#hated seeing Dream shrink back like that...

[eraserbread]

go as a dream, pt. 2 ft. ex-husband satoru gojo✧

୨୧ - ten years together, five years married -- it's a long time. too long to be running on borrowed time glued together by the past. leaving is easy, but staying away turns out to be impossible. → afab!reader, modern/no curses!au, long-established relationship, mutual pining, smoking, heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, mention of pregnancy/failure to conceive, rough sex, drinking, verbal outbursts, mentions of body and relationship insecurity, emotional sex, spitting, masturbation, oral m!receiving, face-slapping, unhealthy possessiveness, slight sub-drop, mentions of readers relative hair length in contrast to gojo's, mentions of readers mother, nsfw → w.c. - 18.9k {1.45 hour reading time}

a/n: honestly, i don't know what to say anymore. this chapter ruled my life, and it only took me two weeks to complete -- I was just so invested and emotional. thank u all for the love on part one, which you can re-read here :)) again, sit with this for awhile. it's a lot of words to ingest and a lot of emotions to feel, but I think they're good ones. don't be too afraid to keep reading <3 ily! -elly

listen to the soundtrack (updated for pt.2), revisit part 1 <3

A cigarette passes through the warmth of the summer air, mid-morning rays bleaching the burning tip an eye-squinting shade of red. 

Shoko brings it to her lips, tongue in cheek as she stares past Suguru’s head. Perched at the back entrance to the Science building, the small expanse of cars parked neatly under sun covers distracts her piercing gaze. She shakes her head, lowering the smoke to ash it quickly, then reaches to take a drag. 

“You don’t think it’s gonna affect us?” She continues, growling something of a sigh into the openness. It’s clear as day, Shoko is not having a good morning. You were supposed to return today, but so is Satoru. This divorce wasn’t even her problem, but the entire staff base was going to feel the ripples. Every single one of the 120 faculty members was aware of the marriage. Satoru is everyone’s favorite – you were his rock. 

“Only if you allow it to.” Suguru crosses his arms at his chest, squinting as he peeks behind him. The crunch of tires pulls his attention just like it pulled Shoko’s. “Look, I texted him the other night, didn’t get a response, and moved on with my life.” He shrugs, sharp shoulders soft against the blur of harsh light. “Satoru’s so easy to read that it’s shameful. He wants to be alone – needs it, too. It’s like he’s allergic.” 

Shoko hums, pursing her lips around another drag before handing it off to Suguru. She’s looking past his head again, thinking she recognizes the sleek, black car that pulls in behind the school. 

She does. It’s Satoru’s. 

“Speak of the devil,” She mentions, glancing up at Suguru when he peeks over his shoulder again. “That’s probably Jo.” 

“Oh-” Suguru shoves the cigarette between his lips, cheeks hollowing around the drag he sucks out. If Shoko was right, Satoru hated the smell of smoke – he’d complain with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. It’s a habit; there’s a jump behind Suguru’s step as he walks to meet Satoru halfway. Shoko’s standing up like she’s about to head inside, light eyes squinted as she watches him shrink with distance. “Oh, shit.” 

“Whaaaat?” Shoko springs up, hand latched onto the metal. Suguru halts in his tracks at the end of the ramp, grip tightening against the rail. She can just see the look on his face in her mind; he doesn’t have to be looking over for her to know. 

“They’re getting a divorce, right?” 

“What do you mean – yeah.” 

“Okay, well, they don’t look very separated to me.” Suguru’s pushed out of the way as Shoko stumbles over her feet for a good vantage point. He’s not lying; you and Satoru are together. It’s just like things always were; he holds the door open for you, gaze dead ahead as he waits for you to slip out. That poor door slams shut – his body so packed full of hot tension they could feel it from so far away. 

You aren’t looking at him either, wary with a short peek over your shoulder when you emerge. Satoru is wearing a tight, dark, long-sleeved shirt in the peak of this heat – you’re wearing long, dark pants. 

Everything is right – normal. Why does it feel so wrong? Something is off.

“Go – go, we have to hide.” 

“What? No, I want to know what’s going on-

“Oh, he looks so pissed.” Shoko gasps behind her hand. “He’s wearing the glasses – Geto, the glasses.” 

“I see the glasses. Come on.” The cool air from inside the building soothes Shoko’s back like a thick, welcome blanket. Sure, inside would lead to hours of emotionally uncompelling work, but it’d be better than second-hand embarrassment. She’s wise enough to deduce that nothing good will come from this situation. 

Shoko ducks out, sliding under Suguru’s stretched arm, keeping the door propped. They both dart from the entrance.

“What a shit show. Someone is lying.” Shoko’s nearly running down the hallway, breath heavy in her throat. It’s still too early for students to be in yet, but a scattered few roam the halls, breaking their necks when the pair rushes hot past them. 

“Don’t bring it up; just act normal,” Suguru mutters, pushing the door to the staff room open for Shoko to step into. They know it's where you two would stop once you arrived – it’s where everyone is gathered. 

At least three heads turn at the dramatic entrance. 

Utahime stands up from her spot at the head of the table, a thick, leather-bound book open towards the end that she entirely disregards. “Shoko!” 

“Gojo’s are coming.” 

Two seats down from Utahime, back as straight as a pen, Mei annotates paper assignments, nails as red as the ink on the page. She hums – slow, controlled. “Didn’t you say they broke up?” 

“That’s the issue, just be normal.” 

They don’t have to tell Nanami twice – he takes his coffee, drops his conversation, and leaves the room like he was never there. Takuma watches him walk out on their discussion, sputtering like a fish out of water. 

“What is happening?” He turns around, eyes blown wide. “Suguru?” 

“Sit. Be normal.” Suguru snatches his shoulders, pushing him into the empty seat opposite Mei. His heavy touch lingers, and one hand fumbles in his back pocket for his phone. 

“Don’t say anything about the divorce, or I’ll strangle you,” Shoko speaks through gritted teeth, holding her hand in a tense claw in Takuma’s relative direction. He slumps down like he’s guilty, letting Suguru’s weight sink in. 

“I didn’t even know they were getting divorced…” He trails off, voice light as a feather. 

“Shut up,” Shoko and Suguru hiss at the same time, wary of the shadows that pass the covered windows every time one appears. She’s keeping an eye out for a pair of them – intertwined by the arms like you and Satoru always do. 

It never comes. 

The door clicks, creaks, then settles. You walk inside, your head heavy and your gaze low. Shoko gives a breath of relief. 

“Hi, stranger.” Suguru purrs. 

