and no, he did not have a curved erection.

You stared at his penis for longer than you should've. It was as if you'd found the correct puzzle piece, and now the picture would finally come together.

"And I'm sure you've waited too long, too, no?" He purred before scooting your body closer to his.

Your ass made an embarrassingly loud squeak as it slid across the floor. However, neither of you paid any mind because soon, Hector would be inside of you.

You let your body fall to the floor again as he lined his cock up to the entrance of your slick cunt. Slowly, he began to press it into you while holding your hips. This, of course, drew out a variety of different whimpers and whines. It wasn't entirely painful, but it was vastly different in comparison to just your two fingers. Once he bottomed you out, he looked at you and never let his eyes leave you again. You gazed back at him with a drunken expression and mopey lips. He smiled at you. It wasn't a malicious grin but a smile that matched the same tenderness that had run through him since the beginning. He began to pump in and out of you, watching the dissimilar faces that your features contorted into.

"You have a lovely face when you cum." He whimpered with a very meek voice.

You tried to remark with something but were too lost in the embrace of Hector to even think of what you'd say. This is how it went for the next five minutes. He would feed you sweet nothings, possibly fishing for a slurred yet coherent response, only to be met with a series of loud whines and gibberish. Through the sounds of slaps and your own enjoyment, you could hear Hector's voice begin to crack with every other sentence. Almost as if he was about to finish.

"Did you want to try a different position, my love? Or-!" Before he could conclude whatever he meant to say, he came.

It was fast. Quicker than you thought sex with Hector would be like. You felt his hot semen flood into you as he grunted and whimpered, tightening his grip on your hips as he whined the words, "I'm sorry!"

You watched as he averted his eyes from you with a guilty expression. Shivering, you propped yourself up and out of his lap with your hands. His penis slid out of you as you moved, and soon you felt his sperm do the same. You placed a gentle but shaky hand on his cheek, guiding his face back to yours. The remaining arm holding you up felt like jello. He'd somehow drained every bit of you. If he had came too fast this time, you didn't even want to imagine what sex would be like on his good days. His eyes found your face again, and he placed his now sticky hand atop yours. Another lovely smile painted itself across his lips, and like a disease, his visual delight spread to you. A grin likewise of the same loveliness soon laid itself on your face.

Nothing was said at that moment. The silence between the both of you was enough to say what needed to be said.

"I love you."

Well, maybe a couple of words needed to be spoken.

Regardless of the timing and the duration of what happened between you. It was still bound to be the start of a rather eccentric relationship. You were made for each other, and nothing would be better.

"I love you, too."

End Notes: I was originally going to include a plethora of things. Hector was actually going to drill a hole in your wall, but I didn't know how I'd make that work. I was also going to have you and Hector go a second round, but again, I'm unmedicated, and if I randomly go to TikTok instead of finishing my fanfiction again, I WILL kill myself. ALSOOO i want this blog to be filled with hector for a month so PLEASE if you want anything hector REQUEST IT!

[thatlonelycactus]

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these and honestly I’m pretty sure I’ve said this before but dammit it I’m thinking about it again because it’s coming up to two years since I watched the final 15. Anyway:

The thing that will ALWAYS stand between Aziraphale and Crowley is three words: “I forgive you”. Because “I forgive you” is representative of it all, isn’t it? Because Aziraphale, deep down, still trusts the system created by Heaven. He doesn’t necessarily believe Crowley needs to be forgiven for any reasons except for his (Crowley’s) own inner peace. To Aziraphale, Heaven is still salvageable and ∴ he still believes in it. That’s why he goes back to Heaven, and that’s why I will stand by the fact that he at least hoped Crowley would go with him. Because Crowley doesn’t need to be an angel for Aziraphale to love him, it doesn’t change the way he views him at all, BUT Heaven, to him, is- well- EVERYTHING. I don’t know how best to phrase it but, in essence, Aziraphale sees Heaven as something salvageable and worth saving and so that’s why he still follows its purported dogma- to forgive.

But Crowley, who has been scorned and outcast by the system, doesn’t view forgiveness in the same way. Aside from the fact that he has been told by the institutions of Heaven and Hell he is unforgivable (because let’s be honest both of them have been indoctrinated even if not to the same degree as other characters) doesn’t want to participate in the system. He both doesn’t see what he is doing as something that requires forgiveness (and it doesn’t) but “I forgive you” stands for the deeper flaws and corruption within the system. So, whilst Aziraphale sees the system as something that can be fixed, its core values as something to be perpetuated, thus his constant “forgiving” (weird phrasing ik but I’m half asleep), Crowley attempts to subvert this forgiveness to try to evade the same system.

Because, at the end of the day, Aziraphale choose to try and salvage the same system Crowley has wanted to dismantle since his fall. Aside from the personal implications of Aziraphale forgiving Crowley (believing Azi doesn’t see him as “good” etc etc), “I forgive you” stands as the core of the institutional conflict of the entire series and that’s why I have recovered almost two years later.

Anyway yeah you’ve definitely seen hundreds of people say this by now so if you read all of this I’m impressed

[wenalena]

"Stay with me until the end of the night... - Always. I will stay always."

I miss drawing them... I miss them.

[chicksmoothie]

• Lovedrunk — mingi

Pairing: bf!mingi x gf!reader

— Mingi and you finally decide to move in together, but truth to be told you didn’t have time for each other more than for the basics. This means you are desperate to spend time just enjoying the other’s company (and fuck, and well, it shows)

! Long fuck fic

! based on Say it like you mean it characters but not mentioning its plot

W/C: ~4.8K

Genre: smut, fluff, established relationship, madly in love

Warnings: +18, mdni (seriously), cursing (a lot), dirty talking (another lot), teasing, edging, slight possessive behaviour (from both parts), breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, honestly this is a kink compilation, raw sex (you know you shouldn’t), needy mingi & needy reader, both vibing in the same horny kind of tune, pure hornyness, dry humping, a lot of spit, oral (f receiving), making out, multiple orgasms and therefore overstim, squirting, switch dynamics (rather bratty power bottom reader x service top mingi but also kind of switching so idk?), filming, this counts as a warning too cos really madly in love should be a warning, let me know if I forgot something i hope not cos this warnings are longer than the fic already

A/N: at the end

Also: this oneshot is fiction and in no way aims to portrait anyone involved in the story

Taglist: @i01233 @tinie03 @thesupreme316 @esmedelacroix thanks for waiting ♡

His scent was all over the room after taking a shower. His arm still a bit humid and warmer than usual had you hugged close to him under the blanket. And you couldn’t see it well since it was dark in the room, but the red and white highlights flashing from the tv painting his beautiful profile and the screen reflecting on his glasses had you totally distracted.

you were trying so hard to focus on the anime you decided to watch together. You were so, so trying it…

But the way his casual and cozy look caught your breath each time you had the chance to see it since you moved in together had no hopes in changing, ever.

It had been some time since you had had a quality time and chill night together due to hectic schedules at work and all the move in process, so now that the stars aligned and you had the same days off you wanted it to be as actually chill as possible and restricted every single dirty thought about pulling his glasses off and kiss him to start with.

If only his fingers were not playing with yours under the blanket. If only his shampoo wasn’t the same as yours and you didn’t weirdly get off to that because it meant you were actually living together. If only you weren’t so pent up after nearly a week without seeing each other for anything else but eating and sleeping if you were lucky.

If only you didn’t feel your heart skip a beat every time he chuckled when he found something funny happening in the anime that you were totally not watching.

If only you didn’t love him so fucking much.

Mingi turned his face your way while still smiling to check if you found the scene as funny as he did.

And you will never know what he saw on your face at this very moment, but his smile dropped and his eyes narrowed in only one second. “What’s up babychick? You don’t like the series?”

He knew exactly what was up, but he chose to play dumb for a moment. “Yes, yes, i am loving it,” you recovered quickly from your trance ”it is so interesting” and decided to play along. You smiled, lovingly, not showing how sarcastic you were actually being and on the contrary making it sound as genuine as possible.

You turned your face to the screen just in time to catch a smirk slowly growing on his face. He wanted to play? This you could do it. No problem at all.

—

The voices coming from the tv were white noise and ambient sound at this point. You had been silent since your little conversation earlier, but no words were needed when both of you were anticipating what was going to happen. You knew each other already, so you could tell that Mingi was getting impatient by how he looked at you from the corner of his eye. His tease was backfiring completely and all he could think about was him eating you out, but he didn’t want to lose just yet.

It all started to get complicated for him with you pulling up slightly at the hem of his shirt and placing your hand on his lower stomach pretending you were looking for some kind of warmth, your hand was cold you said. Sneaky girl… and eventho his breath hitched for one millisecond he continued with your little edging game.

He put his hand over yours, saying that by doing so it would warm up quicker. And it could have been an innocent gesture if only he wasn’t tracing random forms and decorating your fingers in suggestive caresses. Fucking tease… Good thing someone died in the anime in this exact moment, that way your little pout could pass as unbothered.

But you were bothered. Both of you were since long ago. All the second intentions behind the caresses, all the low whimpers you could hear from one another at every single touch and trying to contain yourselves from just lose it all and finally fuck were agonizing at this point.

You knowing he was already half hard and that your hand was dangerously close to his crotch but intentionally not daring to touch him wasn’t easy.

Him knowing you were probably already soaking through the grey leggins you used as a pijamas and he had done nothing but sit beside you and hug you yet was even less easy. How bad would it be when he got started…

You realizing the hands you originally had interlaced under the blanket were now somehow resting on your tit made you sigh.

Him realizing that your nipple was perking out and begging to be pinched, squeezed, bitten, sucked and anything possible was almost unbearable.

You and him panting quietly, suffocating in the tension that you both had slowly been creating by doing nothing but know that you wanted each other very, very badly.

You were also getting impatient, so you decided to push his buttons further and you knew exactly how. Without saying a word, you broke your cozy (yet hot) hug to slowly get up the sofa. “Where are you going?” His voice was husky and a little pouty because of your sudden distance. “I am sleepy, I think I am going to be-“

You couldn’t even finish your sentence as he grabbed your arm and pulled you down, placing you on his lap right over his hard bulge. Both of you moaned at the contact. God he was harder than you thought he would be. This rilling up game was going to be one of your favorites… “stop with the teasing, you win” you smiled in victory “i always win” well, he had to agree on that.

As soon as you leaned in to take his glasses off and give him the long awaited kiss both of you were a panting mess already. The kiss was slow and nasty, drinking in each other as if you had been wandering in a desert for ages and just found a fountain.

His hands were gripping your hips hard, knuckles white and head empty, bucking up every time you grinded your pussy along his dick through your clothes. The friction so good you could cum from just that after all the built up tension, your fingers tangled in his shirt and pulled to bring him even closer. You had the feeling that he had been too far from you for too long, otherwise you wouldn’t be this extremely horny, so needy for his touch and his skin on yours already.

“I need this out of the way” you pulled his shirt off slowly, taking your time on the motion, then yours went after, both ending rumbled on the floor.

You had to take a second to admire his topless figure under you, the dim light of the tv outlining his strong figure, and you looked at him with real adoration written in your eyes “my hand is cold again…” you bit your lip shyly, putting your hand back on his lower tummy as you had done earlier, but this time you traced the pattern of his slightly defined torso up to his chest, both hands meeting at his back and feeling his wide shoulders with featherlike touches.

“You are gonna be the end of me babe, you doing this on purpose?” his head rested on the back of the sofa, eyes lidded, tensing under your light touch and waiting impatiently for you to snap and continue what had already started.

You looked at him with such a fake surprised expression, “what do you mean? I am only admiring my pretty boyfriend” and you knew what you calling him pretty would do to him.

“I thought the game ended” he growled, eyes now on the roof and his adam’s apple bobbing while swallowing a moan at the praise “yes, and I won, so I am going to savor my price” you leaned back and took his chin to make him look at you “see how I am already? You made me wet through my pijamas, anything to say about that??”

He looked down where your leggins were indeed as soaked as he had imagined, the dark patch too close to his cock for his brain to not malfunction. “I am going to fuck you so good babychick you wont be going out of bed in three working days” that you didn’t see it coming. He was never so aggressive from the beginning, but he was in such a horny state his hands were already shaking in your hips.

“Please let me eat you out” you moaned at his begging “its all I can think about” he closed his eyes and sighed just at the thought of your dripping cunt smearing his face and your sweet flavor filling his mouth. “You are so needy…” you said and he nodded slowly and deadly serious “only for you”.

One of his hands run up to your back, the other one still gripping your hip tightly. Your boy was so strong and so big it took him zero effort to stand up carrying you on top of him. “You wanted to go to bed yeah?” You grinned “I knew you would get the hint at some point”

He had been between your legs for two orgasms already. His face a dripping mess and his thumb circling your clit slowly compared to the quick pace his tongue had set on you. Slurping, moaning in your cunt, drawing random patterns in your inner thighs with his free hand to feel your soft skin somehow. He was fucking the mattress to get some kind of friction for himself although he could cum untouched by just the sound of your moans and the way you pushed his head impossibly close to you.

The overstimulation of cumming twice with just his mouth was torture but you couldn’t think about pushing him away, that would be worse. “My girl likes to go wild with overstim?” He slurped up a drop of your cum, pulling out his tongue to show you your own creamy arousal “you think you are stretched out for me already my love?”

You couldn’t take this any longer, having him inside was your top priority in this moment so you grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him up as he moaned in pleasure due to the sudden pain while you cried “mingi, pants off” you were already naked, but he had still these black home sweatpants that normally drove you crazy but in this moment drove you mad.

He obliged and pulled them down, revealing that he had no boxers on and letting his dripping cock spring out, red, all veins on display and you swore to god you had never seen him this hard in all the time you had been together.

You were already salivating… the stretch of his cock was always good, but this time.. oh my god you couldn’t imagine it, you had to have it.

Wide open on your bed, waiting for him to put the condom on and his dick to finally fill you up, anticipating that stretch you were aching for with little whimpers trying to escape your mouth.

And he knew it.

He was sliding his tip along your entrance, covering the condom in your slick and his own spit after his make out session with your pussy. “mingi, fuck off…” you were desperate for him “baby I really want to slam in, but I have to put it in slowly” this was half true given his size and half him getting revenge for his loss, but you were not having it.

You were always the winner for a reason: whatever he did you took it further.

You rose your hips and pushed against the tip. finally, finally opening yourself for him inch by inch. You couldn’t see it because you had closed your eyes at the feeling, but he kept them wide open in a completely fucked out expression, savoring the sight of your relaxed face for having him inside you at good fucking last.

Mingi tried, but he couldn’t keep your slow pace until the end and bottomed out in one go, gasping and falling over you, completely worn out already. “god, fuck, mingi” After a few seconds of both of you adjusting to the feeling he started moving, his body still flush against yours, he didn’t bear thinking about being the slightest bit apart from you and not feel you tense, squirm and tremble underneath him. Your sweat making it easier for you to meet his movements as if you were water.

“God…Your pussy hugs me so good baby, I love it. My fucking girl… you are mine, yeah? Answer me baby please…” and he sounded as he really needed you to give a response to that question, eyes shut and forehead pressed against yours. “Mingi…” you cupped his face with both your hands to kiss him “i am yours” you whispered between his lips and dragged your fingers to his hair to pull slightly.

His beautiful reaction every time you did so made you clench around him, making him open his eyes in shock at the sudden tightness and turning his growls even deeper.

He pretended he wasn’t, but he was so needy and so clingy. So lovedrunk for you that you saying that you belonged to him had him already close to cumming.

“There is no other one for you either” you looked at him in the eyes through your lashes, pulling off your best sultry face, “you are mine too, say it” he was shuddering, loving the way you demanded his response, bossing him around from underneath him as if the one being fucked to the brim wasn’t you.

You had him so in the palm of your hand he wouldn’t mind you closing it and crush him, how could he answer anything else than that? “I am yours baby… fuck…” and that made you giggle.

“Thanks” you pecked his lips, hugging him around his neck, legs around his waist pushing him deeper and earning a low moan from him, “baby I really won’t last today”, and it was a given since you had been fucking each other really since the moment you sat on the sofa this afternoon, “so take it easy on me and behave yeah?” he was fucking you slow, the way he knew you liked it. The way he could fill you completely and leave no single untouched spot inside you. But also the only way he would be able to keep going for a while.

And just because you were dying to see him lose his mind completely were you determined to do everything you knew he loved at the same time. Pressing kisses all over his neck till you reached his earlobe and bit it, “I am behaving right? I am being so good today, what you gonna give me, hm?”

He was panting heavily, eyes shut, both his hands at each side of your head, the vision so good and his dick so deep you nearly started crying at the unbearable thrill.

But you decided to slowly move your arms down from his neck to interlace one of his hands with your own instead. Your other hand landed on your lips, tongue full of spit ready to coat your fingers in your saliva and leaving a string behind once you finished with the task, never breaking the eye contact.

Mingi couldn’t win against you being a dirty brat, but he had even less chances of winning against your hand going down where your bodies met to push one of your soaked fingers inside your cunt, stretching you even more but making it even tighter for him.

His jaw clenched and his eyes were silently asking you if you were being fucking for real right now. And oh my god you were, so fucking for real that you started moving your finger slowly inside you and rubbing his dick on your way, moaning loud and grabbing his hand tightly, needing to hold onto something for how good it was feeling for you too.

“Fuuuuuuuuck….” Fuck it, he really didn’t stand a chance from the beginning “I am gonna cum, where do you want it? Tell me babe I won’t last much more” he knew that you loved to feel his cum all over you and you were already trembling, so close yourself.

You couldn’t imagine him pulling out from you right now nor for too long, this past weeks without any intimate contact at all were working hard on you so you didn’t have to think it twice “mingi please… cum inside”

He could never have figured you would say that, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he thought about how to answer.

“Raw baby?” He finally asked with a cry, just to make sure he was understanding it right “please…” your affirmation whisper froze him and made him almost nut on the spot.

He slowly carried on with the roll of his hips, struggling with the pace while the only thing on his mind was to piston fuck you into the bed after what you had asked him to do “you can’t say shit like that”. He was struggling, gritting his teeth and he really wanted to obey but you would regret this tomorrow, this had been said in the heat of the moment, or at least this is what he was telling himself in order not to breed you full.

But you blinked, you fucking innocently blinked pretending to be surprised, knowing how bad he wanted it and quickly slid your sticky hand out of your cunt and between your bodies to push him off and pull him out “but I can tho”.

In one swift motion and in a record time you took the condom off, tossed it somewhere on the floor and aligned his pulsing cock inside you again, painfully slowly sinking him in as you watched his face contort in pure ecstasy by the contact of your wet walls around him for the first time in months using protection.

Nothing could describe the way he felt about having you split open and raw underneath him, completely his to take. You put your arms around his neck, dragging him down to look him in the eyes again as you always liked to watch him when he reached his climax “now you can cum baby” your voice was merely a whisper, small but commanding “i will look so good with your cum dripping out later”.

And that was it. Something animalistic took over him and he started to move rougher, faster and more desperate than he ever had .

“Yeah?? You want to be full of my cum that bad??” His voice deep in the crook of your neck sending shivers through your whole body. Shit, you wanted to see his face!! but you were feeling so good at the way he thrusted into you, grinding his pelvis against your clit each time he went back inside, that you couldn’t be arsed complaining about it.

“Not enough with having me ballsdeep inside you that you also want to keep me there after I pull out??” He was testing the waters, trying to find out if he could say what he actually wanted to. But your loud moan at his words told him that he could carry on and so he did.

“You want me here?” you were far gone, dripping from your pussy to the bed and your skin burning, goosebumps all over and making the prettiest noises he had ever heard.

Never knew this would thrill him so much, but as his hand reached your belly, pressing down slightly and feeling himself moving in and out of you over your skin and going back to kiss you desperately he understood that no other raw pussy was ever gonna have him “you want me to get you pregnant tonight or what?”

Finally. He met your eyes just in time to see them roll back and flutter shut, your cry immediate “yes yes yes yes” you were begging, your cunt squeezing and sucking his cock in so hard it was getting difficult for him to slide out, seeing white ass stars as you came around him repeating his name since it was the only word you could remember.

The noises of your wet bodies crashing every time he thrusted inside you filling his ears and the warmth of your cum soaking his pelvis felt too good, “you drive me fucking insane” he growled and was now letting go, feeling you milk him dry and trembling in a pleasure he was sure he was going to get addicted to.

Cumming raw and inside after holding it in for so long only for you, he really wanted to see how your tummy grew big. “mingi…” he covered his nervous smile with your lips, still panting over your worn out body, never pulling out even after both of you came down from the shared orgasm.

Wait, “you are still hard??” you couldn’t believe it “give me another one babes, i know you can” there was nothing else in this world that had him in more bliss than your whole body response when you were cumming and he knew that nothing could ever compare to the way your walls hugged him perfectly, massaging his cock in ways nothing could do. He needed to feel it some more “you are having my kids no? we need to fill this up”. His words were going to turn you into burning ashes.

He started to move slowly again, the painful overstimulation not being enough to make him stop “but mingi I don’t think I can cum anymore” your eyebrows were beautifully frown and a tear was about to roll down your cheek when he suddenly flipped you over, you being still flush against his body but now on top of him. He fucking knew you loved being on top, completely able to adjust to his length and set your own pace. Watching him from above was one of your most personal moments.