“Oh my God – you didn’t sleep?” Shoko clicks her teeth, turning on her feet, and she crowds you at the door. You feel pitiful standing in the way, arms crossed over your sensitive frame, still singing and sore from last night. There’s a crip in your walk – a numbness in your eyes. 

“Oh, Gojo.” Utahime pouts, standing to greet you, hiding no pity behind her words. It’s all over your face, you feel like shit. 

“Don’t call her tha-

“Whatever, it’s fine.” You cut Suguru off, knowing he has good intentions but belittled by the air of it all. Utahime goes in to hug you – your chest aches as she cradles it. “I guess it’s nice that everyone knows. I don’t have anything to hide.” You smile when she pulls away, avoiding eye contact so she can’t see the lie in your gaze. It’s bad enough you can’t even hide it in your tone. 

Shoko is chewing her bottom lip raw, poking and squeezing at it with manicured fingers. She wants to say more – wants to point out the stumble in your step and the drowsiness in your eyes. She wants to point out the fact that you came here with him, but knows it's inappropriate. After all, you and Satoru live together and share a car – it’s not unheard of that you two are still around each other. She just worries about the headspace it’d lower you into. 

Satoru, when he’s upset, is an entirely different person. Every ounce of heat in his soul drops, leaving icy lakes where his heart should be. He jokes through it all, making sly digs at Shoko’s unhealthy habits or how useless he thinks she is as a friend. Always, he’d laugh it off, then drop his expression like it was never there. He’s too good at being an asshole – it’s why she’s so wary. 

“You sure you’re good to be back?” 

You ignore her. “Hi Mei, Takuma.” 

“Hi, beautiful. Long time no see, hm?” 

“Good to see you, Gojo.” 

“Stop-” You reach for Shoko’s shoulder as she whips around to scold him. “I don’t care. I’m not changing my name.” 

She turns back to you, eyes wide with worry. You can hear the unsaid words vibrating off of her bare lips. They wash over you with the weight of the world. Everyone is staring. 

Utahime crosses her hands at her waist, clearing her throat as the dust settles in the room. Takuma peeks up at Suguru as he steps away, wanting to say more but far too conscious of the space they found themselves in. 

“Smart.” Mei hums, not having looked up from her work since you entered. She tilts her head, light, loose hair falling over the pressed, blue blazer over her shoulder. “Don’t let one bad Gojo ruin the name for you.” 

“You know you’re not helping, right?” 

“Bye, Ieiri. Your abrasiveness would be endearing if she were actually a child who needed support.” Though she threatens to walk away, Mei doesn’t move. She doesn’t even reciprocate the hazel daggers Shoko is sending her. “It seems this conversation is a bit suffocating. Why don’t you move it outside.” 

“Is that a suggestion?” 

“Let’s just-” Suguru jumps into action, peeling his dark eyes from his glaring white phone screen. “Come on – she’s right.” 

“We don’t have to talk about it at all.” You scoff as Suguru nudges both of you out of the frosted glass door. “You two are making this into a spectacle.” 

“Oh, I guess it’s fuck me then? Okay.” 

Suguru scoffs once the door closes on the rest of his colleagues.“Sho- are you just incapable of calm?” 

“I need a cigarette.” She decides, turning on the ball of her flat shoes. In one fluid, flustered stroke, she’s pulling out her pack and her phone, grumbling something likely aimed at Suguru that you couldn’t catch onto. 

“Is she serious?” You scoff, eyes burning a bit at the rush of emotion so early in the day. You’re still incredibly fragile from a silent, ugly morning with Satoru, facing his glaring and silent treatment all the way here. You felt worthless in his bed, in his car, and now you’re an outsider at work. 

Suguru stands with his hands stuffed in his front pockets, his knee jutted as the back entrance rushes open and slams shut. He squints against the light, bangs reacting to the breeze. “She’s just overwhelmed with the change of workload. She’s fine.” 

“Have you heard from Satoru?” 

“Oh.” Suguru flips his phone around in his pocket, biting over his lip as he feels your short stare burn the side of his face. “Texted a few minutes ago. He just said he was on campus – came in through the front.” 

“Like he’s avoiding me.” You sigh, gaze falling as you turn back to the hallway. Sugu’s close behind in every one of your movements, head tilting like a confused puppy. He knows you two drove together… Toru’s doing a pretty shitty job at avoidance, then. 

“You don’t even have to be in the same vicinity as him today. Don’t let it bother you.” 

You suck your cheek, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder as you weigh your options. You could go back to the break room and kill ten minutes before the day started, or you could duck into the bathroom and cry this energy out. Right now, the latter is the best option. 

“You understand, don’t you?” You turn around, peeking over your shoulder at his hunched frame. Your lips are shaking with a familiar rush of emotion. Yeah – you’re about to cry. “It’s so hard to see when you’ve lost your light.” 

Suguru stares at you like an emotionless, gutted fish. Lips parting to bring you back as you start to walk away. You take a few steps, then turn into the bathroom hallway, face beet-red as tears start down your face before you can hide. 

Your languid pace turns into flustered steps, hiding your running nose behind your fist. Through your peripheral, Suguru locks eyes with you just before you disappear. He feels backed into a corner – broad shoulders weighed down by bricks he didn’t place. 

Suguru sighs, eyes rolling in his skull as he turns back to the break room. Mei finally looks up when he pushes back inside, but he doesn’t care to notice. He needed to tell Toru what was on his mind. 

To: Satoru Gojo I actually want to die a little inside. I’ve never seen her cry before, please let this be the last time Oh, i’m so sick From: Satoru Gojo Wdym?  Are you talking about Gojo? She’s a literal train wreck, just avoid her

Satoru looks up from his phone, pulling his square-framed glasses from his face as he steps inside the building. For some reason, he finds a smile crossing his lips at the feeling of being back – he’s riding on a dangerous high, eyes flickering the white fluorescent lights. On his phone, he can see the three dots undulate across the bottom of his screen as Suguru responds, but he tucks it away just as the message appears on his screen. He wouldn’t be distracted right now – today was a big day. 

It’s the day every student waits for – the day when Satoru takes over office hours. In charge like that, he’s gentle and enthusiastic. Scarily good at his job, too. A small cult following had bloomed around him – girls even opting to take Nanami’s course so that they could sit a little closer to their beloved Gojo.

He feels on top of the world when he lets himself lead. It’s still unknown as to why he’s still just an aide, but you know why. Satoru is as straight-backed as they come. He doesn’t drink, do drugs, lie, or steal. He hardly cusses – never, ever getting mad… unless he’s around you. Their beloved Gojo becomes Satoru when 5 o’clock hits.

He’s grown up as the wonder boy, always wanting to do things by the book. He went to school and immersed himself in his studies to escape from his family, devoting all his energy and sanity to it. That’s why he graduated early – taking that first opportunity at freedom and education by the horns and riding off with it. It only took him two years of schooling to get his first career line as an aide at Tokyo-U, and he’s still there nearly eleven years later, hanging off of Nanami’s bootstraps – aging him twice as fast. 

 Satoru absorbs Nanami’s information like a dehydrated sponge, coming back to life every time a new nugget of knowledge plants itself inside of him. It’s all he lived for before he met you, and loving you wasn’t even the end goal. He never wanted to get married but couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you with another man. Even now, moping about the science hall, the thought bubbles in his throat like he needs to expel it. 

No, he wouldn’t think about you now. He needs to swallow it down. 

Then, the perfect distraction presents itself at the crossroads in front of him – Nanami and his beloved protégé, Yuji Itadori. He’s one of Satoru’s favorites, too – the only one who can carry his humor in non-humorous spaces. 

“Sir, I’m really excited about all the stories you’ll have to teach when you come back! Please bring us souvenirs.” Itadori is begging with his arms clasped, dangerously close to Nanami’s footpath. The older man cradles the coffee he brought from the break room, golden eyes flickering from the steam he’s nursing to his peer. 

“It’s much more than a pleasure trip, Itadori. I will be in and out of various Universities doing guest lectures with little time to rest or sight-see.” Nanami is typical, just as straight-edged as Satoru, albeit in a stricter sense. Nanami didn’t need anyone around him – Satoru needed everything. 

He needs this twenty-two-year-old kid to like him, which is why he approaches him as if they’re friends, not a teacher and peer. 

“Itadori!” Satoru rushes to the scene, sticking a hand in Itadori’s light locks and ruffling them unkempt. “What are you doing here, kid? Did you sign up for my office hours?” 

“I was the first person who put the request in! Kugisaki told me they were all full two minutes later… she had to settle for Nanami’s after his break.” 

“Settle?” 

“Ah – don’t take it personally, Nanamin.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

The pair break out in devious laughter. Nanami rolls his eyes, ready to walk away and find peace in his empty lecture hall. Something stops him – it’s the way Toru looks at him with his long arm slung across Itadori’s shoulders. They’re nearly twins like this once their outward appearances fade away. They’re just two smirking idiots burning holes in Nanami’s aging face, not saying a thing. 

“I heard you two talking about Malaysia. I know you’re excited, and so am I.” 

“Mm, because you can pretend to be me for a full month – I know.” 

“I’m excited, too! Inumaki mentioned sneaking into the lecture in my place next Thursday… and I told him no.” 

“Good. Respectful.” Satoru mentions. Nanami sighs again. 

“Please don’t sneak students in while I am gone.” 

“I’ll make sure he won’t.” Satoru smiles like an elated child, pearly white teeth on full display. Bells don’t ring early in the morning like this, but at the turn of the hour, Itadori notices immediately and shrugs from Toru’s grip. 

“Sir! I will see you this afternoon.” He bows deep enough to show he respects the pair with his life, but not enough to make it odd or showy. Nanami nods him away, and then Itadori turns to Satoru. He goes in for a hug. 

“Do good work today.” 

“Yes, sir.” He nods, so sure of himself and glistening with the only praise he needs. “Goodbye Nanamin! Bye, Gojo!” 

Once they’re alone and Nanami tries to flee, Satoru finds a way to hook his attention once more. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smirks, “You know, I’ve been meaning to congratulate you.” 

“For what?” 

“Well, isn’t your dream coming true? You know, any school in Malaysia would hire you without question. Japanese is so highly sought after there. So is science – especially mind science. You could get your hands on some cool research material. Everyone's willing to have their mind poked for a little bit of money” 

“You just know this course will be handed to you on a platter. Not that I’d have it any other way, of course. You spent the last decade fleshing out these units with me.” 

“Your encouragement means more than you know.” 

“I respect you, Gojo.” He nods, finally taking a sip of the coffee he’s letting get a bit too cool. “I won’t be your friend, but I respect your relationship with your students as well as your colleagues. You’re more fitted to be a Professor than a lot of them already here.” 

“But the system-

“Ah, the system.” Nanami rolls his eyes, hyper-aware of the time ticking away. He needed his dark, quiet time, and Gojo was pulling that from him with every chatty second. “Systems are made to be dismantled, aren’t they?” 

That’s what he leaves Satoru with, and the lingering smell of his shower from this morning. It makes him think for a moment – about his boss, or Nanami’s boss. The way they judge scores and hand out punishments when grades drop, and students drop out. To a high degree, they have nothing to do with lazy pupils or people who make poor decisions about their majors, but when they do fall short, it consumes them. There’s no need to rub salt in the wound, but it's common practice when teaching. 

Control is so fragile in this field – when you’re nurturing new minds. 

Toru slams the door shut on you with the same vigor he showed this morning. You two waited three hours after the day ended to shrug off back home together. The sun is setting in the warm sky – you’re quiet and nervous. Today had been shitty, but freeing in its own way. It gave you time and space, free from Satoru and his seedy, strict ways. You’re talking to people that you haven’t seen in a month, and the normalcy is sparkling off of you. 

What a shame that one look at Satoru’s covered eyes and you’re slinking back into insecurity. He was just so cold. 

He’s an iceberg personified – a walking flurry of winter snow that keeps flying under your jacket, making your skin sticky and wet. You hate it – you hate him, right now. 

Yet, you stay. You let him treat you like this because you’re the idiot. A flustered, selfless idiot who uses her body as ransom for a love it’ll never feel again. You wish you could go back in time and bottle the feeling of the last night you and Toru actually made love. If you close your eyes, you’re back there – back pressed into his sheets, his sweet name on your lips, and the climax just seconds away. He told you he loved you on a loop. Yes, he wanted you swollen with his babies, but that’s nothing abnormal in the heat of the moment. He made sure you knew just how much he loved you. 

When he gets back in the car, you’re rudely jolted from your head, numb to the noise but nervous about what would transpire once he settles so close. You know he doesn’t want to talk to you – he’s said it on multiple occasions on the way here, but that won’t stop you. You still pine for him – still yearning for a shred of attention, even if it’s platonic. You just don’t want him to hate you… never, ever. 

As stupid as it sounds, all you wanted was yourself back. If living a life known as only Satoru Gojo’s wife was your destiny, you’d kill yourself trying to run away from it but would stumble two steps back just to feel him again. 