You looked at him in disbelief, he was seriously going to play this game with you??? You straighten up, watching him dangerously challenging but still catching your breath. As soon as you leaned back and rolled your hips your thoughts about not being able to cum were already gone, his dick filling you up so good you couldn’t believe you ever said that.

You put one hand over his leg to balance yourself while grinding over his dick nice and slow “actually maybe I can…?” your other one gently reaching your belly and caressing it in a wide circle, your own touch giving you goosebumps, the gesture making him flinch at the thought of his cum inside you right where you were touching yourself, yours and his imagination going fucking wild.

He closed his eyes to savor each sensation you could pull out of him, hands running up your legs and landing on your hips to help you grind. But he really wanted to see you, so when he opened his eyes again you were still watching him, all the love you felt for him showing on your face and basically dancing on his lap, little moans escaping your mouth. His eyes on you were so raw and sincere it had you melting, a hot drop of your slick running down your boyfriends lap. How the fuck were you this lucky you didn’t know.

He was biting his bottom lip, all his feelings over the place. he loved you so much. And knowing you felt the same for him sometimes blew his mind “how am i so lucky?” you smiled at his words matching your exact thoughts, “look at me mingi, am I not lucky too?” he indeed looked at you, from your pretty face to your pretty hole sucking his cock, a husky moan leaving him.

He brought his hand to your pussy and split your lips open to watch how his cock disappeared inside you “fucking god…” he nearly came again at the sight of his release forming a ring around his base “I wish I could see this forever” and he could tell when you had a bright idea pop into your clever head, like right now.

You stopped for a second to reach out for your phone, your change of position making him pant and trying to hold you still. You popped the camera app on your screen and pressed record then offered it to him. Seriously, how was he so lucky? He was too horny to argue or question you so…

His eyes were fixed on the screen, watching you go back to moving gently on his dick but quickening your pace until you were sliding him out and bucking back in, jumping and moaning nonsenses. His dick felt so right inside you, so where it belonged to that you stopped thinking what you were saying, completely lovedrunk yourself.

“I love this dick” he groaned and struggled to keep the recording and it took everything in him to not throw the phone away and keep looking through the screen, “no one else is ever cumming inside me, I am all yours” you cried and threw your head back, letting out a high pitched moan as you sensed his free hand grip your hip tighter and buck up to meet your movements.

The hand where he was holding the phone completely trembling, the dirty feeling of this happening to him but also watching you getting fucked through anything that wasn’t his own eyes made it look like something nasty. And hell was he getting off to that shit, “mingi I am gonna…” “yeah, yeah please cum babychick, I am following”

Mingi had this rare gifted talent of making you cum as soon as he commanded, and so you did. The scream was loud from both parts, your pussy tightening harder than it ever had around him, not wanting him to ever leave that place “I am cumming inside again baby is that okay?” you couldn’t even manage to answer, your orgasm so hard it was taking forever for it to go down, so you only nodded fervently as a yes.

All the edging and the overstimulation from earlier skyrocketing your sensitivity. It wasn’t easy for it to happen to you but it did this time and it was recorded forever for commemorative purposes; your pussy started to spray over everything reachable around you, all his torso drenched in your squirt, the camera lens soaked and the image blurry.

Fuck it, you didn’t need to save anything else. Mingi stopped the recording and tossed the phone somewhere over the bed, sat up straight to hug you while you were still crying out his name and started to thrust harsher from bellow.

You hugged him back, curling your legs around his waist to keep him as close as you could and started to kiss him desperately, no rhythm no attention, waiting for this rollercoaster climax to end. His movements were already unsteady due to his own incoming orgasm, calling your name and saying sweet praises into your mouth as the string finally snapped and he finished inside again, making your insides warm with his hot cum.

Once he calmed down he fell on his back over the bed, hugging you still over on top of him, totally worn out and suddenly cold after what you thought had been the best orgasm you’d had.

“shit” you sighed “it is so cold” mingi smiled, completely satisfied, “let me get a towel, I will clean this mess up” he reached down to get a sample of the said mess in his finger. You couldn’t help it and licked it without thinking, “baby… don’t go there again” he was being half serious, but his still inside cock twitched weakly. You laughed at him, “baby go get that towel, I am seriously cold”.

He slid out of you, leaving you to get the promised towel, both relieved and sad at the sudden emptiness in your cunt. But… wait, it is not that empty? Your cheeks burned beet red, remembering how you had been begging him to get you pregnant. How many kinks were you gonna collect with this guy?! Your hand moved by its own, trying to find its way to your slit.

As soon as you felt it in your fingers you couldn’t stop yourself, you were putting all the cum that dripped out back in, moaning quietly at the single thought of your belly full of him again.

“need any help with that?” you looked towards the door, he was leaning against its frame, towel in hand, his smile showing his front teeth that you loved so much. You had to smile back, “yeah?”

—

A/N: Hellooo haha this took me a while.

I know it was meant to be the continuation for Say it like you mean it, but it has been so long already (two whole years to be exact) that I found no joy in these characters anymore. And as much as I tried to start them over again (seriously I had like 9 drafts about them) it always ended up being just not too good. I really wanted to give them a hot and steamy (and really long wtf) chance with this one. I think my writing got better too (not posting at all but still writing), even if english is not my mother language and therefore I am a bit limited!

I would like to improve some more for the next one, which will also be set on mingi & the chick since i am biased and i kinda got attached to some of the topics I was writing about in Say it like you mean it. So for now we have this one, but possibly the next one will fiiiiinally be SILYMI part.2? When? Who knows, no one when it comes to me i am afraid.

Anyways! I hope you enjoyed. Comments are welcome ♡

[stylesispunk]

The days of you and I | part 1

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

series masterlist | next chapter

Summary: After Joel’s near-death, you stay by his side, refusing to leave him behind. You both confront the weight of what’s been done and what it means to still have each other for now.

w.c: 4,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know.

Note: Remember this story is a sequel of this one shot "What remains of us" or you can ignore it and keep reading this one haha.

A/N: Okay, hello. This is a new Joel series because we love Joel here, and he is alive and recovering. This series will have angst, and the topics followed throughout the story will hold onto the path of healing after a traumatic event for the characters. I already have the end for this series, so everything will lead to it. I hope you like it and stay here to read it. Reblogs are really important, and I appreciate them. I'm gonna be out for a days because I have to put an end to the semester before winter break and do my teacher duties.

Also, I created an AO3 account, and I'll be posting fics there too from now on.

The hospital room was very quiet. With that eerie absence of sound that you could feel penetrating your bones, damaging the inside of your body with a pain that pierced your body, seeped into your soul, and oppressed your heart.

Joel still woke up to that silence, as if was chocking him to death and he had decided he have had enough of it.  to the distant hush of an early morning, and a world that carried on without him. The sharp sting in his ribs reminded him he was still alive, though some days, he wondered what for.

His eyes opened slow, the weight behind them too heavy to lift at once. The ceiling looked the same as it had for the past week, wooden beams, a single hanging light. He’d spent more hours staring at it than sleeping. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but nothing softened the hollow inside his chest.

And you were still there.

Your silhouette sat by the window, curled into the old chair like you belonged there. As if you were stuck. A book half-read on your lap, a cup of cold tea nearby, and that same tired crease between your brows you probably didn’t know you had. You looked so small in the pale dawn light, so goddamn stubborn.

He should’ve been glad. Grateful you hadn’t left.

But this morning, something cracked inside him.

It wasn’t relief that filled him. It was grief.

His bones were still aching, his legs dumbed under the cover. He didn’t feel like a man no more, but as a lifeless lump lying in bed.

And you deserved better than this version of him, this half-broken thing stitched together by other people’s hands, carrying the weight of mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Joel wasn’t the man you met. Wasn’t the one who held you like you were the only good thing left in the world.

And seeing you here, still choosing him, hurt worse than any wound that other girl that beat him almost to death had left behind.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and unused.

“You don’t need to stay here all the time, you know?”

The words came out more bitter than he meant them to, tasting like rust and regret.

Your head turned, soft eyes finding his. That damn look, the one that exactly saw right through him, the one that made him feel like a man again for a moment.

And for a second, Joel wished you’d leave.

Because it would be easier than losing you piece by piece like this.

You smiled, small but steady, like you always did when you noticed he was awake. That damn smile, it cut through him every time.

“Took you long enough to wake up again,” you murmured, the softness in your voice brushing against the raw places in him he tried to keep buried. You crossed the room, moving to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn’t been three weeks and one more of watching him drift in and out of fevered sleep and silence.

“You must be feeling tired,” you said, fingertips brushing through the strands of his hair, pushing them gently from his forehead.

Joel didn’t move, but his throat worked around a swallow. It wasn’t fair, you being so gentle. Wasn’t fair that after everything, you were still here, speaking to him like he was the man you remembered, not the one lying broken in that bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning, barely, into your touch before forcing himself to pull away. His jaw clenched.

Reality blurred at the edges; every breath thick with a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name. Time didn’t move right in this room. It stretched too long, like a cruel joke, dragging him through the sharp fragments of what he used to be.

He wasn’t mad.

He was devasted.

He felt ashamed of the man he was now.

He never experienced a physical pain like this. One that burned inside and out his body.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was clenching around nothing.

How he could even be useful for this town now that he was gone. Everything left was limb laying on a bed with nothing left but a void consuming him as a whole.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood grounding him for a second. His voice, when it came, was cracked and quiet.

“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste your time on me, darling.”

A bitter, broken kind of truth. But in his heart, he knew it would be worse than dying to watch you stay, wasting your life on him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull your hand away, even when his words hung heavy in the air between you like a noose. If anything, your fingers curled more firmly into his hair, a tender anchor to a man too lost to realize he was still here, still tethered.

“I’m not wasting anything,” you said softly, the words steady even as your throat threatened to close around them. “You’re here, Joel. That’s enough.”

He gave a ragged breath, like he wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, but all that came was a low, broken sound somewhere deep in his chest. His gaze dropped to the space between you — his hand, bruised and shaking, lying useless on the blanket.

“Don’t deserve you sitting here, watching this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes hot though no tears came. Couldn’t remember the last time they had.

A long, aching silence stretched between you.

You could feel it, the war inside him. The part that needed you close, needed your touch, your voice, like it was the last thing tethering him to this side of the dark. And the other part, the one too proud, too broken, too wrecked by shame to let himself have it.

But you’d made your choice the moment he opened his eyes a week ago.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. Not a promise you made lightly in a world like this.

Joel closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer. But for the first time in days, his hand moved, slow, halting, to brush against yours.

“Did you… really take them all?” he rasped.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

You gave a small, steady nod.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His gaze dropped for a second, his hand flexing weakly against the sheets.

“I don’t regret it,” you said at last, the words steady despite the ache in your chest. “No one deserves what they did to you.”

There was a storm behind Joel’s eyes, a thousand things he wanted to say, but his throat burned too much to let them out. Anger, grief, guilt, some twisted kind of gratitude. It tangled up inside him like barbed wire, tearing at every soft part he had left.

“You didn’t have to…” his voice broke, low and pained.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I would do it again.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and this time, his hand turned, weakly curling around yours. A tremble ran through him, and you felt it in your bones, the weight of his shame, the depth of his sorrow, and somewhere, buried beneath it, the fragile pulse of the man you knew still fighting to breathe.

But the love you felt for him, that was enough to send you into a spiral, where nothing else felt real but the desperate need to save him, the desperation of not losing him because that would have meant losing yourself that day.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room was heavy with the things you didn’t need to say.

You didn’t look away from Joel, but you felt the shift in the room, the familiar presence of Tommy as he stepped in.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was rough, softer than usual, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile peace hung in the air. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You lifted your head, your fingers gently slipping from Joel’s, though his hand lingered in the empty space you left behind.

Tommy gave a small nod toward you. “Gail’s waiting to see you. Said whenever you were ready.”

Your stomach twisted, a cold unease settling in your chest. You gave Joel one last look, brushing a thumb over his hand before pulling away completely.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes distant.

As you stepped out, Tommy caught your arm, just briefly, his hand firm but kind.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “Not gonna leave him alone.”

You gave him a grateful, weary nod and left, the door shutting quietly behind you.

The room felt emptier after you were gone. Joel let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment before shifting to glance at his brother.

“Gail?” Joel’s voice was rough, but clearer now. “She… she going to therapy with her?”

Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing as he sank into the chair by the bed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Doctor says it might help. Been… hard for her since it happened. It isn’t just you carrying scars, brother.”

Joel looked away, his throat working around another swallow. The word therapy felt foreign in his mouth, like it belonged to a world he’d never stepped into, one too far gone for men like him.

Joel stayed quiet for a long time after Tommy spoke, the words circling in his head, refusing to settle. His gaze lingered on the window, on the way the morning light edged in like it didn’t belong here.

Then, rough and low, he broke the silence.

“Was she…” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, hating the weakness there. “Was she hurt? When… when they brought me back?”

Tommy’s face shifted, the answer already written in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “She… she had some bruises. Took a hit to the side’a her face, couple more on her ribs. And there was a wound on her abdomen.”

Joel’s stomach turned, a cold, sinking dread washing over him.

“Abdomen?” he rasped, his hands curling weakly into fists against the blanket. “Christ.”

Tommy sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. “She didn’t give a damn about it. Wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Wouldn’t even let them clean her up ‘til you were stable. Sat right there in that chair covered in her own blood and yours, talking to you like you could hear her.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a sad, fond smile on his face.

“Would’ve fought off half the town if anyone tried to pull her out of here.”

Joel closed his eyes, the guilt pressing so heavy against his chest he thought it might crush him. A sharp breath rattled through him, his throat burning.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered to himself, a tear he’d never admit to stinging behind his eye.

“She loves you, you know,” Tommy said quietly, watching his brother’s face. “Way you do her. There is no shame in letting people love you, Joel. Even if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the war inside his chest.

But his hand flexed again against the sheets reaching for something, for someone, perhaps you.

The silence thickened again, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones. Tommy stayed still, letting Joel sort through whatever storm was building behind those weary eyes.

Then Joel spoke, voice low and cracked, like gravel scraping out of his throat.

“She killed… all of ‘em.”

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He stared down at his hands, lacing his fingers together like it might steady him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Every last one of ‘em.”

Joel’s throat worked around a swallow, his gaze distant, unfocused, like he was seeing it happen even if he hadn’t been awake for it. Like he could feel the blood she spilled on his behalf soaking into his hands too.

“I should have been the one…” Joel’s voice broke at the edge, bitter and aching. “Should’ve finished it. Not her. Not—”

“She didn’t leave you a choice, Joel,” Tommy cut in quietly, but firm. “You were barely breathing. We didn’t know if you’d make it. You almost died on her arms that night.”

Joel gave a humorless, broken kind of laugh, but there was no light in it. Just sharp edges.

“And now what?” he muttered, a tear sliding down his temple he didn’t bother to wipe away. “She got their blood on her hands. Because of me.”

Tommy leaned forward; his voice steady in that way Joel remembered from years long gone, before the world turned to shit.

“She doesn’t regret it,” he said. “You know that. And neither would I.”

Joel’s eyes finally met his brother’s. A flicker of something there. Grief. Fury. Love. Loss.

“But I do,” Joel whispered. “I regret that she had to.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, brother,” he said softly.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, voice steady, though your chest ached with the weight of it. “No one deserves what they did to Joel.”

Gail’s brow lifted, arms folding across her chest. “Murder?” she challenged; one word sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t blink. “Murder’s a simple act these days. Torture?” Your voice turned cold, almost unfamiliar even to yourself. “That’s another thing.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between you.

“Murder is what Joel committed when he blew my husband’s head off,” Gail snapped, her voice brittle, laced with venom, old grief that still clung to her like a second skin.

“It’s not the same,” you bit out, shaking your head.

“It is,” Gail said, stepping closer. “The only difference is you had the chance to save him. If you hadn’t, Joel would be dead right now. And you’d be mourning him like I mourned mine.”

A fury you hadn’t felt since that day surged hot through your veins. You took a shaky breath, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You don’t know him. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Gail’s face didn’t move, but something in her gaze flickered, something dark, bitter, and quietly resigned.

“I know enough,” she murmured. “Enough to understand what kind of man survives in a world like this. And what kind of woman kills for him.”

You held her gaze, unflinching, the burn of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though your face gave nothing away.

“I’m not sorry,” you whispered. “And I never will be.”

“You don’t get it,” you murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray the rawness beneath your fury. “My life would’ve ended.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious all at once.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your throat. “When they took him… when I saw what they did… there wasn’t a world left for me after that. So don’t stand there and talk about men surviving and women killing like you understand a goddamn thing about what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and left bleeding in the dirt. Because you’ve been behind these walls, safe, without knowing what it’s like out there.”

Gail’s brow twitched; her gaze steady but dull. “Do you think I haven’t lost people? Do you think grief makes you special?”

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back, your voice tight, shaking now. “I’m saying you didn’t see him. You didn’t watch them tear him apart. You didn’t hear the sounds he made. And you sure as hell didn’t have to put him back together.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now what? Do you think murder fix it?”

“I don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” you spat. “I care that they’ll never touch him again. That they won’t look at Ellie. That no one here will whisper about how Joel Miller should’ve died that day.”

Gail scoffed, a bitter sound. “And what about you? How can you carry this and walk around like it won’t eat you alive?”

“I don’t care,” you said, low, certain. “I care about him.

A beat of silence.

“You think that makes you strong?” Gail asked quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “It makes me his, as I’ve always been.”

Gail’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You talk like that’s a badge of honor.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not. It’s a fact.”

She tilted her head, watching you like someone examining a wound too deep to close. “What if you drown into this?”

“I’ll try to save myself” you shrugged.

Another pause. The room felt too small, thick with old grief and new wounds, neither of you willing to be the one to walk away first.

“I loved Eugene so much” Gail said, her voice rough. “And when he died, it didn’t turn me into this.”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “But it made you bitter towards Joel.”

Gail’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering in her gaze. “He made choices. Ones that cost people their lives. Good people. You act like he’s some goddamn martyr, but he isn’t.”

“And neither was Eugene,” you shot back, your voice low and steady. “Do you wanna talk about choices? Fine. Joel made his. I made mine. And you? You’ve been standing behind walls judging the rest of us ever since we arrived.

Her nostrils flared, a bitter breath leaving her. “I don’t have to like what this world turns people into.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured. “But I’ll fight for the one thing in it that still means something to me. That’s the difference between you and me, Gail. You buried your heart with Eugene. I’m not ready to bury mine.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you, the old ache of loss clawing at both your throats. And for the first time, Gail didn’t have a sharp reply. She just looked away, jaw clenched, and you took your opening.

You didn’t say goodbye. You just left.

You made your way back through the hallway, your steps slow, heavy, like every word from that conversation with Gail was still clinging to your skin. The air in Jackson felt colder somehow, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something none of you could name.

As a town, you were still recovering from that day.

When you reached Joel’s door, you didn’t push it open right away.

You stood there, hand hovering by the frame, heart hammering against your ribs because, god, he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

And it didn’t matter how broken or battered he was, how much rage or guilt sat behind those tired eyes. It was him. And that was enough for you.

Inside, you heard the low murmur of his voice, raspy, weighted with a pain he never used to let anyone hear.

“But how is she really doing?”

“She’s… holding up,” Tommy answered, voice cautious. ”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.

“If you ask me, you’re lucky she’s still here after what this world’s done to both of you.” Tommy said.

There was a pause, then Joel spoke again, softer this time, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud.

“I just… I don’t want her staying because she feels like she has to,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, almost cracking. “She should go, Tommy. Find something better. Hell, anyone better than… whatever I am now.”

Your stomach twisted. A sharp, cold ache settling beneath your ribs. You stayed frozen at the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame, every part of you aching. You didn’t mean to listen, but it was too late. The words were already carving themselves into your chest.

“She’s not here out of obligation.” Tommy said, his tone harder than before. “What would you do if you were her?”

Another pause.

Joel let out a humorless, ragged chuckle, and it hurt to hear it. “It’s not fair.”

“But she gets to decide what’s fair,” Tommy shot back. “And so far, she has decided it’s you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking fast against the burn in your eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest so loud you were sure they’d hear it.

You needed one more second to pull yourself together. To bury the hurt his words left behind, not because you doubted him, but because you knew where they came from. The same place you’d been sitting in since the day you saw him bleeding out in the dirt.

You swallowed down the knot in your throat, forcing your face into something steady, or close enough to pass for it. Then, with a breath you weren’t sure reached your lungs, you pushed the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Both their heads turned. Joel’s eyes landed on you first, and for a split second, something in them broke open. A flicker of guilt, sorrow, and something heavier, like he knew you’d heard more than you were meant to.

But you gave him a small, careful smile, pretending the sting behind your eyes wasn’t there. Pretending your heart wasn’t in pieces on the floor between you both.

Tommy cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you. “I, uh — I’ll give you a minute.” He patted Joel’s shoulder, murmured something you couldn’t catch, and brushed past you on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched thin in the room, heavy like storm air. Joel shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand twitching against the blanket. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the mattress by his side. Close, but not quite touching.

“I was thinking…” you began, “I could ask the doctor if you can leave the hospital and go back home. We surely need to make some changes there with the bed and—”

 “Stop it.” He cut you off, his voice rough but firm. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. “Joel—”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Not until I’m ready. And right now, I’m not ready to face that.”

The weight in his tone pinned you still. You wanted to argue, to tell him that staying there wasn’t helping him heal, but the raw edge in his voice stopped you.

Instead, you just nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw slowly easing into something like resignation.

You settled into the chair beside his bed, not bearing the closeness anymore, the quiet between you thick but familiar. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edge of his sleeve, as if hoping to stitch together the frayed pieces of him with nothing but touch.

Joel’s breath was shallow, uneven, and you could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on the room. The man you knew, the one who’d fought through hell and back was here, but buried beneath layers of pain and doubt.

“I’m scared,” he finally muttered, voice rough and low. “Not of dying... of what’s left after.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not alone in that,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“What you did—” he began “I didn’t deserve to be saved, baby.”

“I made my choice.” You replied, eyes watering.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your trembling hands, then back up to your face, searching.

“I’m broken,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Not the same man I was before.”

You shook your head gently, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re still him,” you insisted, voice firm but tender. “Wounded, maybe. Scared, sure. But still you. And I’m still here.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint rhythm of his labored breathing.

Joel’s eyes glistened, a shadow moving through them as he let out a shaky breath.

“What you did… it’ll haunt you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. “Same way Salt Lake haunts me. What I did to those Fireflies… what I took from Ellie. Thought I was saving her. Thought it was worth whatever price.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “But it never leaves you. Never lets you forget. Look what they did to me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in, your hand finding his cheek, thumb brushing against the rough line of his beard.

“No,” you said softly, steady. “It won’t haunt me, Joel.”

He blinked, as if the words knocked something loose inside him.

“Because I know what we do,” you continued, voice trembling but certain, “when we love someone enough to tear the world apart for them. I know what it means to save the person who’s your whole heart. And I’ll carry it. All of it. And I won’t regret a single thing.”

His eyes closed, a tear slipping down his temple, and for the first time in too long, he didn’t look like a ghost of himself. He looked like Joel.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not letting you go,” you said, leaning your forehead to his.

His breath hitched at the sound of your voice so close, your warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Baby…” he rasped, like it hurt to say it, like it was both a confession and a plea.

You hushed him gently, your hand brushing through his hair, your forehead still pressed to his.

“It’s gonna take time to heal,” you whispered. “I know that. I’m not asking you to be okay tomorrow, Joel. Or next week. Or even next year. I just need you here. With me. However, you can manage.”

His fingers, still weak, clung to yours like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he spoke again, rough and small.

“I won’t be able to protect you.” You felt it in the way his words splintered under the weight of his shame, the jagged edges of the man he used to be catching against what was left. His eyes searched yours, desperate and hollow all at once.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he repeated, voice breaking like a man confessing to a sin he could never undo as he closed his eyes. “Not like before. Not the way I should do.”

You swallowed hard, a tear finally slipping free, tracing down your cheek as you gripped his hand tighter, like you could anchor him to this moment, to you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “You protected me for so long, Joel. Longer than anyone else ever did. It’s my turn now. I don’t need a gun in your hand to feel safe. I just need you. That’s it. I just need to feel the beating of your heart under my hand to know you’re still breathing with me.”

His throat worked around a choked sound, his other hand weakly lifting as if it wanted to touch you but couldn’t quite make it, so you guided it to your cheek, holding it there like it was the most precious thing in the world because that’s how it felt.

“I’m still yours,” you whispered against his palm. “Always. However, you come back to me.”

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@vanishintoyoubby

[aleksatia]

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

Cut Scene (NSFW): 🍎 Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

[marvelseries19]

SAFE WITH YOU

Chapter Five - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff ft female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The process of coming back is hard, yet not impossible, especially since Natasha is right by your side through it all. And you finally get your happy ending.

A/N: Okay, with this, we say goodbye to this series. From this point on, there will be no more chapters. However, I will make one-shots to dive deeper into the healing process and show parts I didn't show or talk about, things you're curious about. As always, you're more than welcome to leave comments, feedback, requests, ask questions, etc. Enjoy. And if you see typos, no, you didn't.

Warning: +18, nightmares, maybe mentions of ptsd, etc. Some very, VERY suggestive part at the end.

Word count: 7.5k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The days in the medical wing pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. Time feels warped — too fast in some moments, agonizingly slow in others. You sleep in stretches, eat when they tell you, and endure tests and scans and soft-spoken assessments. They tell you your body is healing well. No major infections. The weight loss is significant but expected. Dehydration is corrected. You’re stable.

But you-you don’t feel that way.

The ceiling tiles blur into a single repeated shape. The bed is too soft. Too still. There are no rustling trees, no ocean wind, and no birds to mark the sunrise. Just the mechanical hum of machines, the occasional beep of monitors, and the muffled footsteps of nurses outside your door.

You find yourself waking in the middle of the night, expecting smoke, thunder, and the sound of waves. But there’s nothing. Just silence. You wonder if your body forgot how to feel safe.

Natasha comes every day.

She doesn't hover. She doesn’t overwhelm. She just is. Always there, curled in the chair near your bed, boots kicked off, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee, flipping through a book without really reading it. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she doesn’t. Mostly, she just watches you. Like, she still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here.

There are moments when she reaches for your hand and hesitates, catching herself like she’s afraid she’ll break you.

On the sixth day, the doctors tell you it’s time.

“You’re stable,” the lead medic says gently. “We can continue monitoring from home and give you instructions. It’s entirely your call, but… We think you’re ready.”

You’re not sure what “ready” is supposed to feel like. The idea of leaving the room you’ve come to accept as a kind of purgatory doesn’t make you feel free — it makes your chest tighten.

You nod anyway.

Natasha is quiet as she helps you dress. Civilian clothes. Soft. New. The fabric feels too thick, too unfamiliar. You move slowly, your body still remembering scarcity. Still conserving energy. Still unsure it’s safe to let go.

She kneels to help with your shoes and pauses when you flinch at the contact. You recover quickly, hand on her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” she says softly.

As you stand together at the doorway, your discharge papers in a folder under your arm, Natasha glances down at your hand and laces her fingers through yours.

You hesitate. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I don’t know how to—”

“I know,” she says. Her grip tightens. “We’ll go slow. Whatever pace you need.”

You nod, even though your chest still aches with uncertainty.

The elevator ride down feels surreal. You’re not used to enclosed spaces with buttons and polished metal reflections. Your heart skips once, twice — Natasha notices.

“We can go back upstairs,” she offers quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”

You shake your head. “No. I just… need to get used to it again.”

When the doors open, the light is different. Sharper. Louder. There are more people. Too many. The security staff nods respectfully as you pass, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in a hallway mirror.

You don’t look like the version of yourself that disappeared. You’re thinner. Your eyes are sharper, older somehow. There’s a haunted look to your posture, even when you try to stand tall.

Natasha opens the car door for you. It feels strange — being helped. Being ushered. You slide into the seat and keep your eyes forward the whole drive, watching a world that moved on while you were gone. So many people, so much motion. Bright lights. Noise. Life.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asks softly, not pushing.

You shake your head at first.

Then, quietly: “It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Like… I left the world for a while, and it forgot me. And now I’m trying to remember how to belong to it again.”

She nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“I lived in shadows for a long time. It’s different. But I remember what it’s like to come back and not recognize the shape of your own life.”

That lands. You stare out the window. “And what did you do?”

She looks over at you, eyes soft. “I made new memories. With the people I loved.”

The apartment building comes into view. It’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. You remember the smell of the hallway, the way the light slants through the windows in the afternoon. You remember the doorframe, the number on it, the chipped edge of the paint. Home. Kind of.

Your hand pauses on the doorknob. Natasha’s close behind you, silent.

You whisper, “What if I don’t know how to live in it anymore?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently says, “Then we make it new. Together.”

You open the door.

Inside, everything is neat. Intact. Untouched. Maria must’ve kept it clean. Your things are still where you left them: photos, books, and your coat hanging by the door like it had been waiting for you.

You step inside slowly, eyes scanning everything.

Natasha doesn't push. She just follows quietly, giving you room.

In the corner, you spot something unexpected — a small carved figure, worn and faded. Red. Maria must have brought him from the med facility. You walk over and hold him in your hand, brushing your thumb along the ridges of the coconut’s face.

Natasha watches you with something close to reverence.

You finally turn to her.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.

She steps closer, placing a hand gently against your back. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

You nod, your eyes wet but steady.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe her.

You stay near a window for a while. The apartment is quiet, every sound soft and unfamiliar. You’re still holding Red, fingers absently brushing the worn coconut shell, when Natasha’s voice cuts gently through the stillness.

“Do you want to take a bath?”

You glance toward her, surprised by how simple and kind the question sounds. A bath. It’s been… years. And for a moment, the idea makes your chest feel tight — not because you’re afraid of it, but because it feels too gentle, too civilized, too far from where you were.

You swallow. “Yeah, but would you… stay with me?”

Her face softens. "Yeah, of course.”

She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world — like she hasn’t missed you every second of the past three years. Like she wouldn’t drop everything to do exactly that.

Natasha walks you to the bathroom without fuss. She starts the water, adjusting it with practiced motions, quiet in the way she always is when things really matter. You sit on the closed toilet lid, watching steam curl toward the ceiling, already letting the warmth pull at the edges of something inside you.

Once the tub is full, you strip slowly, wrapping a towel around yourself as she turns away to give you space. You can’t help but smile at that, even if it’s faint — Natasha Romanoff, world-class assassin, averting her eyes with her cheeks slightly blushed, like you’re some delicate painting she’s afraid to damage.

You step into the water, easing down with a quiet hiss of breath as the heat envelops you. Your muscles scream and then slowly, slowly, begin to relax.

You lean your head back against the porcelain edge, eyes half-lidded. Natasha sits beside the tub on a folded towel, elbows on her knees, just watching you with a small smile and eyes full of unshed things.

After a minute, her voice breaks the calm.

“Can I help? With your hair?”

Your throat catches. You didn’t expect the offer, not like that — not so softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Please.”

She moves closer, sleeves pushed up, and gathers a little shampoo in her hands. Her fingers slide gently into your hair, slow and careful, massaging your scalp in delicate circles. It feels so good it nearly makes you cry — not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because you didn’t know something so simple could still feel like this.

Her hands are steady, rinsing with warm water cupped between her palms, careful not to splash. She never rushes, never speaks unless it’s to quietly ask if something’s okay.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

“You’re here,” she murmurs. “You’re really here.”

You rest your cheek on your arm along the tub’s edge. “It still feels like I’m dreaming.”

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

You sit in the cooling water a little longer, side by side in silence that no longer feels empty. Eventually, she helps you out, wraps you in warmth, and leads you back to the bedroom with the kind of patience that doesn’t ask anything in return.

And through it all — the quiet, the closeness, the simple human contact — you begin to believe that maybe you really did come home.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

—

Later, you’re on the couch, curled in on yourself. You hadn’t wanted to lie down in the bed just yet. Natasha didn’t question it—just handed you a throw blanket, sat beside you, and let the silence settle. She doesn’t crowd you. But she doesn’t leave either.

You stare down at the ring around your neck. The chain is cool against your collarbone.

“I thought about you every night,” you say, voice low, almost ashamed.

Natasha turns her head toward you. “So did I.”

You swallow hard. “I pictured you. Waiting. And then I started wondering if I’d made you up just to have something to hold onto.”

She shifts closer. “I thought I’d never see you again. Every day I told myself I had to keep moving because if I stopped, I’d have to admit you were gone.”

Your voice is a whisper. “And now I’m not gone. But I don’t know how to be here either.”

Natasha reaches over and takes your hand, slow and deliberate. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Then we’ll figure it out together. There’s no right way to do this.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. It feels like touching solid ground after months in open water.

“I missed you so much it hurt,” you say.

She presses her lips to your temple. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

That night, after takeout and too many emotions to name, you stand at the bedroom door again.

The bed is made. The pillows fluffed. But it feels like walking into a memory.

Natasha waits patiently, giving you the space to choose.

“I want to try,” you say quietly. “But only if you stay.”

“I was never going to leave.”

She pulls back the covers and slides in beside you, and you crawl in with careful movements, still half afraid the walls might collapse if you breathe too loud.

You both lie on your backs, eyes open in the dark.

“Do you hate that I changed?” you ask.

Natasha’s voice is soft but certain. “I don’t care how you changed. I only care that you’re still mine.”

You roll toward her. Her arm is already there, waiting for you to curl into. You rest your forehead against her collarbone, heart racing like it hasn’t calmed down in years.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” she says, kissing your hair. “Me too.”

But she holds you all the same.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall asleep.

The room is dark and quiet. Natasha’s breath is steady beside you, warm, familiar, and grounding. You count each inhale, each exhale, like an anchor, like maybe if you focus hard enough, the rest of you will settle too.

But it doesn’t.

The bed is too soft. The mattress, the pillows—it all feels like it’s swallowing you whole. Your muscles are tense, your jaw is locked, and your breath is shallow. It’s not the silence that unsettles you. It’s the stillness. Too comfortable. Too easy. Too alien.

You lie there for what feels like hours, heart thudding loud in your chest, staring into the darkness.

Eventually, you slip out of bed as quietly as you can. The floor is cool under your feet, grounding in a way the mattress never could be. You lower yourself slowly, cautiously, and lie flat on your back beside your side of the bed, the wooden floor pressing firm and unyielding against your spine.

It feels… real. Familiar. You exhale, finally.

And that’s where Natasha finds you five minutes later—when her hand reaches across the bed and touches only cold sheets.

Her breath catches, and then you hear the mattress shift as she scrambles up, switching on the bedside lamp. Her voice is low but tight.

“Y/N?”

You blink up at her from the floor. “I’m here.”

She sees you and stills. Her shoulders drop slightly with relief, though her expression softens with worry.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you say quietly. “The bed felt wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, without asking, she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, kneels beside you, and drapes it gently over your body. Her fingers linger a moment against your arm.

“Next time, wake me. Please.”

You look at her, eyes tired. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” she says immediately, voice low and raw. “Not now. Not ever.”

A beat passes. Then Natasha shifts down beside you, lying flat on the floor without hesitation. The floor creaks beneath both your bodies. She glances at you sideways, head tilted on the hardwood.

“You’re really doing this?”

“You’re down here with me, aren’t you?”

A small smile plays on her lips. “Of course I am.”

Another pause.

“You know,” you murmur after a while, staring up at the ceiling, “the floor reminds me I’m real. That I’m here. The bed’s too forgiving. It’s too easy to think I might be dreaming all this. Or worse—dead.”

Natasha’s face turns toward you, open and quietly aching.

“I used to sleep on the floor too,” she says after a long beat. “First few years out of the Red Room. I couldn’t take the softness. The quiet. I felt like I didn’t deserve comfort.”

You nod, your throat tight. “I get that.”

“But you do deserve it,” she continues. “Even if it takes time to believe it.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t let myself hope.”

She reaches out slowly and links her pinky with yours. “Hope’s stubborn. Just like you.”

The silence that follows is heavier, but not suffocating. A kind of understanding passes between you without needing words.

Eventually, you roll onto your side, facing her. She mirrors you instantly, and your foreheads touch lightly. Her hand finds your waist, pulling you close beneath the blanket.

This close, it’s easier to breathe.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” you whisper.

“I could never bring myself to,” she replies, barely audible.

And with her warmth against your chest, her breath against your cheek, and the floor beneath you steady and real—you finally drift into sleep. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But peacefully, for the first time in a very long time.

Together.

You wake slowly, eyes still closed, warm under the blanket, the floor beneath you solid and cool. For a second you forget where you are, panic fluttering at the edge of your chest—until you feel a thumb brushing slow circles against your side, and the scent of Natasha’s shampoo grounding you more than the floor ever could.

“Morning,” she whispers.

Your eyes flutter open. She’s already awake, head propped up slightly on her arm. Her gaze is soft, red hair a little wild from sleep.

You blink at her, throat dry. “You didn’t move.”

“Didn’t want to leave you alone,” she says simply.

You shift a little, wincing faintly from the stiffness. “You’re going to have back problems, Romanoff.”

She smiles, one of those rare, real ones. “Too late.”

You lie there in silence for a bit longer, the light beginning to slip in through the curtains.

“Part of me feels stupid,” you admit eventually, your voice still hoarse from sleep. “Sleeping on the floor, avoiding a bed like it’s a trap.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “It’s survival. You’re adjusting. That takes time. However long you need—I’ll be here.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Everything feels different. Like I’ve got to learn the world all over again.”

“Then we’ll learn it together.”

That brings a lump to your throat. She must see it, because she reaches up and brushes your cheek with the back of her hand.

“I missed you so much,” she murmurs. “Every single day.”

You nod, voice tight. “I kept thinking about you. I kept wondering if I’d ever… just see your face again. Even once.”

She leans in slowly and kisses your forehead, staying there for a beat. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

A small laugh escapes you, and it feels good. Rusty, but real.

You finally sit up, stretching out your sore limbs, and Natasha follows suit, brushing out her tangled hair with her fingers. You glance at the bed, then at her.

“I think I want to try the bed again tonight.”

She smiles. “I’ll be there, too. We’ll face it together.”

It’s still strange—this new normal, this second chance. But in the quiet morning light, sitting beside her on the hardwood floor with a blanket draped over your shoulders and your heart a little less guarded, it doesn’t feel so impossible.

Not with her.

Not anymore.

The next night, it happens again. You try the bed. Last a little longer. Then move to the floor.

And again, Natasha follows — no questions, no sighs, no trying to coax you back.

The third night, she doesn’t even wait. When you quietly slip down to the floor, she follows moments later with a pillow tucked under her arm.

By the fourth night, you wake up and realize you haven’t moved at all.

You’re in bed. Still in Natasha’s arms. And for the first time since the island, you don’t feel like you have to run from peace.

—

A few months later.

The apartment is lived-in now. There's a plant on the kitchen windowsill that Natasha insists is thriving, even if it leans a little sideways. The couch has a dent where you both usually sit. Red is perched up on the shelf under the TV next to some decorations and framed photos of you and Nat, now forever a part of your life. And you smile every time your eyes land on it. Always a reminder of what you endured.

You’re healing. Not in a straight line, not without setbacks, but with intention. With her.

Some mornings are harder than others. You still wake up drenched in sweat sometimes, heart racing with ghosts. On those days, Natasha doesn’t try to fix it. She just hands you tea, brushes a hand through your hair, and sits close until your breath evens out.

There are good days, too. Days where you wake before her, cook something new, and even laugh freely. Days you catch her looking at you like you’re made of something rare and whole. You still don’t quite believe it, but you try.

You’ve been seeing a therapist SHIELD recommended. You hated it at first—too many questions, too much stillness. But eventually, it became a space you didn’t dread. You’ve started talking about the island, the silence, the routine that kept you sane.

You and Natasha still dance around some things. She hasn’t pushed you for intimacy beyond what you offer. She reads your cues like second nature—holding your hand when you’re overwhelmed, giving you space when your shoulders go rigid, curling beside you in bed when you reach for her without a word.

But it hasn’t been easy.

There was a week when you barely spoke after an argument. She’d gone on a short mission without telling you until the morning of, and you’d panicked, snapped at her, shut down. When she returned, you couldn’t look at her, too afraid of how much you need her. Too afraid of what needing someone means.

It was Natasha who finally broke the silence, sitting beside you on the couch and saying quietly, “You can be mad. I’ll still come back.”

That night, you cried in her arms for the first time in weeks. You hated that it helped. You loved that she held you anyway.

You’ve started working again. Slowly. First from home, reviewing field reports, helping analyze strategies—things that reminded you of who you were. Maria checked in regularly and, once, even told you she missed getting her ass handed to her during briefings. You laughed.

You and Natasha are different now. Not in a way that’s broken, but in the way that time remakes things—gently, with wear and meaning. You cook together more. You argue over whose turn it is to do laundry. You fall asleep facing each other now, not with fear, but with something like trust.

There’s still hesitation in both of you. Moments where your voices lower, not out of secrecy but out of reverence for how fragile things once were. You talk about the future, sometimes in fragments. A trip somewhere quiet. A garden. A place where you both might feel steady.

You're learning how to live again—with her and within yourself. The island isn’t gone. The pain, the scars—physical and not—aren’t either. But the ache isn’t everything anymore.

Love, you’ve learned, isn’t just the reunion. It’s the staying. The choosing.

And every single day, she chooses you.

—

The apartment was quiet one night.

It had been months now. Months of rebuilding, of learning how to be again—how to sleep through the night, how to laugh without guilt, how to let someone reach for you without flinching.

The bad days hadn’t disappeared, but they came fewer and further between. Now, most mornings started with coffee, soft light through the windows, and Natasha wrapped around you in sleepy warmth. Now, you could walk into a room without scanning every exit. Now, the weight on your chest was no longer constant.

And tonight, the stillness didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like rest.