What a cruel existence… you let your head fall into your open palm. 

Just like he promised, Toru doesn’t speak a word to you as he pulls off, glasses sitting over his hair so he can squint at the road. With both hands on the wheel, you can peek over and see just how tense he is. Thick veins protrude against his pale skin, leaving purpley streaks and tinges against the ocean. Of course, you’d only notice this. Your throat burns. 

“I… I ordered my new bed today.” 

“Will it be here today?” 

You pause, unsure of his tone. He just seems transactional – as if all the life had been sucked from his soul. “No,” You reply, soft as a whisper. It’s lost against the rush of the road. 

“Speak up, or don’t speak to me at all.” 

“You don’t have to be so mean.” 

“And you don’t have to be so goddamn pathetic, but here we are!” He explodes, finally free after holding in anger all day. He used to hate lashing out at you like this – he never really did, but you were the bane of his existence right now, pestering at his ear like an angry fly. “You cried in front of Suguru today. Do you see how terrible that makes me look? I can’t even pretend to care through text, and I shouldn't feel like the bad person, but that’s how it looks, doesn’t it?” 

“I-I didn’t cry-

“You’re gonna call him a liar?” He whips his head around, blue eyes wide and crazy. You can always nail down how he’s feeling with the glint of his eyes. They’re blown and dull – he’s mad. They’re bland and sparkling – he’s endeared. It hurts to know him so well. “You’re seriously going to sit here and call Suguru a liar to my face? Are you dense?” 

“Satoru, I’m sor-

“No! No, you don’t get to be sorry.” His grip tightens. He rolls his shoulders back, so tense that it’s almost painful. “You don’t get to be sorry… not when you’re the one that left. I’ve never felt hurt like that before – it tore me apart.” 

You’re crying now. You can’t help it – the emotion in this tiny car is so thick and hot that you feel suffocated. He’s always been one to swallow his pain or just ignore it through and through. He hates his family but visits them every year. He hates the commercials that interrupt his favorite show but will sit through each one willingly. He hates loud, sudden noises but doesn’t flinch at them. He hates you but loves you. He wants to hurt you, then turn around and heal it brand new. 

Right now, all he wants to really do is yell. It’d make him feel brand-new. 

So, that car ride home is the worst thing you’ve ever put yourself through. It’s constant – belittling, nasty, and loveless. He doesn’t stop. 

“I think it’s so funny – you’re the one telling me to be kinder, when I used to beg for that. Do you understand just how much I begged for you when you were already emotionally checked out? Nobody deserves that.” 

“I-I didn’t-

“You don’t get to speak – you get to listen.” He pauses, taking a breath, then starts again. “You didn’t even spare me a stupid meal – not unless I forced you. I had the swallow back the urge to call you a cold bitch because I felt some type of dedication to you. Call it respect – but it’s all gone now.” Another pause – he has to catch his breath.“You just make me sick. Truly… And when you crawl into my bed feeling lonely tonight,  I want you to feel as disgusting as I felt this last year.” 

Satoru has to stop again. He has to give it to you. “I don’t know… it just feels so good not having to worry about upsetting my wife.” He lifts his hands from the wheel, adding fitting air quotes around the phrase he lost access to a month ago. “I can fuck every person that looks my way, come home smelling like it, and always count on you to open your legs. Are you not ashamed?” He finally spares you a look, not even reacting to the silent, shaking sobs you’re trying to stifle. 

“I’m just so exhausted with being good for you. I’m exhausted with holding your hand and kissing it better when you never did the same for me. You’re cold, calculated, and cruel. So fucking cruel, and I want you to feel it.” Staring you down again, it feels like knives in your back. “Do you feel it? How much I hate you right now? I want it to hurt.” 

“Fucking classic. Pathetic, sad coward. I hate you. I hate what we have.” 

Somewhere, buried in the deepest part of yourself, you conjure up something to defend yourself. “I don’t want to be with you. Look at how you’re speaking to me!” 

“Oh, fuck me! For years, you’ve called me useless, pathetic, and annoying – years! Isn’t that your favorite term, “Stop annoying me, Satoru”? Huh? Am I annoying you right now? Well, I’m not sorry.” He’s flailing like a polite maniac, hair ruffled and disheveled as he nervously runs a hand through it, trying to use the road to balance out his emotions. His heart is beating so fast, you’re crying in his ear, and he’s numb to the core. “I’m not fucking sorry because you’re an entitled brat. My family took you in last time, and you were worried about them thinking you’re fat – they just wanted to cherish you!” 

Your jaw hangs open – those arrows hitting a deeper part of you. “That’s not what happen-

“I’m doing the talking – me!” He whips over at you, swapping hands on the wheel so he can dig a finger in his chest. “How ungrateful, and you still have the nerve to walk around with that Gojo crest on your skin.” 

“J-just stop!” You’re sobbing, trying to hide behind your hands as they cover your face. You’re pushed all the way to the door, cowering in on yourself to dodge his bullets. You’ve never seen him like this, and you never want to see him like this again. The Toru sitting to your right was not the same boy you married. “Stop, okay?! I get it!” 

“If you get it, you’ll get a hotel. You’d sleep on the bare floor and shiver all night, but I know you better than that. You want to be touched – you need to feel real, satiated, and wanted, right? What if I said I didn’t want you anymore? That your body disgusts me, and I’d rather use my hands?” Satoru doesn’t think he means what he says, but he speaks it like he does. If it hurts you, good. It can’t hold a flame to the years of emotional neglect you put him through. “Silence. That’s what I thought.” 

You’re a shell of yourself, existing with holes riddled through your exhausted body from his shots. It feels like once it’s over… It’s over. He’s done, finally empty from the thoughts making him manic. You know he hates you, now. He made it clear that you’re the reason he hates you, and it just makes your decision feel even more right. 

Your husband is gone. 

You sob while he calms down, heavy breathing morphing into contented sighs and occasional head shakes. You feel like a disobedient child after being scolded, ashamed, and wanting to melt away. You never wanted to speak to him again, but you’re so close. You let your eyes slip shut. 

Minutes pass — however many needed to until you’re back home. Toru doesn’t say much, but he is chewing his lip when he parks. “I’m sorry.” 

You scoff. “Now I really don’t wanna talk about it.” 

He huffs out a defiant breath, slamming that fucking car door again just like he’s been doing all day. Still, he makes the time to get out and open yours for you. 

“I didn’t mean that stuff I said about my parents.” He whispers, leaning against the doorframe, eyes lost somewhere in the deepening horizon. “Yes, I think you’re crazy… But so am I, then. I think it’s the fact that you bring it out of me.”

“Satoru, do not speak to me.” 

He thrusts his hand towards you, putting your coolness on display. “Look at you – cold as ice.”

“Are you fuck- Are you serious? You just called me every name in the book, then you try to lighten things up with your shitty sayings?” You reach past him, using the side of the car to stand up and not his outstretched hand. “Nothing is funny right now, Satoru. If you want to hate me, how about you hate me completely?” 

“If you want to leave, how about you leave me completely?” 

You shoulder past him, unable to hide that look on your face, he can’t see. Then, there are people around, and you two have to put a lid on your boiling emotions. Your lips snap shut. 

You two play the role of the emotionally detached young couple too well — you don’t even glance at each other in the lobby or in the elevator. He’ll peek over at you sometimes, wondering if you’ll be looking back. There’s nothing. 

He unlocks the apartment door when you step beside it. As the lock turns, words bubble in your throat. You swallow them down, Satoru lets you in first, thoughtful even in the thick of this seismic rift.

“I have some work to do, so you can figure out dinner.” He starts, key clinking on the hard countertop as the door draws shut. 

“I’m not cooking for you.” 

“Then, there’s plenty of laundry to do.” 

“Just shut up — do you hear how demeaning you sound right now?” You scoff, kicking your black loafers in the corner by the door for him to pick up. 

“What else do you do when we’re at home?” He’s mad, too, wanting to jump down your back for painting him into someone he’s not. “You don’t work from home, I do. I work from home after eight hours on campus — you make sure the home is neat and dinner is made! Why are you so hellbent on fighting me all the time?!” 

Desperate for a shred of control, you fight back. “I work from home, too!” 

“What are you so desperate to prove?!” 

“That I’m not your wife anymore, Satoru! I signed it away, it’s not who I am!” 

“Tell me, Gojo.” He lets himself calm down — two deep breaths, and he leans a propped arm against the countertop. “Who are you, then? Do you even know?” 

He wants a reaction so bad, calling you that name. You won’t give in, you spit venom and then turn your back. “I hate you.” 

“Yes, but answer the question.” 

“You stole every single chance of self-discovery I had.” You don’t know why, but you’re storming off to the spare room in hopes of peace. You know he’ll follow you, and he does, but he’d never undermine you and open the locked door when you don’t want him to. Not even after saying all that to you. He’ll let the lightness of his hair rush in the heavy breeze from the slam, blinking when that lock turns and the thump of your bag hits the floor. 

Still, he reaches for the knob, giving it one little shake. “You know, I really am sorry. There were better ways to air my frustrations out without resorting to name-calling and accusations.” 

“Fuck off Satoru.” You deadpan, absolutely no emotion behind your tone as you unbutton your blouse in the bedroom mirror. He heavy-sighs against the wood. 

“I’m gonna work for a few hours, then grab some takeout. I’ll let you know when it's here.” 

“Don’t bother.” 

Biting down on you is like crunching through ice, and Toru’s teeth are chipped and sensitive. He doesn’t fully realize that you’re retaliating in the one way he hates – by ignoring him. 

There is absolutely nothing Satoru Gojo hates quite like the silent treatment. Fittingly, nobody can dish it up like him either. There were times when you were clawing your skin bloody for an ounce of verbal support, all for him to turn his nose up at you and walk the other way. 

It’s what you have to dig out every time you think you want him back – that cruel existence when he’s too fed up to speak and the venomous words he thinks he can speak to you. Now, you have more material to hate him with. 

However, he does leave you alone for a few hours. It’s wholly welcomed – you’re able to get ahead in some work you’d have to finish tomorrow, kicked up with your laptop on your knees in bed. You have the windows wide open, using the sun as your clock to measure the time before you’d have to take a shower and resort to bed. 

Sometime before the sun fully sets, you can hear Satoru move about the hallway and inevitably shut and lock the front door behind him. You take that time to sit up in bed, rubbing your skin raw in the shower in less than five minutes, and melt into the couch with your current read tucked under your arm. Freedom like this in the space you developed is so serene and exactly what you needed. Satoru never lit candles, so when you sat up to light them, the wick crackled with unuse. Lighting fills the air – the softness of lavender spinning from the smoke like ribbons you can’t make out with the naked eye. 

You’re only wearing socks, wrapped in loose linen shorts and a patterned sleep top that leaves little to the imagination. Not wearing undergarments to sleep is just routine – you don’t know why you feel so naked under the soft, golden light. Perhaps it's the fact that Satoru is due to arrive at any moment. You couldn’t check his location, but when that lock clicks, you’ll be running back to the bedroom with the linger of your smell clinging onto the furniture. 

Or, maybe you wouldn’t run. Maybe you’d eat with Satoru and not pull away when his hand slips—your core trembles at the thought. You quickly open your book to will those thoughts away. 

When that dreaded lock clicks, you’re flying up from your spot, book slamming and heart racing. You have every mind to run for the hills – to curl up on yourself and will the night away with dreams, but you don’t move. You’re too late. That’s what you tell yourself. 

Satoru is slinking back into the apartment, wearing a dark hat over his hair and glasses hanging from the front of his shirt, which he pulls off and places next to his paper bag of takeout. He notices your head over the back of the couch, smiling softly when you turn to him with an unreadable look on your face. 

“I got Thai food, I know it’s one of your favorites.” 

You don’t respond. His smile fades into grey. 

“Food from Thailand-” He starts, unveiling the carry-out boxes hidden in their outer packaging. There’s a separate plastic bag he unveils, setting it next to it. “-And drinks from Japan. I got cold green tea – your favorite.” 

“I’m not hungry for anything provided by you, unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?” He scoffs, eyebrow raised as he moves about the kitchen, not bothering to plate the food, but opting for real chopsticks. It’s a stainless steel pair you got for his birthday – his favorite. “Don’t be hard-headed. Come and eat this.” 

You stare at him blankly, blinking once before turning back to your book. In your rush, you absolutely lost your page, and it was one of your final straws. You can feel the frustration start to build in your bones. 

Satoru closes in on you from behind, gaping mouth and disheveled, hatless hair everywhere as he takes a noisy bite of his rice noodles. He crunches on his broccoli in that savage way you despise, exhaling loudly as he slams into the couch next to you. 

Pulling your limbs close and turning your nose up at him, you scoot to the edge, begging for distraction from the words you’ve already read in front of you. You still couldn’t find your page. 

“Don’t be like that.” He mutters around a bite, manners completely thrown out the window when he’s next to you. 