You sat on the couch together, a half-watched movie flickering on mute, both of you tangled under the same blanket, your legs draped over hers. Her fingers lazily traced circles against your calf, like she was touching you just to remember you were real.

You watched her—her profile illuminated by the glow of the screen, soft and calm and so achingly beautiful in that quiet way you’d come to treasure.

You hadn’t said it out loud, not yet.

But it had been on your mind lately. That ring. The one that used to mean someday. The one that had waited carefully in a thin yet resistant chain around both of your necks for years now, quiet and patient.

You shifted a little and leaned your head against her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, voice soft, hesitant but steady.

She turned her head toward you, the question already in her eyes.

You reached for her hand under the blanket, fingers slipping between hers. “Do you ever think about it? The wedding, I mean.”

Natasha blinked. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “I used to,” she said, almost a whisper. “Every day. When you were gone, I—I’d think about what it would’ve been like. What we lost.”

You leaned into her a little more. “And now?”

Her hand squeezed yours gently. “Now… I think we might be ready.”

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah?”

She nodded, shifting to face you more fully, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You feel it too, don’t you? That the worst is behind us. Not gone, but… no longer in control.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just didn’t know if I could say it without jinxing it, I guess.”

Natasha’s expression softened, her eyes shining just a little in the low light. “Say it now.”

You looked down at your joined hands. “I want to do it. The wedding. I think… I think I’m finally ready. I feel safe again. With you. With us. I want to stand with you and mean it in front of everyone. I want that day.”

She reached out and cupped your cheek, pulling you into a kiss—gentle, lingering, a promise wrapped in silence.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath. “Then let’s do it.”

You smiled, your eyes damp, but your heart light. “We waited so long.”

“And I’d wait forever,” she said, pressing her forehead to yours. “But I’m really fucking glad I don’t have to.”

You laughed through your tears, and she kissed you again—this time with more certainty, more heat, and more joy. You curled into her chest, hand tightly holding your ring still proudly on the chain around your neck, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt steady for the first time in years.

And there, in the hush of your shared home, you both knew: it wasn’t just about a wedding. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when the world fell apart.

And now, finally, you were ready to celebrate that choice.

Together.

It was almost funny how simple it was in the end.

No announcements. No grand gestures. Just two people holding hands on a porch swing, sipping coffee while the sun rose over the Barton farm.

Clint had seen it the second you stepped out of the car with Natasha, your fingers linked, a soft calm in your posture that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a knowing smirk, clapped you on the shoulder, and ushered you both inside where Laura was already pulling something out of the oven.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapped around you like a blanket. It felt safe there, like nothing bad could happen under that roof. Maybe that’s why you found the words so easily.

“So,” you said slowly, sitting at the long kitchen table with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, “we’re finally going to do it.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Natasha leaned in a little, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile. “The wedding.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Laura let out a quiet, happy gasp and reached for your hand.

Clint blinked. “For real this time?”

You nodded. “For real. We’re ready.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but she reached over, laying her hand over yours on the table. That said enough.

Clint leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a proud grin. “Took you long enough.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh. “You’re one to talk. You and Laura eloped.”

Laura grinned. “And we regret nothing. But you two? You deserve a day. A real one. Something good.”

You hesitated. “We were thinking… maybe here?”

Clint sat up straighter. “Here? Like—here, here?”

Natasha glanced out the window, eyes softening as they landed on the old barn at the edge of the property. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Laura squeezed your hand. “We’d be honored.”

Clint’s grin only widened. “We’ll string up some lights and clear out the barn. Get the kids to stop shooting arrows for five minutes. It'll be perfect.”

You smiled, something warm blooming in your chest. “Just a few people. Small. Family. Maria, Fury, and the team. Phil, if he’s back from the field. That’s it.”

Natasha leaned her head against your shoulder. “Just us. The ones who stuck through it all.”

Laura stood and kissed Clint on the temple. “Then it’s settled.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of light laughter and soft plans. Talk of fairy lights and music. Maybe Lila could make some signs. Nate would be the ring bearer if he could sit still long enough. There was talk of food, dresses, suits—or not. Just something simple. Something real.

You stepped outside after lunch, barefoot in the grass, the wind soft through your hair. Natasha followed, her hand slipping easily into yours. You stood in front of the barn, weathered wood and high beams, the kind of place where new chapters felt possible.

“This is really happening,” you said, voice quiet.

She turned to you, her eyes bright and steady. “Yeah. It is.”

You smiled, then leaned in, forehead against hers.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath.

The days that followed passed in a gentle rhythm—slower than you'd expected, but full of meaning. No frenzy. No rush. Just two people returning to themselves and to each other.

The dress fittings happened in a softly lit boutique that Maria insisted on renting out for the afternoon. “You deserve this,” she said simply when you protested. “And besides—this’ll be fun.”

And it was.

Natasha stepped out of the dressing room first, hesitant, smoothing her hands down the fabric of the ivory gown. It was elegant and minimal, with a soft sweep of silk and lace. Not overly formal. Not flashy. But it stopped your heart in your chest.

You stared for a moment longer than you meant to. “You’re going to ruin me,” you murmured.

A rare flush crept up her neck. “You like it?”

You crossed the small space to her, brushing a hand down her arm. “I love it.”

She reached up to cup your cheek. “Wait until you try yours on.”

You laughed, but when you returned a few minutes later in your own dress—simple, flowy, perfectly you—Natasha just stared.

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like she was memorizing something holy.

“Say something,” you whispered.

She blinked. “You’re real.”

The next few weeks were filled with quiet preparations. You helped Clint hang fairy lights in the barn while Laura stitched small details into the table linens. Lila painted wooden signs. Even Tony, who initially joked about throwing you a Stark-sponsored blowout, settled into his role of unofficial bartender for the night with only mild grumbling.

Fury didn’t say much when you told him the date—just clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, “It’s about damn time.”

Coulson smiled like he knew this would always be the ending.

And Maria—Maria just hugged you tightly, fiercely, as if she'd carried the weight of hope for both of you all this time. The night before the wedding, you and Natasha sat side by side in bed, each holding a notebook of vows you'd been scribbling in for days.

“Want to hear mine?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, heart thudding softly.

She read aloud words about almost losing you, and you coming back- About how she never stopped carrying you with her, even when she didn't believe in anything else.

You cried before she even finished.

Then, with trembling hands and a steadier voice than you expected, you read her your own. Words about the island. About how you survived and how she had helped you live again when you thought you wouldn't.

“I’m not promising easy,” you told her. “But I am promising you everything. Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours.”

That night, you slept in each other’s arms. And for the first time since you returned, there were no dreams.The morning came soft and slow, light pouring in through the farmhouse window. Natasha left early to get ready in the Barton house, Maria dragging her off with a garment bag and a mischievous wink. You stayed with Laura, sipping tea and letting Lila braid your hair while your dress hung by the window, glowing in the sun.

You should’ve felt nervous. You kind of did. But more than that, you felt… ready.

Whole.

Alive.

The barn had been transformed. The fairy lights flickered above rows of chairs filled with people who loved you. The air smelled like wildflowers and pine. There was music playing—soft, old, familiar.

And then, there she was.

Walking toward you down the aisle, in that same ivory dress, barefoot like you, a tremble in her lips and eyes glassy with tears.

You didn’t remember moving—only that you ended up in front of each other, smiling like the world had finally exhaled.

The vows came easy. No shaking. No fear. Just truth.

Natasha reaches for your hands. She holds them like they might disappear — like she's still, even now, making sure you're real. Her thumbs trace soft circles over your knuckles. Her lips press together for a moment as she breathes in, slowly.

Then she begins.

"I didn’t grow up believing in forever," she says, her voice quiet but sure. "Or softness. Or in anything that lasted. I’ve been a weapon. A shadow. A ghost meant to not be seen." You feel her hands tighten around yours. The crowd is gone, fading into a blur. It's just her. Just this.

"But then there was you. And somehow, you saw through all of it. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You loved me back into a person."Her eyes shine, green and wet with unshed tears. Her voice doesn't tremble. "I thought I lost you. And I would have carried that for the rest of my life. But here you are. Here we are."

She pauses, breathes.

"So I promise — not just to stand beside you, but to grow with you. To fight for the life we've built. To listen even when it’s hard and to speak even when it scares me."

A single tear breaks loose and rolls down her cheek.

"You are the only home I’ve ever believed in. You are the peace I never thought I’d deserve. And you’re the only person I will ever want to spend forever with. So I vow to be yours. Without armor. Without fear. With everything I am."

You take a breath.

You hadn’t expected your hands to shake. But they do. And Natasha, as always, notices. She gives them the smallest squeeze —I'm here.

And you begin.

"I used to believe that surviving was enough," you say, and your voice is soft but strong. "That making it through was the victory. But you, you reminded me that surviving isn't the same as living."

You feel Natasha’s grip tighten again, like her heart is answering yours.

"You brought me home, even when I didn't know how to walk through the door." A few sniffles ripple quietly through the small crowd.

"I promise to keep learning how to live—with you, beside you, for you. I promise to wake up every day and choose this. Choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then." Natasha’s lips tremble now, but her smile holds steady, and she looks at you like you’re the center of the universe.

"You are my safest place. My sharpest truth. And the first light I saw after so much darkness. I’m not promising perfection. I’m promising honesty. Growth. Love — always, unshakable, enduring. Quiet when it needs to be. Loud when it matters." You pause. "Whatever I have, whoever I become, it’s yours. Always has been. Always will be."

When the officiant says the words—"You may kiss your wife"—Natasha wastes no time.

Her hands come up to cradle your face as yours curl into the fabric of her dress. The kiss is not rushed, but full. Steady. Like breath coming back after being held for years.

And when you part, the barn is full of quiet cheers and wet eyes and smiles that feel carved from joy.

Clint lets out a loud “Finally!” that breaks the spell just enough to make everyone laugh.

You kissed her like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted to do. And it really was.

And when the music picked up, when the sun dipped and the lights above danced in the wind, when your friends clapped and toasted and swayed—

You held her close under the string lights, her forehead pressed to yours, and whispered,

“We made it.”

Natasha smiled. “We start now. I love you,” she whispers, too quietly for anyone else.

“I love you,” you whisper back and know — without doubt, without fear — that this is only the beginning.

—

The cabin sat at the edge of a lake that shimmered silver in the moonlight. It was small, nestled between tall trees and a quiet sky, wrapped in a hush that seemed to exist just for the two of you. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world had finally stopped spinning.

It was your first night here.

No one else. No duties. No beeping medical machines. Just Natasha and you. Just soft blankets and the smell of pine and a fireplace crackling low in the hearth. The lake was still. The wind was kind.

Dinner had been quiet — not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence was full of the kind of peace you'd both fought for. Natasha had held your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your wedding ring as if to reassure herself it was really there. You’d done the same.

Now, inside the bedroom, you stood at the window, fingertips resting on the wooden frame, looking out at the dark.

Natasha watched you from across the room. You could feel her gaze, warm and gentle, resting on you like a blanket. She didn’t speak right away. She never rushed you. Not since you came back.

You turned around slowly, and when your eyes met, there was something unsaid in them, something shared. You crossed the room with bare feet and a steady heart. Stood in front of her. Let her take your hand.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

Her hand tightened around yours. “Me too.”

No rush. No sudden movement. She leaned in and kissed you, soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Her other hand rose to your cheek, anchoring you there, letting you feel it — that you were wanted. Loved. Safe.

You touched her face in return, fingertips featherlight on her jaw, and said, voice barely a breath, “I’m ready.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with emotion, and she nodded. “Okay.”

And in that word — just okay—were a thousand I love yous.

She helped you out of the soft sweater you’d pulled on earlier. Her hands were reverent and steady, asking with every inch of movement. You nodded when she looked to you for permission, and you undressed her too, slowly and carefully. It was the first time in so long that it hadn’t been out of necessity, or urgency, or desperation — but because you wanted each other. Because your bodies had been through war and survival and time apart, and you were choosing each other again.

She guided you to the bed, and the moment you lay down together, it was like something clicked into place. Natasha’s lips brushed your collarbone, your pulse, and your jaw. Her touch was gentle yet firm, a reminder of the love and passion that had always been between you. As you held each other close, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders, leaving only the warmth of her body against yours.

She slowly removed your shirt , revealing the scars and memories that marked your skin. But instead of recoiling, Natasha's eyes softened with understanding and acceptance, making you feel truly seen and loved in a way you had never experienced before. With each touch, each kiss, it was clear that this reunion was not just about physical desire but about healing and rebuilding what had been broken. The same followed for the rest of your clothes, each layer shedding away the pain and insecurities that had built up over time. As you stood there vulnerable and exposed, Natasha's embrace felt like a safe haven, a place where you could finally let go and be yourself without fear of judgment.

Her hands trace every curve, every scar, every piece of skin as if it were the first time. Soft, gentle, memorizing every new part of you. Her fingers dipped low from your collarbone, down to the small of your back, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort in their wake. With each touch, it felt as though she was erasing the past and creating a new beginning for you both. Her kisses followed your body from your neck to the valley of your breasts and down to your hips, igniting a fire within you that had long been dormant. In her embrace, you found solace and acceptance, a sense of belonging that you had never experienced before.

Natasha looks up to your face, silently asking for permission to continue exploring the depths of your desires. You meet her gaze with a nod, giving her the go-ahead. One of her hands reaches up for your hand, intertwining your fingers with hers, before she finally leans down to your center.

As she delves deeper into your pleasure, you feel a wave of ecstasy wash over you, surrendering completely to the intimacy of the moment. Natasha's touch is both gentle and confident, guiding you to heights of passion you never knew existed.

There were no words for a while. Just breath, skin, quiet affirmations. You whispered her name like a promise. She said yours like a prayer.

When it was over, and the room was full of warmth and the soft scent of pine and skin and shared love, she held you close, one hand trailing up and down your spine.

“Was it okay?” she asked quietly, her voice husky and a little breathless.

You nodded against her shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“It was everything.”

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she leaned in to kiss you again — slow and deep and grateful.

You fell asleep that way. Skin against skin. Her heartbeat beneath your ear. No more running. No more surviving. Just two hearts, still learning to heal, finally at peace.

Together.

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife @generalbirdsalad @fxckmiup @yelldontwhisper

[sogoodtoheritsvicious]

just let me adore you

summary: you and harry have grown closer over the last two months and he wants to take the next step, but you aren’t sure if you’re ready to give your heart to someone again.

vicious speaks: things are happening 🤭

series masterlist

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liked by harrystyles, carlossainz55 and others

yourusername 🤎

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fan1 what the fuck. i mean i knew you guys were most likely friends bc of those stories you posted a bit go but what the fuck.

oscarpiastri so you just casually decided to break the internet, huh?

⤷ yourusername 😭 i wouldn’t go that far

yourbff so much fun ♥️ let’s do it again soon!!

⤷ francisca.cgomes i second that 🤍

⤷ alexandrasaintmleux ^^

⤷ yourusername absolutely!

⤷ fan2 wait omg can someone confirm if this means harry was hanging out with the f1 guys??

⤷ francolapinto i can confirm, yes

⤷ fan3 thank you for your service, king

⤷ francolapinto 🫡

ynharrysthird WHAT THE FUCK

mitchrowland it was great to finally meet you!

⤷ yourusername ditto ☺️

⤷ fan4 oh my God

⤷ fan5 they’re meeting each others friends…i need to lie down 😵‍💫

⤷ fan6 “finally” oh harry has definitely been talking about her nonstop fkgjfjd

gemmastyles who’s the weirdo in the 2nd slide?

⤷ fan7 ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE

⤷ yourusername i have no idea, he just showed up begging to be let in 🥴

⤷ harrystyles i regret introducing you

⤷ ynharrysthird this is my white whale

fan8 YOU CAN’T JUST POST HARRY AND NOT SAY ANYTHING

lilmhe still thinking about that tiramisu 😍 ♥︎ by author

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harrystyles 🤍

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fan1 YOU SICK FUCKS

fan2 IS MY LIFE A JOKE TO YOU

yourbff lovely meeting you :) ♥︎ by author

fan3 dontsayitdontsayitdontsayit…THIS IS A HARD LAUNCH

ynharrysthird I’M NEVER RECOVERING

⤷ fan4 how are you alive after this

⤷ ynharrysthird i’m not. my ghost is typing.

⤷ fan5 i fear for your life if they ever post a selfie

⤷ ynharrysthird a valid fear

fan6 yn posting harry in black & white and him posting her in color is something that can be so personal

fan7 now kiss

carlossainz55 this is so entertaining

⤷ fan8 carlos pls 😭

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itsaria before and after

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fan1 this friendship is the best thing to come out of that break up

fan2 imagine if all cheating scandals ended with the girls dumping the cheater and becoming best friends

fan3 still so bizarre 😭

yourusername ♥️

⤷ fan4 this is all clearly a desperate attempt to get lando’s attention

⤷ itsaria our friendship is only about us, actually

⤷ yourusername our lives don’t revolve around a man. shocking, i know.

fan5 fuck the gossip, their friendship is cute!

fan6 aria will we see you at yns ono show?

⤷ itsaria wouldn’t miss it for the world!

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yourusername has added to their stories

replies

fan1 so excited!!!!

lilymhe see you tonight 💕

yourbff you’re gonna kill it 🫶🏼 me and ‘los will be screaming the loudest!!

fan2 can’t wait to freak out later while watching you on a grainy livestream <3

fan3 rip to my sleep schedule

harrystyles cheering you on ❤️ ♥︎ by author

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liked by ynharrysthird and others

hsupdates harry at yns show tonight!

view all comments

fan1 OH MY GOD OKAY IT’S HAPPENING

fan2 of course he’s there, he’s her biggest fan 😭

ynharrysthird i’m not responsible for my actions if we get a selfie or any kind of interaction tn

fan3 ik she’s a professional but i’d be so nervous if knew that thee harry styles was at my show

⤷ fan4 he actually mentioned to a fan that she doesn’t know he’s there cause it’s a surprise 🥹 can’t wait to see her reaction

fan5 GUYS what if she brings him on stage to perform something???

⤷ ynharrysthird don’t do that. don’t give me hope

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harrystyles has added to their stories

replies

fan1 this is my 13th reason

fan2 oh my God i’m gonna pass out

yourusername best surprise ever!! i still can’t believe you actually made it 🥹🫶🏼

⤷ harrystyles i wouldn’t have missed it unless absolutely necessary x

fan3 ME AND WHO

carlossainz55 great seeing you again!

⤷ harrystyles we gotta hang out more, mate

⤷ carlossainz55 we will, i see a lot of double dates in our future

⤷ harrystyles here’s hoping 🤞🏼

ynharrysthird i am not okay

fan4 hey God it’s me again

yourbff you’re setting the bar so high, dude

⤷ harrystyles i’m just treating her the way she deserves

fan5 i swear if y’all still aren’t dating after this…

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taglist: @pansexualdarling @mx13sworld @willowpains @nebarious @daemyratwst @hi26loveie @angelluv16 @ggaslyp1 @kikiki81 @eugene-emt-roe @nichmeddar @callsignwidow @harryssunflower17 @lomlolivia @isinpfortvdmen @yourlocalstilinski-valdez @hshp98 @l0nelyhe4rts-club

[myladysapphire]

A doe, A deer - A female deer

being the youngest archeron sister often meant that you were the forgotten one, no one ever saw you, until he did.

Azriel x Archeron!OC

CW: mdi 18+, selective mutism, ableims?, depecitons of illness and hearing loss, depictions of violence (animal hunting), depictions of poverty, canon character deaths, vomiting, panic attacks. not beta read!

word count: 4,259

authors note: so i have severe writers block when it comes to the whole ASOIAF universe but i reread acotar recently and suddenly got motivation to write

Masterlist | series masterlist | next part

Daphne Archeron had never known the luxury of money, like her sisters had. And though Feyre would say that her experience was brief, she still spent the majority of her childhood in riches, where daphne had spent it in rags.

Though the age gap was small between as four sisters, no more than three years between them each, it seemed the three years between her birth and Feyre changed a lot for the Archeron family. And by the time Daphne was five, the constantly dwindling funds had finally run out. The home she had always known to be empty, with less and less furniture as the days went by became repossessed a small hovel became there home.

A home which quickly became filled with illness and daphne and her mother caught typhus.

And illness which killed her mother and changed Daphne’s life.

It was odd how she could scarcely remember a time before her illness, and yet she fondly looked back on the few memories she had.

She knew her siblings had a difficult relationship with their mother, and yet her mother seemed to care deeply for her youngest child.

Peprahs it was because she was the spiting image of her mother, according to Nesta at least. Or that she was the calmest child, she never cried or threw tantrums. Or perhaps it was that she was content following her mother around and doing as she said, something she seemed to do now to each of her sisters instead.

She remembered in blurry memories when her and her mother got sick. How in the small hovel, on there one bed, the mother and daughter suffered side by side, with no money for a healer and simply having to rely on the efforts of three children and a man who mourned his wife and daughter before they had even passed. \

She had been beside her self when her mother passed, and though she hadn’t died, she herself had never truly recovered.

Her hearing was damaged, and though she could hear, she had to focus and spent most of her time reading lips more than actually listening.

Her body was sickly, and quick to catch any illness going around the village.

And to her sisters, that meant forever treating her like a child.

Things only got worse for her after debt collectors came two years into there life of poverty.

She remembered how her sisters had stood there and watched as there fathers legs was shattered and he was beaten. And she a girl of eight was the one to spring into action, grabbing a knife and throwing into the head of the man beating her father.

She remembered the gasps, the shocked looks of her sisters, and the even more shocked look of the men as they took her in, there faces going from smirks as they took in a small child defending her father, to a look of horror as another knife sliced through the air.

The men had run out shortly after and Daphne was left to scream and cry in horror at what she had done, as she watch the mans body dropped to the floor and the others fled, fearing the small child, who had started to fear herself.

After that day, Daphne refused to speak. A stray word her or there, a perhaps a gasp or hum. But nothing more.  

As time passed Daphne began to see herself only has a burden, often being forgotten unless she was incredibly ill or her sisters needed her to end a dispute.

She knew her family struggled more so that they should, how Feyre had been forced to hunt to feed and provide for the family, with her kills and selling their fathers wood carvings. She saw as her sisters hounded Feyre for money over helping her out or getting jobs to provide for the family. All whilst Feyre was forced to spend any money on medicines for her.

She saw the pitying eyes her sisters sent her, pity struggling to hide the contempt they all felt.

And though she had tried to help, by hunting with Feyre, even though it was quickly forbidden after Nesta found out. She would get a job, but who would hire a sickly, mute girl with no education or skills?

She was frustrated, unable to help and yet the biggest burden. Ruled by her sisters and treated like a child.

She had never been rebellious, never had the want to be and yet today, she found her self in the forest, with the will to make up for being the burden that she was, hoping to do so by finding dinner for her family.

And though she had only been a handful of time with Feyre before Nesta forbade her from taking you, and had little skill with an bow and arrow, her only skill was that of the throwing single dagger and several kitchen knives her family possessed.

She found herself sat in a tree, a dagger in hand as well and the kitchen knives strapped to a tunic she had stolen from Feyre.

She had looked and searched for close to an hour before she saw a deer, and found herself sat in a tree, as she watched the deer slowly approach with unsure movements. It reminded her of herself almost. With its doe eyes and reddish fur. It was young, clearly lost as it looked around for something or someone.

Her dagger trembled in her hand.

She willed it to move but to no avail.

The more she looked at the doe the more she saw herself.

With there shared amber eyes and brown hair, the does faced seemed to merge into her own. A face she shared with her mother. A face that haunted her every time she fell asleep in the very bed her mother died in whilst holding her.

But the doe was like any other doe she supposed. Yet it seemed like a complete mirror of herself.

Her hand shook as she tried to force herself to throw the dagger.

The deer looked up, eyeing her curiously. No fear in its eyes, as it eyed her and her hand lowered.

And a sigh of defeat left her mouth.

Perhaps a rabbit would be easier or at least be less likely to look like her.

The deer lowered its head, all sense of curiosity lost on it as it began to sniff for food in a bush.

She watched the deer, taking some comfort in how calm it seemed to be, though that calm lasted only moments as a wolf, a wolf far too large, and eyes to human pounced upon the deer tearing at its neck out.

The dagger in her hand suddenly spring from her hand landing clear in the wolf’s neck.

Blood trickling down its neck, the wolf made no effort to move or continue its feats on the deer.

It simply looked at her, and she could have sworn a look of relief flooded its features.

She jumped down from the tree, her ankle rolling as she did so.

But her mind was to occupied in reaching for one of her knifes and landed a killing blow directly into the wolf’s heart, and then another into the deer’s.

Tears feel from her eyes as she looked over the deer and wolf, realisation at what she ha done, and how it felt far to easy despite her earlier trepidation.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, a gentle touch she knew belonged to Feyre.

“Daphne” she mumbled, “are you okay?”

She simply nodded, as she always did, and reached to pull the daggers from the animals’ chests.

“did you do this?” Feyre asked, taking in the giant wolf.

Daphne nodded before pointing to the tree and twisting the dagger in her hand, answering the unsaid question of how.  

Concern flooded Feyre’s features as she assessed the state of her youngest sister, and the tears that filled her eyes, despite the clear effort the rest of her face was making to remain calm.

“Why were you out here?” Feyre continued to question; despite knowing she wouldn’t get a response.

Daphne looked down shame flooding her. Thoughts of not being good enough, of always being in the wrong even when she was trying to help. For somehow messing up what would be an otherwise successful hunt.

Tears dropped from her eyes once more. She hadn’t moved since Feyre approached her. Still sat in the same position as before as Feyre continued to ask questions.

She watched as Feyre bound the doe’s legs and skinned the wolf.

She watched as Feyre handed her the fur and threw the doe over her own shoulders. And watched as Feyre sent her a glance with every cough falling from Daphne’s mouth, seeing her concerned glances and small shakes of her head.

Her breaths were heavy, the cold air affecting her already weak lungs, and her steps were slow as they finally approached there home.

Their small little hovel with two rooms for the five of them, was always crowded and despite the two singular windows the entire house had there was always a chilled draft.

The chill of the outside was not much colder than that of inside the hovel.

A lack of fire beings it’s cause, and single log left inside the fire place despite freye asking nesta too cut more wood.

She was greeted quickly by Elain wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.

Elaine and her were the closest of the sisters, with the same interests and similar personalities the two rarely argued. Though for daphne, arguments usual consisted of her being lectured and daphne storming out in response.

The sisters argued as they lectured feyre on the wolf and Daphne’s involvement in the hunt.

Elain sat rubbing Daphne’s shoulders gently to warm her up, and handing her a hot mug of tea to soothe her throat.

The sisters always seemed to argue, whether it be about money or food or any little thing. But what they argued most was daphne.

Shocking seeing as both Nesta and Feyre seemed to only tolerate her and ignored her unless she was extremely sick.

Elain too, despite being the closest of the sisters, found herself ignoring daphne more so than late, and spent more and more time with Nesta.

It was a funny thing really, seeing as they always fretted over her, treating her little more than a child.

But everything she did caused an argument. Such as going hunting with Feyre, getting more sick form hunting with feyre, from Elain allowing her to help her garden, or Nesta asking her to sew her some new clothes form the scraps of the old worn-out ones.

Everything one of them did for her, caused an argument with another.

Daphne was their sickly younger sister. That’s all she was and even when she tried to help it caused an argument.

Words were always said in front of her and rarely to her. 

She couldn’t help but think that if she could talk, something she begged daily to be able to, that they wouldn’t ignore her so much.

But they seemed to treat her mutism as self imposed, as if it didn’t pain daphne that she physically couldn’t. that the idea of speaking scared her and the few words she could ralrey speak pained her so and caused her to to be physically sick.

She hated not being able to communicate but her sisters seemed to think it was entirely her fault that she didn’t.

Elain at least put up with it, finding her a good ear for listening to her endless rants. Or a helpful hand when cooking and gardening.

But they still didn’t ask her questions unless it was in the form of an interrogation. Such as Feyre in the woods.

She had given up years ago when she realised no matter how hard her eyes portrayed her feelings, her sisters where happy to talk and laugh and argue without so much as sparing her a glance.

They hadn’t even bothered to teach her to read. They knew she couldn’t. she hadn’t even started her schooling when they lost their fortune, and yet it never occurred to them that teaching her to read could solve the communication issue.

She had thought that perhaps if she proved herself, her potential that they would bother. Though deep down she knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

But known the less she went into the woods, to prove herself, to show she wasn’t just sick, that she had willpower, ability. But not only to prove herself but to also thank them. she felt bad for all the money spent on you, all the times she had been bed bound, unable to help at all and leaving them to sleep on the floor as moving her was to risky.

But it all failed.

All it caused was arguing and Feyre sending you a worrying glance as she looked over the wolf. And the fear of it being fae and what they might mean for there family.

Days passed, and daphne grew sick again. With her lungs constricted, her head feverish and limb aching. She had been in and out of consciousness for days now. The days passed in a blur, the only moments she truly came to were when medicine was forced down her throat or a new towel was pressed to her head.

She was sure she would have stayed in the bed for weeks had the front door not been slammed open and a roar sounded through the hovel.

Weakly she walked out of the shared bedroom and came face to face with some sort of fae beast growling words at her sisters, her sisters spoke to quietly for her to hear but before she knew it feyre was leaving with the beast and her screams for her to stay refusing to leave her mouth. She was powerless to stop it, to weak to even move from the door frame let alone stop her sister form being kidnapped by the fae beast. And even if she could it seemed that as the door closed a haze a magic was sent out and the sudden scene of a so-called aunt Ripley sending for Feyre to help her in her sickness appeared in her brain. Had she not fainted after it happened, she was sure she would have believed it, but dreams of a growling beats taking Feyre away haunted her dreams.

As the months passed , Elain and their father seemed content to believe the glamour the fae had cast and the seeming coincidence of regaining there fortune, neither Daphne or Nesta believed it.

She hated this new life, the life without Feyre. And the seemingly picture-perfect front her family created.

Her life became filled with tutors and healers and the balls filled with preening men all ever for a quite wife they never have to speak to.

Her life seemed duller than it did, and even more lonely.

Her sisters now ignored her completely, her father was no to busy for he. With Her sisters spending more time doing their own thing, with Nesta always alone and refusing to speak to anyone. Elain found herself engaged to a future lord, a man you had grown to hate despite only meeting him three times.

And daphne found herself quiet the scholar, egar to learn, and found herself drawn more and more to the history of Pythian, of the war and the fae courts.

A year passed since Feyre was taken and though she had returned for a week before swiftly leaving again, it felt like everything had changed since she left.

she felt as if she was on the side lines looking in on her family.

Even more so after their father had left to go to the continent.

Elain had grown distant, only wishing to spend time with her when it came to her garden.

And Nesta had secluded herself in her room, refusing company from all.

Daphne was forced to chaperone her sister and watch her life become what elain always wished.

Perhaps it was selfish to wish for attention, or at least the same level as she received in the past.

But now it seemed the better she got the less attention she received. She now got the level of freedom she had long desired and yet it seemed a waste without her sisters there to experience it with her.

But at least she now had the opportunity to have friends. Or at least friends in the form of Leon, one of the footmen in her family’s employ.

He had been kind since the moment she meet him, egar to spend time with her.  

And though at first it was simply kind smiles facial expressions to communicate, he slowly taught her sign language. Having grown up with a sister who was hearing impaired, it allowed him the chance to talk to her. And for the first time she felt heard.

He was a small comfort in her dull life.

Suddenly it was march, time passed in the blink of an eye.

Something had shifted in the last few months; the estate grew quieter, and the trees seemed to murmur.

The sky felt greyer and snow colder.

The wall felt thin, with more cracks than ever, fog creeped from it and a sense of danger, ‘more so than before was emoting from it.

She had started to take walks near the wall daily. A sense of need to be close to Feyre overcame her. She wasn’t sure why, she never saw anyone near the wall.

That was until she stumbled into him.

Possibly the most handsome person you had ever seen. His eyes caught yours and they seemed to enchant her, the striking hazel colour distracting you from the obvious giant bat like wings sprouting from his back. But she didn’t mind, his eyes were beautiful…he was beautiful perhaps the most beautiful creature ever.

And his hands were on her waist.

Holding her after she stumble into him.

her waist.

“Are you okay?” he spoke softly, his yes tracing over her. He seemed to look at her with a sense of family. Though she was sure she had never once seen him before.

she nodded her head, her eyes looking down to were he still held her waste.

“your Daphne right?” he asked carefully.

Daphne looked up startled, shocked that he knew her name, and started racking her mind for memories of his face.

“i-“ the words, sounding more like a gasp left her mouth, as she willed yourself to speak.

And she might of mustered up a few words had Feyre not suddenly appeared.

“Daphne?” she breathed. Looking her up and down, “what are you doing this close to the wall?”

The males hands left her waist as he moved aside and allowed Feyre to hug her.

she hugged her back, but her face was perplexed as she took her in. she was different.

She seemed to glow, and her skin was soft and clear. Far more so than ever before and her ears… they were pointed.

She was fae.

Confusion adorned her face and a worried smile filled hers.

“don’t be scared” she seemed to beg.

she shook your head, moving to hug her once more.

she tired to talk, to ask her if she was okay, to ask her what had happened but the her mouth filled with bile, and the words seemed to leave her mind the more she tried to speak.

She seemed relived at the hug, moving her hand to stroke her hair, “you look well.” She spoke, as she took in her rosy cheeks and more filled out figure.

Daphne nodded. Her attention still fully on Feyre and confusion in her eyes as she tried to figure out what happened to her.

“I know you must be confused, and ill explain once were at the estate but-“ she was cut of by the sudden appearance of two more fae males.

Both with the same wings as the male she had bumped into.

“Daphne… this is Cassian and Rhysand” she said pointing to the two males, before turning “and the male Daphne bumped into, that’s Azriel” she spoke looking at her carefully as the two males introduced themselves and shook her hand.

A small nervous smile toyed on Daphne’s mouth.

she looked to Azriel, taking him in and reaching her hand out to shake his, as the others had done to her.

He seemed shocked at the action, his hands moving slowly to take hers.

As if he was scared to touch her, scared that they would taint her somehow.

They were rough, more so than the others, and covered in scars.

But her eyes didn’t linger, nor did she flinch as she was sure he expected her too. Instead she shook it and smiled. Her cheeks filling with a light blush as he focused her attention on her.

She turned to face her sister, the blush still prominent on her face and her minding releasing at how handsome Azriel, well how all the males seemed but more so him.

And the male she knew as Rhysand seemed to smirk as he looked at her, as if he could read the very thoughts she was thinking in her head.

She hugged slightly at the smirk, a nervous feeling washing over her as she took in the three strangers and the sudden change to Feyres appearance.

She pointed towards the direction of the estate, focusing her gaze on feyre as she did so.

“Should we get going then?” Feyre questioned, seemingly to sense her sisters nerves.

The walk was slow, the faes content to walk at a leisurely pace, though daphne was sure it had something to do with her and the coughs her small body was emitting.

By the time they reached the estate, feyre seemed to have grown nervous, her hand gripping daphne’s and her palm growing sweaty.

Daphne rubbed her hand in comfort though it seemed to do little as Feyre pulled her back hastily the estate came into view.

“Can you clear out the staff?” she questioned “they can’t see us, it will cause to many issues”

She nodded, giving feyre a hug before she departed.

She was grateful Leon was working that day, he took her at her word when she signed his and the others need to leave.

The once lively state was now empty bar the four sisters and three fae males.

She received harsh glares from nesta at their unwelcome guest.

And as words were spoken, and feyre spoke of the need to use the house as a meeting point, the glares grew harsher. As if whatever impending conflict was Daphne’s fault.

Dinner was no better, harsh words and arguments between the sisters sounded. Even more so when Daphne had run to get stools for the two winged males.

She was silent, as always.

But somehow sitting next to Azriel filled her with confidence she hadn’t ever had.

“Can you really fly?” she whispered, her voice rough from years of not being used.

And though her sisters gasped and nesta sent her another glare. Azriel simply smiled and spoke “yes. Cassian and I hail from a race of faeries called Illyrians. We’re born hearing the song of the wind”

Daphne smiled, her mouth speaking before she could even process that she had talked “that’s very beautiful” she said “ I have always wondered what it would be like to fly” she mused, “is it ever scary?” she spoke making eye contact with Feyre who gave her an encouraging smile, though her eyes were still shocked at your words.

It was probably the most words she had ever said, as even before she stopped talking, she was never a chatty child.  

“sometimes” Azriel said, with Cassian nodding in agreement, as Azriel continued “if you are caught in a storm, if the current drops. But we are trained so thoroughly that the fear is gone before were out of swaddling”

Daphne nodded, her mouth filling with bile and a stuttered almost gasp left her mouth in the stead of words.

She swallowed roughly, her face flushing as she realised everyone’s attention was on her.

And then it struck her, she had spoken.

In the past it had never been more than one word, and it was always mumbled and nearly in audible, and often followed quickly with vomiting.

She willed herself to not vomit, but as Nesta went to say something, she was sure would be aimed at her sudden ability to speak.

She rose and ran to the bathroom and let it all out.

She cried and cried afterwards, in shock and shame.

It was how it always happened, the shame she felt afterwards, as if she wasn’t allowed to speak, as if speaking would cause something bad to happen. And it was a feeling that followed her for the remainder of her sister visit.

And even after they had all left it didn’t go away.

It seemed to haunt her, even more so after she got sick once more.

But this time it was different.

She had been bed bound for months on end.

Memories were all in a haze and she couldn’t tell night from day.

she hadn’t woken in days and yet the next time she woke, she was being tugged out of a cauldron full of freezing water.

To be added to taglist

taglist @fuckingsimp4azriel

[janmisali]

jan Misali series 2025 status report, "please don't ask me about these unless you have an actual question beyond 'when is the next one' or 'is this series dead'" edition

finannual meme mashups: officially over. 2024 was the last one, unless I decide to do another whole-decade mashup at the end of 2029 (I probably won't).

toki pona lessons: fully intend to get back to this eventually! however the increasingly impatient comments demanding more of this series have successfully completely destroyed my motivation to put work into this series. I do genuinely promise to get back to it as soon as people stop asking for it. that's not a bit.

Conlang Critic: on indefinite hiatus. I'm not going to say it's over, but I have no current plans to make any more of it. but maybe someday!

how many Super Mario games are there?: well for starters I'm still not fully recovered from the "basking" phase of making hmsmgatn. but also this series is "over" until enough things happen to justify a sequel. (and no, I'm not going to do the same concept with another series.)

retconlang: canceled. the pilot did not perform well, and I overwhelmingly got more people saying a generic "please make more of this!" or "when is the next episode?" than any actual positive feedback on the video

the wāw saga: it's weird that people in annoying comments have been grouping this in with the other series because like, unlike the others there isn't any indication in the videos themselves that this is a series I have ever intended to continue beyond those two videos? I do have nebulous ideas for a third installment in the trill-ogy, but that's not something I'm actively planning or working on.

Wario Faces Consequences for His Actions: took a break when Move It! was announced, and haven't been able to regain momentum. I'd love to get back to this, but I just haven't yet.

kijetesumikyoku: the toki pona community needs to hurry up and make more music for me to sample, there's still not enough out there to make a third one of these

tumblr polls: I will literally never run out of ideas for tumblr polls. this series will continue until tumblr physically stops me from making them

[meadowfics]

movie setting

thanos x f!exactress!reader

you run into your ex boyfriend during the squid games

warnings: death (not thanos, its his bestie instead sorry), some changes in the original plot, angst, reader is a blacklisted actress, one use of "bro" towards reader, even though reader is intended to be female.

you were once one of the most promising actresses in korea, starring in a hit drama that still lingers in people's hearts.

your career was supposed to skyrocket, but a scandal ruined everything.

the scandal wasn’t even your fault. the media twisted the story, painting you as the villain.

companies cut ties, contracts were ripped apart, and soon, you found yourself blacklisted from the industry.

millions of won in debt piled up before you could recover.

with no way to earn money, since you did not need to go to college because of your acting career..your world crumbled around you.

to make things worse, you and your longtime boyfriend, thanos, broke up right before everything went to hell.

you loved him.

maybe you still do.

however, you couldn’t drag him down with you, not when his rap career was still holding on by a thread.

he wanted to fight for you, but you wouldn’t let him.

“i’m not going to be the reason you sink too.”

after that, you disappeared from his life.

thano's drug addiction got worse when you left, but that is something that you did not know about until later.

just three months after suffering, you sat at the subway station after missing the last train of the night.

someone finds you..

the salesman.

he offers you the game. an escape. a chance at redemption.

you hesitate, but when you see the money, you know you don’t have a choice.

that’s how you end up on the colorful, dystopian stairs, walking toward your first game just five days later...

you don’t see thanos first. he sees you.

his breath catches when he spots you a few steps below, dressed in the same green tracksuit, looking just as lost and desperate as the rest.

he almost doesn’t believe it.

his ex, the woman he once held at night, the woman he let go of but never truly moved on from, is here.

“no fucking way,” he mutters under his breath, eyes burning into your back.

you feel it...

the weight of someone staring

when you finally turn, your stomach drops.

thanos.

your ex-boyfriend, the man you broke your own heart over, is right there running up the stairs towards you.

for a second, you do not move, holding up the line.

when he comes closer, you turn away, gripping the railing tightly as you climb the stairs faster.

he’s not stupid. he knows you’re avoiding him.

outside on the field..people notice you.

“wait… is that—?”

“holy shit, it’s her! from (drama series)!”

players start murmuring, pointing, whispering excitedly.

some of them grew up watching you on tv, still nostalgic over your most famous role.

“i can’t believe it! i had the biggest crush on her when i was younger!”

you try to ignore the attention, but it’s hard when people are outright gawking at you.

some are obsessed, borderline unsettling.

“you’re even prettier in person…”

you feel their stares, their fascination.

it makes your skin crawl.

thanos notices too.

his jaw clenches as people circle around you like vultures, bombarding you with questions.

usually, this is outside of his personality quirks.

however, he does not like people messing with his girl.

“so, is the scandal real?”