“How about you don’t be like that.” 

“Like what? Cold? Cause that’s what you’re being.” Two seconds after his last, Toru shovels another loaded bite into his mouth, chewing quickly. “I like that sleep set on you. Reminds me of our first anniversary.” 

Satoru can never be vague – the entire idea is lost on him. It wasn’t in your head when you pulled this set out of your bag; it’s just what you packed to sleep in. Your options are so limited, and now you feel like you can’t run from them. 

“Close your eyes, then.” You cross your knees, trying to shrink yourself further so you don’t fall victim to his man-spread. He’s taking over the couch with his long limbs like he always has. Years ago, you didn’t care because it was just an excuse to be touching him all the time. Now, you’re running from it. 

Caving and leaning forward to put his meal down, he gives you a look over his shoulder – one that pulls your attention from the turn of a new chapter. “Don’t be like that,” he repeats, then his knee bumps your thigh. You suck in a breath. 

It feels like the end closing in again – dreaded but so familiar. 

Satoru blinks once, then licks over his lips. Your finger twitches as it washes over you again. 

Then, he turns around, wrapping a thick hand over your throat. You react with claws, reaching up to tug at his wrist. He’s not being gentle – your breathing is uneven and scared. Knees pressing to the couch to crowd you, Toru lets your book tumble off your lap when he pins you down. 

Your hands are shaking, eyes screwed shut, but completely unable to speak. He’s got you so vulnerable like always – reduced to a thing manufactured for his pleasure who would never, ever say no. 

After all, what’s a man to do? This was customary during the marriage, and if you’re willing to give it, Toru is more than willing to take it. He can read you well enough to know this is what you need – him. 

As he crawls over you, both knees pressed close to your thighs, his weight shifts back, and your legs quiver. He’s got your arms tied up, legs pinned, and body becoming one with the cushions. If you’d look, you’d see the tent in his grey sweatpants standing at full attention as he dominates you into wordless, fightless putty. 

You only need one more thing to seal the deal – that mature, deep, reassuring voice scorching you like fire on mealy stones. 

“Gonna give it to me?” He whispers, free fingers pushing through his lips into the warmth of his mouth. He’s wetting them over, unsure what to expect when he dips his hand into your shorts. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and that’s as good a sign as any to let him know you wouldn’t be an overactive sprinkler system down there. 

You don’t answer him right away – those two fingers twirl around his digits like he’s making out with them. 

Under this dull, shadowed light, you crack open your eyes and die at the sight hovering over you. 

Toru’s light hair hanging over his blinding eyes, the way the shadows dip in the sucked hollows of his cheeks and bounces off the strength in his hand. A small, silver bracelet rolls down his arm, hanging from pale skin so delicately that your insides tremble and shake. 

You squeeze them shut again. “Oh, my God.” 

“Well, Gojo, I’m not God.” He mutters, wet fingers falling from his lips. He trails them down past your waistline, using his instincts to push them right to your warm, waiting cunt. Easing you apart, he raises an eyebrow at the slickness that pools around his fingers, but his heart is pounding. You’re wet for him – growing wetter by the second, and he’s drinking it up like a greedy child, tongue darting over his lips again. “But it feels like you want it.” 

“Don’t wanna talk-

“Well, I do-” He cuts you off with a bite of his tongue. He gives you no warning, but you can feel his fingers start to slip lower, completely disregarding your pleasure and focusing on intrusion. Your breath picks up when his fingers slip inside. “-Wanna talk about it. It’s impossible to get off when you’re keeping your filthy mouth shut.” Punctuating his point, that finger inside of you curls mean against your shivering walls, hooking you like prey. 

“Ugh – God, Satoru.” 

“Yeah, let me hear it.” He eggs you on with a deep voice, sliding another finger inside of you. He waits a moment, grip tightening uncomfortably over your neck, before he’s fucking you on them – no mercy. He’s not tender with anything anymore. “God, Satoru, Jo, Toru, Gojo – I don’t care. Just say my name.” 

“Ugh – I hate you.” 

He leans down, lips hovering over yours as you slowly blink your eyes open. It’s startling… looking right into his pearlescent gaze, but it's so familiar that you could die. Then, he kisses you like everything is okay. You kiss him back. 

“I love you – Mm, I love you, baby.” He’s rejoicing on your lips, the lines between marriage and separation blurring in his hazed mind. “Love when we fight ‘cause it shows that you still care.” 

“Higher… H-higher, I wanna com-

“No, it has to be on my cock.” He cuts you off with little thought, thumb only barely lifting to ghost across your shivering wet clit. It shocks you from the blood, back arching painfully over the soft couch. “Just wanted to get you wet for me first.” 

If it were anybody else, you’d be cringing with the language Toru so easily lets melt off his tongue, but it drives you deeper. His hand on your throat – his voice in your ear. Yeah, this is why you married him. It’s just too good. 

You want more. 

“Then give it to me.” You growl, finally ready to be his again. You’re ready to hear your old pet names – you’d be good enough to hear them. If he just keeps this up… if he lowers you deep enough, then pulls you back up for air, you’re sure it’d be the one thing that reels you back. 

“Fuck – I love you. I love that I can hate you. I love that I can love you. I love that I can fuck you.” He sits up, face flushed from your presence. His thumb is back at his lips, studying the taste of your chapstick on his tongue. He looks so manic, like he’s entirely taken with your dark expression. 

Finally, that hand around your throat unravels, and you’re taking a deep, reassuring breath. “Don’t say that. Not right now.” 

“No, I know you want it hard.” He mentions if it was a fact, like he knows how repressed you are from a too-sweet marriage. The main thing Satoru adopted when you took his surname, was the absolute definition of love and gentleness. During sex, he never squeezed you too hard. During arguments, he’d nod and let you win. There is something there – something that drove that part of love out of your life. You’re just too blind to see it. 

“You don’t have to say it, I know you feel ashamed.” 

“C-can you just…” 

“Can I what?” 

“Get on with it.” You whine, hips bucking up into his pelvis. He loves trapping you like this, chests kissing when you take a deep enough breath. “I don’t want— don’t wanna talk about it.” 

His hand closes around the underside of your jaw, yanking your head to force eye contact. You’re like a puppet – pliable and jelly in his grip. You can’t fight back against his strength. 

“You don’t get to rush this. Not like before.” His voice simmers out, getting lost in his chest all gravelly and hard. His fingers dig into your jawline, leaving wells against the sensitive muscle. Your face twitches, eyes shut and burning. 

Then, he slaps you for some reason – on the face. 