“did you really do it?”

you keep your head down.

you don’t owe them an answer.

thanos watches, expression unreadable as he stands next to namgyu.

he doesn’t step in. not yet.

when the first gunshot goes off, everything changes.

you’re frozen in place, watching blood splatter as bodies drop like flies.

people scream, run, beg for help, but it’s useless.

panic surges inside you, but you force yourself to keep it together.

“green light.”

you move.

you don’t think, don’t breathe,

just follow the rules and survive.

somewhere behind you, thanos does the same.

he sees you up ahead, your body tense, hands trembling at your sides.

he wants to call your name. tell you to focus.

he doesn’t.

he keeps jumping around like a joke..

its the drugs.

he kind of has a feeling that you will be fine.

thanos watches you as he jumps around in joy, pushing people down as if their lives wouldn't be taken too.

“red light.”

after surviving the massacre, you’re still shaken.

everyone is.

you sit in a corner of the room, trying to calm your breathing, when a shadow falls over you.

you don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“señorita,” thanos says, voice lower than you remember.

“you’re really here.”

you keep your eyes on the ground.

“leave me alone.”

he scoffs.

“yeah? and how’s that been working out for you?”

you don’t answer.

“you should’ve told me,”

he mutters after a beat.

“it’s not like that,” you whisper.

he tilts his head.

“really? really bro? ‘cause it sure seems like you wanna be near me again.”

he’s smug. a little too smug.

his ego inflates when you don’t deny it.

you glare at him.

“i’d rather be near you than anyone else in this fucking place, su-bong.”

thano's smirk fades slightly.

nam gyu watches the whole thing unfold.

he sees the way you and thanos look at each other..

the tension, the unfinished business.

it makes him sick.

“you two have history,” nam gyu states one night, arms crossed.

you shrug.

“so?”

“so,” he huffs,

“it’s fucking annoying.”

you raise a brow.

“why do you care?”

he doesn’t answer.

thanos, overhearing, just smirks.

“someone jealous?”

nam gyu scowls.

“shut up.”

despite your best efforts, you start gravitating toward your ex again.

you tell yourself it’s survival.

safety.

being where you are most familiar with..

deep down, you know it’s more than that.

every time you look at him, you remember what it felt like to love him.

you also remember why you left.

he notices the way you linger near him, even if you don’t say much.

“you’re not good at pretending for an actress señorita,” he says one night.

you glance at him.

“pretending what?”

“that you don’t want me back.”

your throat tightens.

you shake your head.

“it’s not like that.”

“sure,” he mutters. but he doesn’t look convinced.

the games are brutal. relentless.

you don’t know if you’ll make it out alive.

one thing is clear:

no matter how much you try to fight it, thanos is a part of you.

and in a place like this, maybe he’s the only thing keeping you sane.

when all of the men went to the bathroom, the dorms were eerily quiet. until the sound of chaos started coming from outside the doors. sounds of metal banding, fists colliding with flesh, grunts of pain, bodies slamming against the walls.

it was impossible to ignore. every player still in the dorm room heard it, heads turning toward the source of the violence, but no one dared to move.

you sat on your bed, your hands clenched into fists against your lap. your whole body was tense, your mind racing.

thanos was in there. so was nam-gyu. you didn’t know what the fights were about, but you knew it wasn’t good.

honestly, you would not have been surprised if your out-of-pocket ex started it all with his bestfriend.

se-mi sat beside you, watching the entrance anxiously. the minutes stretched on like hours, and with every second that passed, the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

one by one, men began filtering back into the dorms, beaten and bloodied. some limped, some had swollen faces, and some had fresh bruises forming under their eyes.

you scanned every face, searching for him.

no thanos.

you exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the fabric of your pants. se-mi shifted beside you, glancing over with hesitation before asking,

"do you still love thanos?"

the question caught you off guard. your head snapped toward her, eyes wide in panic.

"do i love thanos?" you repeated, almost scoffing. then, without thinking, you blurted out, "no shit, se-mi!"

se-mi flinched at your sharp tone, and the realization hit you instantly. your expression softened as guilt settled in your chest.

"i'm sorry," you muttered, shaking your head.

"that was mean, you're one of my friends here and I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. I'm just stressed."

se-mi shrugged, offering a small, dismissive smile.

"it's fine." she glanced toward the entrance again before sighing.

"i wouldn’t care if something happened to nam-gyu though."

you huffed a quiet, amused breath.

despite the tension, you silently agreed.

then, finally, movement at the entrance.

your breath caught when you saw him...thanos, limping back into the dorms, looking bruised but very much alive.

"su-bong," you breathed, already on your feet before you could process it.

you didn’t care who was watching. didn’t care about the whispers, the eyes on you.

you ran straight to him, wrapping your arms tightly around his body, holding onto him like he might disappear if you let go.

the rapper's arms came around you just as fast, his grip firm, as if reassuring himself that you were real.

somewhere in the distance, you heard someone murmur, "that actress and the rapper are dating?" but it didn’t matter.

you buried your face against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, letting yourself feel the relief washing over you.

he is okay.

thanos pulled back slightly, just enough to press a lingering, warm kiss to your forehead.

you closed your eyes, savoring it.

"see," he mumbled against your forehead, his voice teasing but laced with something deeper, something more tender.

"i know you wanted me back, baby."

you giggled, shaking your head.

"shut up and go sit down."

you slipped an arm under his to help him walk back to the beds, your focus entirely on him...so much so that you didn’t process the absence of a certain someone.

not until the speakers crackled to life, and the robotic voice echoed through the dorms:

"player 124, eliminated."

silence fell over the room.

your body stiffened.

nam-gyu never came back with thanos.

masterlist

[standfucker]

Post-Injury Hurt/Comfort Series - Law, Shanks, Mihawk, Rosinante, Blackbeard

Characters: Law, Shanks, Mihawk, Rosinante, Blackbeard

Reader: GN (afab in Rosi's)

Word Count: 5.7k

CW: blood, gore, graphic depictions of injury, stitches, sepsis

Summary: Continuing the series. Blackbeard's is more of a small bonus drabble that came to me, so his doesn't meet the 1k minimum I was shooting for in these. (And Rosi's went way over...)

Ao3 Link

Law

Your opponent is quicker than you're used to. As a cat mink, his reflexes are far better than yours. However, he fights unarmed while you use twin short swords, so you're able to keep some distance between you and even the playing field.

You tilt your head left to avoid his swipe, claws barely missing your face. Acting quickly, you return with a jab that pierces his armor and stabs into his shoulder. He hisses in pain and you grin–that's one arm he can't use anymore.

Your moment of confidence makes you slip up. Focused on the movement of his remaining arm, you're taken by surprise when he suddenly kicks one of your swords right out of your hand. He hasn’t used kicks at all until now, likely to catch you off-guard like this. Before you can recover, he follows up by thrusting his claws into your chest, digging in and unleashing electricity into your body.

Law looks over just in time to see you drop like a stone. “Y/n-ya!” he shouts–but you're unresponsive. He turns to Bepo, fighting by his side. “Bepo! Count to two, then kick as hard as you can where I am!”

Bepo, wisened to Law’s tactics, nods. “Aye-aye!”

Law flexes his fingers. “Room!”

The sphere of his power expands wide to cover the battlefield. He swaps places with the cat mink, hearing it yowl a moment later as Bepo’s foot connects with its gut. Grabbing your arm, he creates one more room from where he is and teleports you both to its perimeter, a safe distance from the fight. Aside from some bloody claw marks, he can't see major injuries.

“Scan!” Law calls, voice tinged with panic as his ability checks your vitals. To his horror, the scan of your body shows your heart has stopped entirely, and his own seems to follow suit. He quickly removes your heart from your body, holding it in his hand. Focusing, he runs his own electric current through your heart in a swift, measured jolt.

The muscle twitches once and remains still.

“No, no, come on.” Law tries again. Zap. No response. “Don’t you do this.” He tries again. Zap. And again, no response. “Come back.” Zap. Your heart is still.

This time, he uses both hands and runs a higher voltage, shouting, “Come back right now!” Your heart jumps–then, finally, starts to beat. The relief is almost nauseating.

Clutching your heart to his chest with one hand, Law tilts your jaw open with his other hand and seals his mouth over yours, delivering rescue breaths until he feels you start to breathe on your own.

Slowly, your eyes open, your breaths shallow but even. He's hovering right over your head, looking into your eyes. “Law?”

“Just stay still.” He runs another scan, making sure everything's running normally.

You try to get up, fighting the sluggishness of your body. “The fight–”

“It’s still going. Lie down.” Law pushes your shoulder, forcing you to recline.

“Then you need to go help them.”

“The rest of the crew has it handled. I'm not leaving you.”

You’re not sure what happened–everything went black while you were fighting–but whatever it was, it must have been bad if Law’s saying that. Still, you’re eager to rejoin the battle. “Am I going to die?” you ask stubbornly as you try to sit up again.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'd never let that happen. Lie down, Y/n-ya.”

Law doesn't let you fight. He doesn’t even let you get up, not until he's checked everything–blood pressure, oxygen level, potential blood clots, your ability to follow commands–and even then, he doesn't give you your heart back, stating he needs to keep an eye on it for a while “just in case.” The battle ends in victory, and you walk back to the crew with a square hole in your chest.

You don't know much about electric shock effects, but you suppose it's okay to make sure your heart hasn't been thrown out of rhythm. It is weird to go about your day with the hole in your body. And it’s weird to feel Law’s fingers around your heart. It’s difficult to describe–a sort of warm, sensitive, almost ticklish physical contact that you feel within your chest, despite it being outside your body. Every time Law picks up your heart, you’re aware. You don’t know where he keeps it, but it must be somewhere on his person; you feel it at random throughout the day or as you’re laying in bed at night. You can infer he stays up late, as you often fall asleep to the sensation of him holding it in his hand. 

Throughout all those days, you’ve never felt more secure, never slept more soundly than when you do knowing he’s keeping your very heart safe by his side.

Every day Law does another exam, taking the time to run a scan on your body. It seems a bit excessive to you, but you’re not about to tell him that. You’re just grateful for the attention, truth be told. You and Law have been close for a while now, even exchanging some fond words in the rare moments you’re alone, but neither of you have the courage to risk damaging your friendship. But having him literally hold onto your heart makes you feel linked to him in a way you never have before, and it’s driving you insane.

“All clear?” you ask as Law finishes another scan.

“Yes, you look good,” he says, making your cheeks warm at the phrasing, “though, occasionally your heart rate picks up when you’re at a resting state. I haven’t figured out why yet, but I will.” He holds up your heart in front of his face, scratching his beard with his other hand as he thinks. “Like now.”

That answer is fairly obvious to you, and entirely his fault. Watching him inspect your heart so closely makes you oddly nervous. And he puts his hands on you during these exams, too, feeling lymph nodes on your neck and instructing you to breathe in and out while he listens to your lungs. What are you supposed to do? You can’t help it. It’s involuntary.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Well, there was a hole where your heart should be that only he could fill. But you don’t say that. You just mumble, “I feel fine.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.” Aside from some fatigue in the beginning, you’ve otherwise been back to normal. “What do you think? Can I have it back?”

He thinks for a second. “Alright, one more day, then, just to be safe. Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t,” you say. “It’s weirdly comforting, to be honest.”

“How?” Law looks at you incredulously. “I could crush your heart in my hand right now.”

Of course that would be his perspective. The risk of trusting someone so intimately isn’t lost on him. But after all these years, you would easily trust Law with your life, so you simply shrug. “You wouldn’t break my heart, would you?”

He stiffens. Surely you didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but the way you say it–so earnestly, so innocently, looking at him with those big doe eyes of yours–he can’t help but feel a pang of longing. He desperately wants to protect you, to make right where he failed in the past. Law wants to reassure you, to bring you comfort that he hasn’t figured out how to give.

Instead, he says, “No.”

“Promise?” you ask softly.

“I promise, Y/n-ya.” Your heart beats faster in his hand. Law looks down at it, then at you, and there’s a flash of understanding in his eyes.

“Okay,” you say. If he’s finally figured it out, maybe…maybe this is your chance. “Prove it.”

“How?” He looks a bit shocked, and the way his eyes keep flitting between your heart and your face tells you that he knows exactly how. 

You’re slow in your approach, and even slower when you put your arms around his neck, giving him plenty of time to back away. He’s uncertain, frozen in place, but if he wants you to stop, he isn’t saying so.

You lean in. Law closes his eyes. Your heart beats like crazy in his hand.

You kiss him. Just a brief, soft touch of your lips.

“Law,” you breathe. “Was that okay?”

Law responds by cupping your cheek and pulling you in for another.

Afterwards, he jokes that he doesn’t want to give your heart back. But that’s alright. Truth be told, he’d stolen it a long time ago.

Shanks

You return to consciousness through a cloud of black spots in your eyes, flashing in and out of your vision like raindrops on glass. It's immediately accompanied by the piercing whine of your ears ringing. You can’t hear anything else, nor can you tell where you are. A battle…you were pretty sure there was a battle. 

The spots recede to the edges of your vision, and you can see a cloudy sky, filling with gray smoke. You’re on your back. Faintly, you can hear shouts, filtering in through the shrill whine. A few seconds later, your brain starts putting names to the voices. Yasopp, Benn, Shanks.

Your captain’s face fills your vision a moment later. Instantly, you know something is very, very wrong, because you’ve never seen Shanks look panicked before. It’s just not an emotion in his repertoire. Always cool, always collected, always joyful, until now. He’s shouting something–your name.

“–you hear me? Just hang on. Hongo’s on his way. Fuck, fuck!”

“...Shanks…” you rasp, dimly becoming aware of your body. “What happened…?”

“It’s my fault, I didn’t stop them in time, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

It’s distant, but pain starts trickling through your body. Dull, throbbing pain, everywhere. Well, almost everywhere.

“It’s okay,” you say, trying to raise your head to assess yourself.

“Don’t!” Shanks stops you with a hand on your forehead. “Don’t move.”

Gradually, you start remembering the battle. The chaos, the noise. Now, there’s no more sound except the ringing in your ears, so it must be over. You were fighting someone who specialized in explosives, that was it. That explained the hurt, and the confusion.

“I was hit,” you say slowly.

Shanks just nods, looking grim.

Benn appears on your other side, crouching next to you and frowning. You search his face for an idea of the damage, but he keeps it carefully still as he looks you up and down. Then his eyes meet Shanks’, and they exchange a look that gives you a bad feeling.

As the ringing dies down just a little and your vision clears, the pain grows. It’s distracting, more so than you’re used to, but what’s even more distracting is the particular lack of it where it should be.

“...Shanks?” you say. “I can’t feel my leg.”

His lower lip wobbles, and then his lips press together in a tight, thin line, and that’s when you know. You lift your head to try and see, but he stops you again. “Don’t look. It’s better if you don’t look.”

It’s funny–he looks like the one on the verge of falling apart. You hate to see him so distraught, so unlike himself, all his cheerful confidence vanished.

“It’s my left leg…” you say.

“Yeah...”

“That means we match.”

He smiles ruefully, tears breaking from his lash line and running free. “Yeah.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” you say, reaching for his hand.

He takes it gently. “That’s my line.”

Coping is a funny thing. You spend most of your energy post-surgery comforting Shanks. Not because he can’t handle it by himself, and not because he asks you too. It’s just easier to externalize the situation, to make it about his self-blame rather than address the gaping loss of your body.

Shanks tries to hide it from you, to not burden you, but you know him too well. Eventually, you get tired of how he drinks himself into a stupor most nights. You get tired of how your crutches irritate your armpits, tired of how you keep losing balance, tired of the phantom pains that shoot through nerves that aren’t there anymore. You snap at him. You shout. You cry that blaming himself won’t regrow your leg, so can’t he please just be there for you? You need him–you’ve always needed him–now more than ever before.

It’s an ugly, broken confession, but it finally reaches him.

Shanks pulls you in close and apologizes. His eyes are moist even though he’s not usually a crier, overwhelmed by what he’s put you through, overwhelmed that you’re finally admitting your feelings under such nightmarish conditions.

“I love you,” he whispers, over and over. “I love you.”

Healing is both easier after that, and yet harder. Now, with no distraction from your loss, you have to face it head on. It’s easier because he’s there. That he’s been through this before makes you cling to him more than you would have, surrounding yourself in the grim comforts of someone who understands. Shanks holds you tight on those nights when you scream “it’s gone,” over and over, lets you squeeze his hand when you have phantom pain, helps you shower when you can’t manage it by yourself, supports you on your first shaky steps using the prosthetic. The recovery journey is an arduous one, but you make it out the other side closer than ever before.

Years later, it’s something you can joke about without feeling that twinge of loss, especially when your crewmates call you and Shanks a complementary set. Now that you’re finally official with him and back to your full battle capacity, you can appreciate what happened to you for what it proved: that together, you and Shanks are complete.

Mihawk

You and Mihawk were opposite sides of the same coin. As different as you could be from each other, but still inexplicably connected as longtime rivals. Being warlords was the only thing you really had in common: He was a swordsman, you used guns; he sailed alone, you commanded a large crew; his colors of arms was better, your colors of observation was better. He preferred not to talk much, while you loved to egg him into trading banter. Many clashes with each other throughout the years solidified your strange, thrilling rivalry until you looked forward to the rare times you ran into each other.

Nowadays, you only really see each other during warlord meetings. So, when you were ambushed by your own crew, Mihawk was the last person you expected to save you.

He took out the four men holding you down, tossed you your pistols, and fought by your side. Your crew wasn’t weak by any means– you hand-picked them to sail with you–and had you been alone, you wouldn't have survived. With your combined strength, however, the battle was over quickly.

It surprised Mihawk, then, that you didn't stick around to bother him like you usually did. You fired a smoke round and disappeared. He figured that you were demoralized from the mutiny and didn't have it in you, but when the smoke cleared, he saw tell-tale drops of blood where you were. 

Mihawk finds you in an abandoned shed not far from the battle. You're panting, hunched down against the wall and facing away from him, a first aid kit at your feet. He's as quiet as a cat when he approaches, but naturally you sense him anyway.

“How did you find me?” you ask without looking up.

“I followed the blood trail,” he says flatly. “You should have stemmed the flow before running off.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Did you tie a tourniquet first?” he asks, and even from there he can see you roll your eyes.

“Can’t. It’s not in the right place.” You raise shaky arms to your head, fiddling with something–stitches, most likely.

“Let me see.”

You glare at him for a moment, eyes uncharacteristically hard and angry. Then you quietly relent by turning, letting him see your other side. There’s a long, deep gash going from your temple down to your neck. Still oozing blood, he can't see for sure, but estimates it's gone down to the bone. You’ve got a few crude, clumsy stitches started in the top, the needle hanging from the wire, but without being able to see what you’re doing, it’s a piss poor job.

Mihawk wordlessly approaches you and crouches down, sharp gold eyes fixed on your wound. “It needs to be redone,” he says, unsheathing Kogatana and cutting through your stitches. You don’t so much as flinch when he pulls the wires out–you wouldn’t dare in front of him, he supposes. He’d likely do the same. Maybe you were more alike than he thought. 

He takes the first aid kid from the ground and re-threads the needle, then starts to stitch your wound, pressing gauze to soak up the blood as he goes. “It's deep,” he says.

”That explains why it stings so bad,” you mumble. While you successfully resist the urge to wince, you can’t stop yourself from tearing up. “Man…”

“It could be worse. It went down to your skull, but the bone itself wasn't damaged.”

“What, are you trying to cheer me up?” You turn to look at him, but he tilts your chin back to the side and chides you to hold still.

You exhale harshly through your nose at the unpleasant sensation. “I hate needles,” you say suddenly. “I hate sharp things in general. The thought of a blade going through skin gives me the creeps.” He doesn’t respond, and you feel awkward, but you continue anyway, feeling the words tumbling out of you before you can stop them. “I’ve teased you about using swords, but the truth is, I could never.”

Mihawk doesn’t pause in his stitching, only hums. “If it’s worth anything, I’m a terrible shot.”

The corner of your lip twitches up. It does make you feel a little better, to be honest. 

You glance at the swordsman as he works. His eyes are always so much more intense up close. You used to find it unsettling, but right now, focused as they are on your wound, it just seems oddly endearing. You glance away, blinking quickly, and a tear breaks from your lash line.

When Mihawk pauses to wipe it away, it’s so fluid and unhesitating that you debate if it really happened at all. Warmth creeps into your cheeks, and you avoid looking at him.

“Hey, ‘Hawk,” you say.

“What?”

You stare at the ground carefully. “Why did you help me?”

He’s quiet for a while, perhaps thinking about his answer, perhaps just keeping up his mysterious image.

“You’re the only one who’s ever successfully shot me,” he finally says. “To think someone of your caliber would be taken out by such cowardly tactics doesn’t sit right with me.”

You let that sink in while he finishes his work, tying off the stitches and applying the bandages. It’s weird–all the times you’ve bickered, all the times you’ve fought with lethal intent, and yet you trust with all your heart that Mihawk won’t harm you right now.

You’ve let your guard down too much, you think to yourself. That’s how you missed the warning signs of your crew’s mutiny, that’s how you got injured in battle, that’s how you’ve let Mihawk get this close.

Even then, you find yourself leaning your head into his hand. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes his thumb over your cheek.

The reality of what you’re doing hits you a moment later, and you quickly stand up, only for the world to spin and your knees to buckle.

Mihawk catches you easily. “You've lost a lot of blood.”

“It'll refill,” you mumble.

“In time. You need to rest.”

“Alright, alright,” you say. His hold is so secure, you kind of never want him to let go. Damn, you have lost a lot of blood. “I owe you for this, Mihawk. Somehow I'll pay you back.”

“How about dinner?” he asks, and you’re so caught off-guard that you stare owlishly.

“H-Hey, come on, now,” you say, but Mihawk has never really been one to joke. There's a crack in your confident demeanor. “Serious?”

“Serious.” He takes your hand, raising it to his lips, and kisses your knuckles.

Rosinante

“It’s not a fucking show,” you snap at the crew, crowded around where you are in the med bay of the Numenca Flamingo. Doflamingo is bent over the wound in your side, a string attaching his finger to the bullet still inside. Corazon holds your body down.

“You gonna scream?” Diamante teases cruelly, but you roll your eyes.

“You’d like that, huh, you sick–FUCK!” you shriek at the end as Doflamingo yanks out the bullet, body jerking against Corazon's iron grip. Diamante and Trebol both chuckle like the bastards they are, but Doflamingo waves them and the rest away as he moves in to disinfect the area.

You shiver, fighting not to tear up in front of the two of them. It is of the utmost importance not to show weakness around Doflamingo. After years of dedication and rigorous work, you’ve clawed your way into a promotion from a top Donquixote Pirate to one of the people in his Family.

It’s imperative, as an undercover Marine, that you don’t lose this chance. Your job is to support Corazon. You’d rather not cry in front of him, either, but that’s more about pride than anything else.

Doflamingo traces your hip as he finishes sewing you up with his string. “Buffalo said you took the bullet for Baby 5.” 

You stiffen at his touch, an oddly soft contrast to the string that nonetheless makes you ill at ease. “Yes, Young Master.” Are you in trouble? You don’t want to act soft, but you couldn’t stand by and let a child get shot, either.

“I see,” he says, and you hold your breath. “I’d expect no less from someone I hand-picked.”

He pats your head once, then leaves the room, and relief courses through your veins alongside the adrenaline.

Corazon gives you a look you can’t decipher. He doesn’t speak to you, of course–too risky. His voice is a distant memory at this point, all the way from back when you were in training together.

A few uneventful days pass as the crew sails back to base with their spoils. The pain in your side seems to spread to right below your gut, intensifying as it goes. The wound area isn’t red or swollen, so you realize you must have gotten your period on top of everything. Great.

You’re the unlucky type that suffers from hellish, unpredictable menstruation, the pain often debilitating enough to put you out of commission until it abates. It was easier to cover up back in the Marines, feigning illness, but you wouldn’t be granted such liberties in the pirate world. You've had to fight through the agony to keep up your appearance as a tough-as-nails pirate commander. It seemed you were being tested again, as now you had to resist while under watch of the Family.

The cramps continue to get worse by the day until you’re nauseated from the pain. You end up vomiting over the side of the ship more than once, which you claim is from eating bad food. You try everything to take your focus off the pain. Meditation, breathing exercises. But for some reason, it just keeps getting worse. There’s one day where it seems to slightly abate, and you go to bed believing you’re past the worst of it, only to wake up the next day in complete, room-spinning agony. Moving makes it worse, every time you go to the bathroom or help with the ship tasks it feels like you might pass out. You can’t get comfortable no matter which position you lay in, and you sweat like crazy even though it’s cold.

You’re shaky while you help haul in ropes, thoughts so consumed by how terrible you feel that you jump when Corazon taps your shoulder. He scribbles something on his notepad, then shows it to you. 

‘You look like shit.’

“That obvious?” you ask, even as your guts and head both swim in a thick fog of pain. Corazon scribbles some more.

‘Your pain tolerance is high. This is unusual for you.’

“It’ll pass,” you respond, turning away from him. He starts writing letters on your back, something he does to make absolutely sure no one can read your conversation later through his notepad.

‘Worried.’

The guilt eats at you before he can even finish writing it. As Doflamingo’s right hand, Corazon has himself to worry about. You’re supposed to make his job easier, not be dead weight. So even though this is the worst it’s ever been, even though you just want to cry at how much it hurts, you steel yourself. You can’t crumble now. “I’ll be okay, Cora,” you dismiss.

Law stands at the foot of your hammock that night as you writhe, a curious Baby 5 next to him.

“What do you want, Law,” you grit out.

“List your primary symptoms,” Law says. You glance at him to see he’s holding a notepad and pencil. “Also, you should let me look at how your wound’s healing.”

“I don’t need the opinion of an eight year old,” you spit, the pain making you lash out. You’ve already looked at your wound, you’ve dealt with many in the past, and the area around your incision looks fine.

Law clenches his fists, irritated. “You’re being a real bitch.”

Baby 5 gasps. Law shoots her a glare that makes her whimper and hide behind your hammock. He mutters to himself as he storms out.

“Why don’t you tell someone if you’re feeling bad?” Baby 5 asks timidly once Law’s gone.

“Because,” you say, taking a deep breath to try to focus on getting the words out. “I don’t have a devil fruit. My haki abilities are rudimentary. I can’t fall behind, Baby 5. I want to be useful to the Young Master.”

“I don’t understand.”

“One day you’ll get cramps, and hopefully they won’t be this bad. But when it happens, you have to be tough and not let anyone know. It’s looked down upon by those who don’t get them. You’ll be left behind…”

“That’s gonna happen to me?” Baby 5 looks worried.

You try to reassure her that since she’s handled everything the adults have thrown at her thus far, she’ll be fine. Baby 5 doesn’t look convinced, but you don’t have it in you to care right then.

By the next day the pain is so searingly, blindingly intense that no amount of willpower can overcome it. You’re woken up by it, and this time it’s unmatched by all the previous days combined. It feels like someone’s poured molten lava into your guts. It feels like your organs are being ripped out of your body. Pressing a pillow into your gut gives you a fraction of relief, but even the slightest relief is like heaven when the pain is that bad–until you’re ripped back down, not to earth, but to hell, and it’s agony all over again.

Somehow, you manage to get out of your hammock, only to end up on your knees on the floor, holding your stomach and making pitiful noises.

Distantly, you get the sensation that Corazon is writing words on your back, but you’re so out of it that you can’t parse them.

“Need help,” you whimper, voice breaking.

Corazon sends someone to get Doflamingo, who has Law assess you. After taking your vitals and pressing on your abdomen (you’ve never considered killing a child before, but it hurts so bad that you scream) Law declares you need to be hospitalized immediately, and also says he told you so just to rub salt in the wound.

It’s a miracle that there’s an island within a few hour’s sail. You don’t remember those hours very well. It’s in and out, coming and going with the waves of pain. All you remember is Corazon, staying by your side the entire time. He keeps the crueler Family members away from you, lets you squeeze his hand for comfort, holds your hair back when you throw up. When you make it to the island, he’s the one to carry you to the hospital.

You get palpated again by the hospital doctors (your own special hell) while Corazon holds your hand, get scanned by a machine, and finally diagnosed with a severe infection that’s gone septic. Post-surgery finally has you in relief, doped up on painkillers, but very, very weak.

Recovery is its own trial. Combined with the strength of the painkillers, plus your body fighting off the infection, you see things when you close your eyes. You’re not sure if members of the Family come to visit you, or if you’re imagining they were there. The only constant is Corazon.

You wake up one night to see him hunched over in a too-small chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even half-awake, you get the sudden sense that he’s trying not to cry. He probably wouldn’t want to see you like that, and you’re so, so tired still, so you go back to sleep.

You dream that he speaks to you. Perhaps it’s a memory, but when you wake up, you see his silhouette in the door.

“Cora?” You smile, lifting your head, but your smile dies when you see Doflamingo stepping inside. 

“Young Master,” you say weakly. Why is he visiting you alone? What could he possibly want, aside from telling you that you were demoted?

“Baby 5 was inconsolable,” he starts, sauntering up to your bed. “Someone told her she’d suffer the same condition that you did. Then she said something strange...” He trails a hand on the railing of your bed as he walks up to your side, looming over you. “She begged us not to abandon her.” You feel your blood run cold as Doflamingo grins. “What a silly notion.”

You open your mouth to speak, but can’t find the words. He reaches out a hand to brush back your hair and cup your cheek. It takes everything in you not to flinch away.

“Could it be, perhaps, you thought I’d abandon you, Y/n?” he asks, your daunted face reflected crimson in his sunglasses.

Swallowing, you nod, and he grips your chin harshly.

“In your concern, you almost got yourself killed,” he says. “I selected you to join me for a reason. You're no good to me dead. Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, and after another terrifying moment where he stares into your eyes–maybe your soul–he finally leaves.

Corazon writes furiously later, berating you for being so dismissive of your own condition. 

‘You were on death’s door! Your CRP was over 200!’ 

“How much is it supposed to be?”

‘Zero! Fool!!’

You apologize endlessly, and more so as he helps you recover, until he gets sick of your apologies, too–but when he takes your hand, his gaze is soft.

From here on out, no more suffering alone, he writes into your palm, we fight together.

He holds your hand in both of his larger ones and, doing a quick check to make sure you’re still alone, brushes his lips against the tips of your fingers.

Suddenly you understand just how much he’s longed not to fight alone in his mission, and how important it is for you to be there. You bow your head, pull his hands so they’re at your chest, and kiss the back of one. “I understand.”

Blackbeard

Comparatively, you are the better in sheer physical strength to your opponent, but the other pirate outspeeds you. You fail to dodge back far enough from the downward stab of his dagger, and it sinks into the meat of your thigh.

You snarl in pain while he roars in triumph. His roar gets cut off as you suddenly grab his throat.

“Insect!” you snarl as you squeeze hard, grinding his windpipe to his spine. He flails, making horrid choking noises and digging his nails into your hand. There’s a brief struggle where he tries to reach the dagger in your thigh, but you grab his wrist before he can and, with a surge of armament haki, snap it in your grip. He can’t even cry out like this, just writhes around like mad, and you wait a few more seconds before the blood flow is cut off to his brain for too long, and he goes limp.

The rest of the crew watches from the seats of the bar as you snap his neck sharply before letting him drop. The other patrons of the seedy bar cheer, and cash is begrudgingly exchanged while you hobble back to the Blackbeard Pirates. Doc Q starts to look over your leg as you lean against the bar.

“Thirty seconds,” Lafitte says, looking at his pocket watch, “you said it would take you ten.”

“Shut the fuck up, Lafitte,” you warn. The pain wracking through your leg gives you no patience for his snide commentary. “Or I’ll choke you out next.”

“Promise?”

In an instant, you yank the knife out of your thigh and stab it into Lafitte’s so deep it’s almost at the hilt. He screams while Doc Q yells at you, “Don’t pull out the knife–!”

“They fucking stabbed me!” Lafitte shrieks as Blackbeard, Burgess and Auger burst out into laughter. 

“I missed your femoral on purpose,” you grumble. “Next time I won’t.”

Doc Q rushes to stem the bleeding from your thigh, and you cross your arms, trying to quell your temper. Because the Doc has to sew you up first, Lafitte will have to wait a while with that dagger sunken into his leg. It’s a fitting punishment, but you still kind of want to kill him.

Blackbeard, wearing his shitty grin, drapes his arm around your shoulders. You throw him a warning look that he ignores, as usual. Most times he does this, you push his arm away and otherwise reject him to his face. This is one of the rare times you don't. You’re still in a lot of pain, and there’s pretty much nowhere else–no one else–on this planet that you could get a comforting touch from. You let him hold you to his side, if only to abate the burning of your injury, and ever so slightly, you feel your rage boil down to a simmer.

“Better, trinket?” Blackbeard asks you, smirking.

“No,” you lie.

[satkru]

੭* ‧₊° ichigo kurosaki x male reader

*๑♡՞ . rough sex , enemies to lovers , barely legal adults , little to no respect for one another during sex , raw sex , public sex

p.s . i have literally little to no idea how accurate my writing abt ichigo will be as i've really only watched the series until like ep 8-9(??) i'll probably pick it back up once i find the motivation to but rn im freeballing this 💔

ichigo and y/n had a rivalry known throughout the entirety of the whole school. a rivalry so bad that the administration of the school had to put them on two different floors with two different schedules in order for them to not engage with one another, otherwise it would end in an intense scrabble of sorts.

but that still didnt stop the two from sharing nasty glares at one another from time to time, no one really knew how they started such a rival-ship, but some just say that they stepped on the wrong foot and never recovered from it.

the true reason for such an intense relationship is that they both had an eye for the lovely lady known as Orihime. Her gorgeous orange eyes paired with her flowy ginger hair was a match made in heaven. Both of them could not keep their eyes off of that girl.

but one faithful day, after school had ended and the halls were empty. the two were set up to clean the rooms, with a teacher on the scene of course. Each time they came close to the others proximity, it was like watching two territorial dogs growling at each other, waiting for the other to strike.

but that strike never came as long as the professor was around. Eventually, the period of peace had to come to an end, as the teacher exclaimed they needed to use the restroom. "dont you two dare lay a hand on each other while im gone, or else you two are suspended for the rest of the year", the words burned into the nerves of the two.

"so, do you still like orihime" y/n asked as he swept the remaining dust on the floor, "why is that any of your business" ichigo spat out, a hint of anger laced his tone. "just wondering, you know. she has been looking at me twice now".

ichigo gripped onto the handle of his own broom, trying to contain his anger. "shes been getting quite.. close, to me" y/n said with a chuckle, he knew what he was doing was ticking off his rival, but the sensation of pissing someone off just called to him.

"she asked me to go to her house today, but dont worry, i'll make sure to save some space for you" kurosaki couldnt hold his jealously anymore, although he knew y/n was bluffing, the thought of him with his crush agitated him. and with that, he found himself throwing the broom across the room, almost hitting y/n in the process.

the man grinned, an annoying feature ichigo had always hated whenever he and y/n got into disputes. "uh oh, did i make sweet kurosaki angryy" y/n said with fake innocence in his voice, pouting his lip and laying a finger on his chin to enhance his "sweetness".

"shut your mouth already" kurosaki growled, his hands clenched into fists as he watched y/n continue to piss him off. "you'll never be with such a girl, soon enough, she'll be begging for me and my dick soon, her pussy will remember the shape of me and make enough room to fit me. she'll never think of you again after i go over to her house."

each word out of y/n's mouth pissed ichigo more off than before, his eyes were glued to the floor to not meet eyes, otherwise, the situation would get out of hand. the teasing man began walking towards kurosaki, his face still in an annoyingly smug expression.

"c'mon kurosaki, look at me, remember my face for the rest of your goddamn life. remember that i'll be the one taking care of who you thought was going to be your future wife." ichigo couldnt take the amount of disrespect he was experiencing, causing him to throw an unexpected punch towards y/n, making him fall to the floor with blood dripping from his nose.

although it was sudden, y/n expected such a reaction, this was all apart of his plan of course. ichigo reached down and grabbed y/n by the throat and pulled him up so they could be eye to eye. "you fucking bitch, youre getting me all riled up for what? huh? do you get off of this?" y/n chuckled dryly, "and what if i do?". such a response threw ichigo off guard, causing him to receive a heavy punch to his cheek.

"dont tell me youre gonna kink shame me, kuro" ichigo steadily hoisted himself up with the help of the desks, his breath more heavy than before. "god do you ever stop talking" the ginger haired man whispered under his breath, barely audible but still loud enough to be caught by y/n's hearing. "dont be so mean ichi-" before he could finish his sentence, kurosaki lunged forward and managed to grab a hold of y/n's hair, twisting his hair enough and slamming his face into the desk.

"i can see you've gotten a bit more intelligent when it comes to fighting now, is that black haired girl training you?" kurosaki froze, how the fuck did he know about rukia? ichigo tumbled over his words, trying to make up excuses and babbling on about stories that made no sense. "you know, there is a way to keep me from outing you" y/n said, his voice drenched in hunger and lust. the ginger sneered, "oh fuck it"

and with that, ichigo hurriedly unbuckled his belt and shuffled his boxers down. leaving no room for hesitance, "god, all of your teasing has made me rock fucking solid.." kurosaki said as he watched his own cock puylse and twitch. y/n hummed as he too began to undress his lower half, slipping ichigo's hard on between his ass.

"i cant take anymore of your games" ichigo growled as he then thrusted himself into his once rival, earning a loud moan from him. each thrust was ravenous, filled to the brim with both anger and frustration. "youre so tight.." kurosaki groaned, his hand intangled with y/n's hair strand then sharply pulled back, earning another ear piercing moan.

"yes..! just like that ichigo! fuck me harder!!" y/n screamed as he reached back to spread his ass more, helping ichigo's long and hard cock reach more places y/n didn't even think could be reached. both kurosaki's and y/n's loud and lustful noises could be heard throughout the entirety of the hallway.

"you never were actually after orihime were you.. fuck.. you were after me" ichigo said with a strained voice, his time was ticking and he knew it. y/n's obnoxiously loud noises never quieted down, instead, they grew louder, more hungry for action. "use me ichigo! use me as if im your sweet orihime! fuck my ass as if its her pussy!" y/n yelled on the top of his lungs, his body was becoming heavier and sweat drenched him entirely.

"im cumming..! goddamn your tight ass feels too good!" kurosaki exclaimed as his grip on y/n's hip grew tighter, and his hand incased in the locks of his rival began to waver in strength. "youre going to take my cum.. like the slut you are. do you hear me?" y/n eagerly nodded, feeling the knot in his own stomach begin to untie.

with a few more ass-reddening thrusts, ichigo's load quickly filled y/n's hole, traveling deep through his guts. as ichigo was dumping his cum into y/n's ass, the once smug and arrogant man was at his own witts end. spreading his own cum across the desk in front of him and crying out in pure bliss.

the two men stood in silence, the only thing heard being heavy breathing and the squelching of cum escaping y/n's ass. "dont think.. that im done with you yet y/n.. meet me at my house tonight, 10pm sharp.. got it?" ichigo said between huffs. "got it..!" y/n said with cheerfulness in his tone. he'd finally gotten what he was hoping more, good for him.

[bellaxgiornata]

Not Like Before Chapter One

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader Word Count: 3.7k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Fic Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; nurse!Reader, canon-divergence (no Abel or Thomas), fluff, angst, friends to lovers, eventual smut, girl dad Jax

a/n: Since y'all devoured the first part and seem incredibly into this series already, I figured I'd give y'all the first real chapter because I've got like six other Jax fic drafts sitting around now! Also, don't be like Ope and drive when you've been drinking. Dividers by the lovely @secretlysamcro.

series tag list: @kmc1989 @secretlysamcro @chloe-skywalker @cindsvibes @aussiefangirl95 @sjester42-blog @danzer8705 @uknowmesstuff @mmarysha @shiggynuggiez @stevie75 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @kaydallas21  @orymgraves @unholycheesesnack @livewaspsblog @leather-n-velvet

Between the loud music and the drunken shouting of everyone over it, the noise mixed with the haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the air made the clubhouse feel suffocating tonight. Throwing back the rest of his beer, Jax couldn't take it anymore. Everything was giving him a damn headache after how long he’d been on the road for the past couple of days, and for some goddamn reason, he didn’t really feel like partying tonight. All he wanted was to drink a few beers and unwind from the long run, oddly not craving the usual wild chaos that came with the club.

“Gonna go have a smoke,” Jax told Opie as he slipped off the bar stool. “Too fuckin’ loud in here.”

“I'll join you, brother,” Opie said. “Need to get back to Lyla and the kids soon, anyway. Been gone all weekend.”

Opie raised his glass to his lips, downing the rest of his drink. Jax nodded at him before turning, heading straight for the clubhouse door. As Jax pushed it open and stepped out into the lot, Opie caught up and followed right behind him out into the cool night. 

Unfortunately, the lot outside was just as loud as it had been inside with how many people had come out to the party tonight. Maneuvering his way around friends of the club and a handful of croweaters, all of which were completely wasted by this point, Jax led Opie further away from the few picnic tables the group outside was drinking around. Some of the guys were sitting on the tables and smoking a cigarette, while a couple of the girls looked like they’d already passed out face down on the surface of it from all the booze and who knew what else.

Tonight was supposed to be a night of celebration for the Sons’. They had just returned from a successful run delivering quite a few high end assault rifles to a buyer up near Oregon, and thankfully, they'd completed the run with minimal issues. The only problem they’d encountered was Chibs’ fall from his bike, and that had been due to some asshole just outside of Charming not paying attention to the road and nothing related to club business. Unfortunately for Chibs, that meant he was missing the party tonight while he spent a few days recovering at St. Thomas. 

As they walked, Jax’s gaze skimmed over a few of the drunken girls that were stumbling over themselves in the parking lot, unable to refrain from a small grin slipping onto his lips as he eyed all the bits of skin revealed by their short, tight outfits. When one of the girls looked over and caught his eye, he shot her a wink. Behind him, Opie chuckled and shook his head at the way the girl had sent Jax a suggestive look in return. 