Your lips part, eyes flying open as you suck in a breath. Your body is rolling under him, shivering with generational need for him to bury himself inside of you. “Ohh, God. Toru–

“Knew you’d like that–” another slap. You bare your teeth. “-Fucking shameless.” 

“D-don’t wanna hurt,” 

“Ye, you do.” He slaps you the other way, gentler on his backhand but strong enough to leave a sting. You’re wiggling from his grasp – his hot fingers tighten. “You were shaking in the car when I was demeaning you. You know, that’s what I was doing – demeaning you just like you do to yourself. If it didn’t feel good, you’d have burned my number the second you left.” 

“S-so mean…” 

“Didn’t mean all of it, but I meant most of it.” He leans real close again like he’s trying to push words into your gasping mouth. “Respect is earned, lust is given. You’ve gotta give it to me really good for me to even glance at you outside of these walls again.” 

Toru sits up, letting you free as both hands work at his waistband. He’s not stalling, and he’s so hard that his cock whips out with one tug at the crotch. He hisses as cool air hits too-hot skin. “Tell me what you told Mama, baby. ‘Toru is so cold, he ignores me’? What about, ‘He watches my every move, even my bank account’?” 

You don’t really understand what he’s trying to say; all you’re focused on is the pure, shiny white pearl falling over his fist as he works himself in front of you. You’re trying to look him in the eye – his shirt is between his teeth, now. He’s the perfect reflection of the lust you keep buried deep inside of you. 

“Bet you didn’t tell her about how I peeled the underwear from your skin and sucked them clean right in front of you on our wedding night,” his neck tenses as pleasure builds white-hot in the core of his hard body. “Or how I obsessed over that green tea you told me you liked on our first date – the green tea sitting in that bag over there you didn’t touch. Remember how I wiped the shelves of it and surprised you with a fully packed fridge? Or your ring, I had resized six times just because it kept falling off during sex, and I’d have to stop and put it back on? Hm… there’s that time I missed finals because I was hungover in a hotel room with you in Shibuya. The last time I drank, I drank for you.” 

You’re crying now. It’s a feeling you’re used to – crying at the thought of him and everything he’s done. The ring now sits beautifully on your finger. It’s so embedded into your being that you don’t notice you haven’t taken it off. 

“Yeah, how can you ignore that? It’s true love, I don’t care what made you run so afraid, but my love never faltered.” 

“If that’s all you want to see, fine.” The tears are making you angry – you’re frustrated by the build-up, horny and tense. Your face burns from his palms. “But I see the times you purposefully didn’t make me finish, how you told your family I was crazy for not wanting them to comment on my body, and the weeks of silence you gave me after.” 

“Insignificant things, sure.” 

“You’re not denying it.” 

“Because I did it, so what?” Toru’s starting to get himself there – scarily close to finishing from the flustered sound of your voice and the quickness of his fist. He quirks his neck, finally pulling open his eyes. “Ugh – what about when you told your friends how I wasn’t good in bed? The same friends I have to see every day?” 

“None of my friends are going to stroke your ego. You don’t like how I describe you? Fix it.” 

That cold look in his eyes burns as he hoists your hips up with one arm. There’s no real way to fuck you comfortably like this, so he’ll maximize his own pleasure, knowing you’ll cry and come for him at the drop of a coin, and the pain will only make you hotter. 

One long leg swings over the side of the couch, foot planted just the way he needs to keep his balance as he watches his cock disappear inside of you. You’re stretching so filthily around him – opening up to everything he has to give. You’re already blooming that delicious pink-red shade he loves so much. He’s so focused on the sight that he doesn’t notice the line of drool that slips from his shiny lips. 

“Put me down– this angle.” You’re whining, fingertips digging into the side and back of the couch like you’re trying to run away. He has your body pressed in a sick seventy-degree angle, your thighs burning and singing with pain at the awkwardness. 

“-is so hot, I know.” Satoru throws his head back when he’s buried all the way inside of you. He focused on this feeling right now – filing it away as one of his favorites. He feels so safe and surrounded like this – loved from the core of his being, even when you’re deadset against him. “Baby, you’re so flexible.” 

You’re sweating now, tears sliding hotter down your flushed cheeks. He’s rolling his hips, staring off into space as he brushes your cervix. Your hand flies up to push at his chest – you fall short. “S-stop! God, you know I hate that.” 

Toru finally looks down at you, gaze sparkling in turquoise hues as he watches you flail for mercy. “Feel good?” He rolls his hips again, breathing so delicately like he’s in heaven. “You’re so wet. Gonna make you feel me tomorrow.” 

It’s the last thing he truly says to you before pulling out halfway – mind on a mission as he fucks you so hard you’re seeing stars. All the blood is rushing to your heart and head – eyes rolled back like you’re on the verge of death as his thrusts send you deeper and deeper. He’s pushing you into the cracks of the couch, uncaring of how your neck is straining and face reddening. He’s fucking you with his eyes shut – perhaps imagining someone else, yet hopelessly in love with you. 

Your body is trembling as he continues the assault on your poor cervix – his eye twitching every time he slams into that soft little barrier. 

Toru has a sad affinity for this – being so deep inside of you that if he were any deeper, he’d be playing in your womb. He’s so obsessed with your body – he can’t help it. He loves your taste, and the way you sound, look, and feel. Every one of his five senses is wholly devoted to you, and still, you found a reason to leave him. 

He lays you down so well every night, and still you tell your friends he can’t make you come… To him, it sounds like a personal problem. He won’t let you fuck with him like that – not again. He’ll just fuck the devotion right back into you as hard as he can. 

Toru’s sweating now, too. It’s dripping off the hair sticking to his forehead – hips moving so fast they’re blurred with speed to the naked eye. Combined wetness makes those lewd squelches so much louder, and you’re deafened by your own desire. 

Sanity is starting to slip away from you. Satoru notices immediately. You’re not tearing at the couch as hard as you usually would – your grip falls loose. 

“Look at me, beautiful. Look at how well you’re taking me.” He grunts, taking breaths between each deep word. His voice is so lost – so wrecked, and it wrecks you. A whine punches from your throat. 

Toru gulps and starts again. “Hey, c’mon. Gonna be a good girl and stay with me?” 

“Too- It’s too-

“Shh, shh… Don’t talk, honey. Let me take care of you.” It might be a bad idea, but Toru has you completely mindless. He reaches for your clit and pinches it whisper-soft between his thick fingers just to elicit a different reaction from you. He smiles when your eyes fly open. Your whines are the only thing he can hear. “Do you know how good you feel – how good you’re making me feel?” 