“Thought you wanted a smoke and to get away from all the damn noise,” Opie commented, still following after Jax. “If you've got other plans for while you're out here, I don't wanna be around for them.”

“Relax, Ope,” Jax replied, leaning against the wall of the clubhouse further away from the group. Slipping his hand into the inside of his kutte, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “Not lookin’ for that right now. They're a little too drunk for my liking, anyway. I just like seeing the looks on their faces when I tease ‘em a little.”

He pulled a cigarette out of the pack, slipping it between his lips as he smirked at his best friend. Pocketing the pack back inside of his kutte, Jax pulled out his lighter next. As he flipped it open, raising the flame to the tip of his cigarette, he saw Opie doing the same from the corner of his eye. 

“Some things never change,” Opie mumbled around his cigarette.

Taking a drag off his once it was lit, Jax returned the lighter to his kutte before leaning his head back against the clubhouse behind him, blowing the smoke up into the night sky. His ass was killing him from that long ride out to Oregon and back on his bike, especially since they'd only just returned to Charming this afternoon. 

“Fucking tired as shit,” Opie muttered beside him. “Can't believe we used to love those long fuckin’ runs when we were younger.”

Jax nodded his head against the cement structure behind him, chuckling as he remembered the early years when he and Ope had just been prospects and then newly patched members. Long runs meant the freedom of the open road and a change of scenery from Charming for a bit. And sometimes, if they weren't that busy or things were running behind, it also meant stopping somewhere for a bit to blow off steam at a bar or crash at a motel once the job was done before they needed to head back. And those nights had always led to some wild stories.

“We were young,” Jax pointed out. “Everything we did with the club felt twenty times more badass back then. Now?” He brought his cigarette back up to his lips, taking another drag from it. Expelling the smoke a moment later, he glanced at Opie beside him, feeling the weight of his own words. “We got more responsibility. Can't just piss around and have fun like we used to.”

“Got that right,” Opie replied. He shot Jax a grin before teasingly adding, “President.”

“Hey, you're the VP now, brother,” Jax reminded him, gesturing his smoke at Opie leaning against the wall beside him. “We ain't those little shitheads we used to be anymore.”

Opie hummed in response, that grin still on his face. “Dunno man, that's debatable when it comes to you.”

Jax’s hand darted out beside him, lightly smacking Opie on the shoulder. “Shut up, smartass,” he playfully shot back. 

Despite the drunken shouting from the others that were outside drinking near the picnic tables, the noise carrying on a faint breeze, a comfortable silence settled around both men as they smoked. Jax continued to stare at the night sky above him, lost in thoughts like he often was. He was grateful to be finished with the run, and even more grateful that there hadn’t been any firefights on the ride. He'd expected someone to get pissed about that many Sons riding past their territory, but somehow they’d managed a peaceful trip–which had been unexpected but welcome.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Opie asked.

“Just shit from the day,” he answered half-heartedly, still staring up at the blackened sky. “Surprised shit went as smooth as it did.”

“Chibs might disagree,” Opie quipped back.

With a roll of his eyes, Jax’s focus shifted away from the sky and back on Opie smoking next to him. He could tell his best friend already had a couple of drinks tonight judging by the wide grin that kept reappearing on his generally stoic face. He’d been about to make a comment in response, but even more noise from the other side of the lot inevitably drew Jax’s attention back over towards the commotion. A handful of women had just stepped out of the clubhouse with Tig and Happy, Jax’s eyes briefly drifting over to the group. That in itself wasn’t that strange of a sight, but just as Jax had begun to look away, his eyes immediately darted back towards them.

Because no, he hadn’t really just seen who he thought he had, had he?

Pushing off the wall, he craned his neck around Opie as his eyes narrowed in an attempt to get a better look, his hand holding his cigarette dropping to his side. There was no fucking way in hell that was you, right? 

“What?” Opie asked, concern etched on his face as he turned to follow Jax’s gaze. “What’re you lookin’ at?”

Jax stared across the lot for a bit longer, his eyes fixed on a girl that was half-hidden behind a few other people. He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until the blonde girl blocking who he thought was you had stumbled backwards. That’s when he got a better view of the woman he’d mistaken for the one he'd thought he'd seen.

Because no, of course that wasn’t you. Why the fuck would you ever just appear at a Sons’ party out of nowhere? You didn’t even live in Charming. At least, not when he'd met you.

“Jax?”

Opie’s voice and his own disappointment had him tearing his eyes away from the woman who absolutely wasn’t the one he’d been hoping to see. With a shake of his head, he turned his back to the group and drew his cigarette up to his lips, taking a particularly deep drag to ease the tension suddenly in his body.

Why the fuck had he been so damn hopeful? How the fuck were you still in his head after all of this time?

“Dude, what the hell is goin’ on with you?” Opie pressed further. “You look like you just saw a goddamn ghost or something. The hell was that?”

“Nothin’,” Jax muttered. “Don’t worry about it.”

Opie scoffed harshly at Jax’s dismissal, his head leaning back against the clubhouse. Jax could feel his best friend’s eyes on the side of his face, but that only made him more determined not to look at him.

“Nah, brother,” Opie countered, clearly not buying it. “That wasn’t nothin’. Who’d you think you just saw? C’mon, tell me.”

His fingers pinched tight around his cigarette at the question. Why the fuck was he getting so frustrated? Why did any of this matter? 

“Just a girl,” Jax muttered, still avoiding Opie's eyes. “No one important.”

“Uh huh. I’m calling bullshit,” Opie shot back. “No girl gets you doin’ a damn double take like that. Who the fuck did you think it was, man?”

A long, irritated sigh fell out of Jax, his left hand reaching up and running across his forehead. You were already on his mind again. What the fuck did it really matter if he told Opie about you? It's not like you'd ever see each other again–something he should have already accepted a long fucking time ago. 

Shoulders dropping in defeat, Jax stepped back over beside Opie and returned to his place leaning against the wall. He took a deep breath, flicking some ash off the tip of his cigarette as he tried to gather his thoughts. 

“Few years back we had a run,” Jax began, still unable to look Opie in the eyes with how goddamn stupid he was about to sound. “Took us out to San Bernardino and the SAMDINO charter. Was a long ass trip because some shit went down while we were out, so we crashed at that shitty motel for the night on our way back.”

Opie nodded slowly as he expelled a trail of smoke from his lips. “Yeah, I remember that,” he mused. “Was a long time ago. That was the night Tig got so wasted we left him outside his motel room passed out. Somehow still woke up the next morning to find him with his face buried in a hooker's pussy.”

An amused snort fell out of Jax at that particular memory. The guys had begun to reassemble in the motel parking lot after a not very restful night, and yet even wasted and locked out of his room, Tig still had managed to get some ass.

“Yeah, that night,” Jax agreed, the smile on his lips slowly fading to something nostalgic as his thoughts shifted back to you. “That was the night I hooked up with some girl.”

“You always hook up with some girl,” Opie pointed out flatly.

Jax frowned as he raised the cigarette to his lips, inhaling the smoke as your face drifted through his mind. It had been five years since that night he’d had with you, and while the image in his mind had eventually grown a bit blurry, he'd never forgotten you. For whatever goddamn reason, you were the one of hundreds who'd stuck with him ever since the night he'd been with you. The only one who’d made him feel something. The one who’s face sometimes surfaced in his mind when he was inside of other girls like you were haunting him.

“Yeah, I do,” Jax said. “But normally I take a girl to bed, get off, and move on. Just a one time thing that means nothing. I never think about them after the fact.”

Opie's head turned, shifting against the wall as he looked over at Jax. His slightly glazed eyes had narrowed marginally in curiosity at him, as if his sluggish mind was struggling to process what Jax was really saying through the alcohol he’d drank. 

“Brother,” Opie began slowly, a look of disbelief gradually washing over his features. “Are you telling me you liked this girl? Am I hearing this right?”

Jax shrugged as he took a last drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the pavement and stomping it out. Roughly blowing out the smoke, Jax felt frustrated with himself at the question. He’d often asked himself the same damn thing, but it wasn’t like the answer really mattered at this point.

“I don't fucking know, Ope,” Jax replied. “All I know is, I haven't stopped thinking about her. Been five goddamn years and sometimes I'll just remember her outta nowhere thinking I see her around. Or sometimes I see her face when I’m with another girl. I don’t even know why, it doesn’t make any sense. Never fuckin’ thought about a girl after the fact even once. But her?” 

Jax shook his head, his eyes darting past Opie and over towards the rowdy group outside. He found the girl he'd mistaken for you, his frown deepening on his face as he watched her take a deep pull off of her beer. She definitely wasn't you and for some reason that pissed him off even though he knew it was a fucking ridiculous thing to be pissed about.

“You liked her.”

Jax’s attention returned to Opie, noticing how what his best friend had said hadn’t been a question but rather a statement. And maybe he was right, but what the hell did it matter at this point?

“Fuck, maybe,” Jax conceded. “Maybe I did. But I barely fucking knew her. And she lives hours away from Charming–or she did at the time, five goddamn years ago. Don't even remember her name. I just–”

He cut himself off before he could look like a jackass in front of Opie by finishing that thought. He didn't remember your name, but he remembered the way your laugh made his heart swell, and how your lips tasted like vanilla from whatever lip balm you’d put on them. He remembered how soft your hands felt running over his skin when you’d traced his tattoos, and the way you moaned against his neck when you'd came–and you'd came repeatedly while he'd been with you. Jax still remembered how goddamn good you felt when he sunk into you the few times he had that night, your pussy tight and perfect in a way that none of the other girls he’d been with ever felt like. A perfect fit–something that sounded so goddamn stupid even to his own mind. 

And he remembered the intense, strange pull he'd felt towards you from the moment his eyes locked on yours at the bar. That odd connection he felt in the way you’d kissed him, the one which had made it difficult for him to slip out of your bed when you'd accidentally fallen asleep after that fourth round of sex. He remembered hating the way he'd gently had to slip out from under your soft, warm, naked body, his eyes fixed on your sleeping form in bed as he quickly dressed himself. He'd carefully covered you in your bed sheets before he'd quietly left your apartment, never to see you again. 

“I remember her telling me she didn't do one night stands,” Jax eventually said, finishing his thought. “That she never had before.”

A small smile played across his lips as he remembered all those times you’d leaned over next to him at the bar, clearly buzzed as you whispered to him that you'd never slept with a stranger before. He recalled the way you'd giggled and nodded your head when he’d asked if you were considering it. When you'd agreed to follow him outside while he had a smoke, he’d been pleased to know you were as intrigued by him as he was by you. Then you’d shocked him when you’d been the one to take the cigarette from between his fingers and toss it away before grabbing him and kissing him like you couldn’t hold back any longer. 

“Told me that about twenty times,” he added with a chuckle, catching the little grin on Opie's face as he listened to Jax recall the night. “It was cute. She wasn’t like any of the girls that we usually see around here.”

Jax jutted his chin in the direction of the group still drinking by the picnic tables to make his point, a somber look in his eyes. He’d often wondered about you over the years despite how hard he’d tried not to think of you. He wondered if you’d ever thought about him and that night you’d had together. 

“Sex that good?” Opie asked curiously, studying the look in Jax’s eyes. “That why she stood out?”

Shaking his head at the question, Jax’s gaze shifted down to his hands, fiddling with one of his rings. “The sex was amazing, Ope,” he admitted before shaking his head. “I mean, fuck, we went at it a few times that night. Couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. But it’s not the only reason why she sometimes crosses my mind.” His tongue slipped out, wetting his lips as he remembered that odd feeling he’d gotten around you whenever you’d smiled at him. “There was just…something about her, y’know? Like I just felt somethin’ with her that I hadn’t really felt with anyone before. Not since…”

A look of understanding crossed Opie’s face as he nodded, clearly catching what had been left unspoken when Jax’s words trailed off. He finished off his own cigarette before tossing it to the pavement, stomping it out beneath his shoe. 

“Not since Tara?” he asked.

Jax’s head fell back against the cement of the clubhouse behind him, a familiar ache hitting him in the chest. “Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Not since Tara.”

The sounds of laughter and drunken shouting increased, filling the night air around them. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that truth, that there was something about you that had been more than just an urge to scratch an itch that night. You were an unexpected blip in the timeline of Jax’s life–two people who probably never should’ve met but did. And you’d unknowingly left an unexpected vanilla-flavored, citrus-scented mark on his life.

“But it don’t matter anyway,” he muttered bitterly, still staring up at the dark sky. “Never gonna see her again. Kinda the point of just one night with someone. Doubt she’s ever even thought about me since.”

“What makes you say that?” Opie questioned curiously. 

“Because I remember her telling me that she’d only gone out that night ‘cause she’d been stressed with her job or somethin’,” Jax told him, his attention shifting over to the row of parked motorcycles across the lot. “Don’t remember much about the why, but I was well aware that she was using me for an escape just as much as I was doing the same with her.”  

“Yet here you are,” Opie replied, a teasing grin on his lips, “thinking about the nameless girl with the golden pussy five years later. Who’s to say you haven’t crossed her mind?”

Pushing himself off the wall, Jax scoffed bitterly at the thought. Why the hell would a girl like you ever fucking think about the biker you spent one night with? Why the fuck was he even thinking about you again? The last time you'd crossed his mind had been months ago, and it was only because the girl he’d hooked up with that night had kissed him and tasted like cheap cherry chapstick mixed with alcohol. He’d missed the taste of vanilla and you.

“Doubt it, brother,” Jax bitterly grumbled, mood souring. “She’s just some girl I fucked, doesn’t matter. I’m gonna go grab another beer. You comin’?”

Opie stared at Jax, his slightly bloodshot eyes studying his face like he might say more about you, but he didn’t. Instead he shook his head and pushed off the wall.

“Nah, brother,” he replied. “Gotta get back to Lyla and the kids. Don't wanna leave her on her own longer than I already have this weekend.”

Disappointment filled Jax, but he nodded anyway. He knew Opie had responsibilities of his own, others in his life to worry about. Unlike Jax, who'd intentionally remained single and childless, not wanting to be tied down even if some nights he felt a stifling loneliness.

Like tonight.

“You good to get home?” Jax asked, raising a brow at him. “Maybe you should have a prospect drive you.”

“Only had a couple drinks,” Opie replied, shrugging a shoulder. “Not really feeling the alcohol. Mostly just really fucking tired, man.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jax replied, shoving down all of his previous thoughts. “I'll see you tomorrow, Ope. Get back safe.”

Opie nodded in a way of a goodbye before heading over to the row of motorcycles and climbing onto his bike. Without having much else to do, Jax turned and began walking back towards the clubhouse. He figured he'd have another beer and then crash in his room here tonight. It wasn’t like he had any reason to get back to his empty home instead, there wasn’t anyone waiting for him.

[love-of-the-red-star]

That time I got reincarnated as an Aeon (Series)

Prologue

[Edited]

What the fuck.

That was the first thought that came out of you once you found out what you were in the vast expanse of space you had woken up into. The Aeon of Elation seemed pleased with the reaction they got out of you, as incomprehensible as your form may have been.

They laughed and then left you there by your lonesome, without a clue to what your path even was and how the fuck you were even meant to function.

You groaned, guessing you’ll really just find that out yourself.

You spent your time thinking in the first short years of your existence in the little plane you resided in, happy to at least know where you ended up in and what you were. You were reincarnated in Honkai Star Rail, and you were an Aeon. From which path you were even on, you don’t know, at least not yet.

It had taken some time, a VERY long time, to get an inkling of what path you treaded on. And in those years the other Aeons; like Lan, and even Fulli did find you— you have yet to meet Xipe, but you have met Yaoshi.

It was… something to say the least. Herta had been right in calling them a lonely romantic.

It was a little eerie, remembering them speak to you with such care and joy— a new life, they called you. They didn’t seem to mind much when you didn’t have a voice, you weren’t even sure yourself if you had one, thinking at the back of your mind that maybe you were like The Nihility.

That thought had been cut short when Yaoshi somehow figured out where your lips were, and shamelessly kissed you.

It was only then you had managed to find a voice, as meager and as cracked and strange as it sounded. They only cooed in response to you, mumbling as they gently touched your form.

“You are new, and yet you are familiar.” They told you. “I have felt you somewhere before.” Their arms stretched wantonly as their many eyes looked at you. “I know you, and yet I do not. I wonder why that is.” They smiled, and you can hear the branches stretch— a sound rather unnerving, it sounded more like bones and flesh rather than wood. If Yaoshi noticed your unease, they don’t tell you.

It took a while for them to leave, promising you that they will come back here again to visit but not without leaving another kiss, and the light sting of their tail on your body— a spot that became the back of your neck once you managed to acquire a more.. comprehensive image of yourself at some point after the encounter.

You never really quite recovered from that.

But at least you discovered your voice.

It was your arms that had come next, and it was unfortunate that a few planets have met their demise in your discovery. You still mourn them to this day, somehow feeling bad even with the absence of a human heart.

The rest of your body had come to you easily, and once you acquired it, people had discovered you. You remained elusive though, not wanting an accidental repeat of the planets you destroyed, and yet they still sought you out anyways.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, not that it mattered; you couldn’t die, you couldn’t age nor did you need to rush.

In those years, again your cries echoed in the cosmos once more— you see, you ate an Aeon, actually no, you ate two.

You didn’t mean it, and your panic had been embarrassingly broadcasted for everyone and everything to hear.

(You didn’t know it then but your entire cries were heard across the cosmos and needless to say people were more terrified than concerned as it either manifested as a power outage with your incomprehensible voice, or manifesting through television in the form of disembodied static.)

It had been an experience to say the least, figuring out who the hell you accidentally ate. One of them had been Akivili, and the other? Mythus.

Could an Aeon even sweat bullets?

You immediately made the connection that they were unfortunate casualties of your circumstances— as someone who once resided outside of the world of the imaginary tree. You didn’t know Mythus, but you do know Akivili was precious to the Express.

And you just ate them.

You sulked in your little corner for a few years, and at some point you could have sworn Aha laugh at you— you swatted them away in your regret, the Elation still again laughing at your misery.

It had taken a while for you to stand up (could you?) and take on a more… mortal friendly form, because the last time someone had tried going near you, they got reversed.

In a sense that their body simply deconstructed itself into strange, geometric shapes then nothing. If you had been human, you think this would have been utterly horrific for you.

But somehow you knew it would happen to anyone who came close enough to your real form.

You figured that having a human form would be less fatal for the others— convenient too, it was smaller, and arguably easier to look at without fearing madness or turning into shapes.

So you project yourself as one in front of the Express once you spotted it at a stop.

———————

“Hello?” You softly greeted the residents of the Express, you noticed it was only Himeko and Welt at this point in time, but even so, they looked like they were going to shit themselves from seeing you.

Pompom had weirdly enough hid behind a flower pot.

Seeing this made you immediately sulk.

Himeko hesitantly approached you. “Hello… what can we help you with?” Himeko was unsure of what to do too, and honestly you can’t blame her. It wasn’t everyday the equivalent of a God walks into your door to say hi.

It was a shame they were afraid of you, you had dressed for the occasion— a semi formal attire consisting of a long coat, a dress shirt with a bolo tie, a vest, shorts and formal shoes.

“I came here to apologize.” You said, it came out flatter than you would have liked and you internally cringed.

“Come again?” Himeko blinked rather awkwardly.

You took a deep breath (you swore you could see the Finnish old man beside her tense) and exhaled. “I’m sorry for eating Akivili.”

………….

“I didn’t mean to.” You added, sulking even more. Your mood was so damp that Pompom couldn’t resist but try to comfort you.

“Come in and take a seat please.” The little conductor said a little shakily, handing you a napkin that you politely refused. You were obviously sad, but you couldn’t physically produce tears for some strange reason.

Since you couldn’t cry, Pompom gave you a glass of water instead.

It was surreal to be able to taste things again after needing technically nothing.

But back on Himeko and Welt, they don’t really know what to make of you, as evident by the confused stare that they gave to each other while you were stuck on your seat posed like you were thinking of the Roman Empire.

You were rather expressive and close to human for a cosmic entity, and for you to apologize for accidentally eating their Aeon? Unheard of.

It wasn’t like you could spit Akivili out of you either.

While you were admittedly a stranger, there were no signs or feelings of hostility from you, you were genuinely sorry and upset for eating their Aeon. Himeko recalled the static from the broadcast and came to the realization that it had been you who they had heard crying, as terrifying as it sounded.

Himeko and Welt did ended up talking to you again in the end, reassuring you it was okay that you did what you did because you didn’t mean it anyways, and that ended up with you saying you’re going to bless the Path of the Trailblaze because there was no way you were going to leave the express to be parentless.

You had other agendas aside from that of course, but they didn’t seem to mind.

However a discussion was made to keep your identity secret when you had told the three people in the crew you didn’t like the attention the scientific community was giving you.

Being observed like a specimen in a National Geographic™️ documentary wasn’t really your thing, as natural as it was.

In the express, you weren’t an Aeon, you were simply [Name]. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Though, how the fuck did they even figure out you were an Aeon immediately?

Guess you’ll never know.

————————-

Part I [Here], Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII….

Thanks for giving this a read! This was inspired by the shitposts made by @pixiatn!! More will be incoming, though posts will be a bit delayed (unfortunately I’m a busy little bitch).