“Mm, yeah. T-tell me.” 

“It’s so hot.” He starts. Moving both big hands to your waist when you start to slip. The sweat against your silk, all streaky and stained, is so slippery, Toru wishes he can rip it off. “You’re squeezing me so tight, it feels like home – God, it’s just so hot.” 

You’re crying even harder if that’s possible. The onslaught of his deep, precious voice during this rush of physical and mental stimulation is just too much. It feels like you love him so much – like you want to open up and give him babies, be his forever, but you can’t. 

You’re not even his anymore. 

Then it hits you like a cruel joke without a punchline – your orgasm, right to the face. 

At that very moment, all life is pushed from your bones. You go completely limp in Toru’s grip, dragging him down like dead weight. He scrambles, letting your hips fall as your body shakes and seizes with release. 

It’s never hit you this hard before. It’s never come to you so unexpectedly. 

You’re obsessed. 

“Oh, my God… Shit, you should see your face.” Satoru’s voice carries you through the mindlessness. He’s sitting between your thighs, pulling his leg behind him to finish you off in missionary. Your legs are too weak – they fall open and expose you like you’re a prize to be bid on. “So pretty… So beautiful; my perfect wife.”

“N-

“Yeah, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard. It’s coming – shit, ah-

Toru can only roll his hips because the expression of pure mindlessness you’re making is better than the ruthless way he’s screwing you. Seeing your strict demeanor crumble and burn with the feeling of him makes him so fucking cocky. He knows you now – has never seen this before, but will do anything to see it again. 

When he comes, he buries his face in your neck, getting drunk off your scent as he ruts into you weakly. He can feel himself flood and pool around his cock – leaving a sickly, shiny layer on him once he pulls out. It falls limp against your thigh, and for a moment, Satoru collapses into you. He holds you like a prize. 

You two must’ve stayed like that for hours – days have passed in your mind. You’re not worried about his crushing weight or his soft breath; you’re worried about what your friends will think when you tell them Satoru just gave me the best sex of my life. 

Shoko will laugh – Utahime will take pity. Yeah, you have to tell them. 

When he’s finally sitting up, it feels like your skin is being pulled from your body. You two are interconnected; he has to sit up slowly so your soul doesn’t detach, too. His hair is a mess – it’s the first thing you see when you creak open your eyes, feeling high off of something you couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was him – how you couldn’t get enough of that savory, sex-filled scent that wafts off his godly body and settles in your skin. 

This feeling —lost in a rose-colored daze —feels like love. 

“If you can sit up, I’ll grab you some tea.” He sits back, sliding his pants over his filthy skin. Of course, he has plans to shower later, but he’s hungry. That always comes first. “You want some Pad See Ew, baby?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

He rolls his eyes, and finally, you two feel like yourselves again. You’re rolling over on your side, positioning your shorts back over the mess between your thighs – shoving your chest back in its constraints. 

“Will you cut it loose? You know how hard I just made you come? I swear, you saw Jesus.” 

“Shut up.” You bite. “No, I didn’t.” 

Satoru sucks his teeth, kicking his legs back up as he takes his cool noodles back in his grip. He’s eating like nothing just transpired – hair sticky with sweat, come drying on his skin. You feel just as dirty, and when you move to kick your feet off the edge of the couch, your core cramps and tightens. Your hands fly there to cradle it. 

“Ah- fuck.” 

“You okay?” 

“No!” You snap, overcome, and pissed because you told him you didn’t like when he targeted your cervix like that. It didn’t take a genius to know it’d be bruised for these next few days. “I don’t know if you know, Satoru, but you can’t fuck yourself into my womb, so you need to stop trying.” 

You’re not trying to be funny, but Toru chokes on his food with a laugh. He’s coughing – laughing. You’re glaring. 

“But I know it’s so warm and safe in there, baby.” He sighs, pushing your overwhelming strictness off his shoulders like he always has. Yes, he knows about your cervix aversion. No, he wouldn’t fuck you halfway – there’s no point. He needs to be buried inside of you, all the way to the hilt, or it’d kill him. 

“You have no respect.” 

“I don’t.” He mumbles, taking another bite once his breath evens out. Sharp canines scrape against pristine metal. You glance over at his striking side profile. “But seeing you so beautiful and willing to let go like that might be bringing some back.” 

“How about you keep it?” You’re trying so hard not to let him in again – so hard. His voice is sweet like honey, and his movements are endearing, but you know it’s that post-sex ovulation-thick way your thoughts twist and twirl everything into something it’s not. You can only hope that the feeling of absolute detachment you experienced a month ago will return and bring you to your senses, as Satoru did. 

Unfortunately, you’re leaning into his strong frame when he fishes for a vegetable-heavy bite for you, mentioning, “Open wide.” As he pushes it between your lips. 

Sauce dribbles across them; Toru reaches to wipe it away, then leans in to lick them clean. 

That lick turns into a kiss – his hand pressed to the side of your head, chopsticks digging into your hair as his tongue licks forward into your mouth. He wants something else out of you now – your devotion. Perhaps that umami taste on your tongue that he’s so addicted to. Either way, you’re making out with him like you love him, and that’s all he could ever ask for. 

Toru is just so in awe of how sexy and mindless you look right now. He wants to make a mess of you again. “On a scale of one to go rot in Hell, pervert – how pissed would you be if I said I was hard for you again?” He whispers against your lips, serious as hell, but moreso focused on never letting up on yours. 

“Go rot in Hell, pervert.” 

Midnight has ticked by – forgotten takeout containers litter the table. You’re standing in the dark, legs trembling in the shower as the throbbing in your stomach makes it hard to keep steady. 

You’ve been here many times before, losing your mind against the rush of clear water. Moments like these give you time to think – to want, to yearn. 

Now, you’re yearning for Satoru. 

You want him to bust the door open and press his naked, wet body into yours until you become him. You want his hair in your mouth – his blood on your skin, his touch on your bare, shivering flesh. No skin, no boundaries. 

Your shame spans countries – continents. You hate yourself. 

Reaching between your thighs, you cup your hand against your core, absorbing the flaky traces of him before the water washes them away. Once, it was so thick – so soft against the heat of your legs. Then, it felt like lava pouring into your soul. Now, Toru’s old finish feels like a stain on your skin. You sigh. 

Satoru loves showering with you, so it doesn’t take him long to come slinking in, welcome as ever. He’s still wearing those tired, terribly attractive grey sweatpants, hair wild from constantly running fingers through it. The sweat’s got the strands sitting on a different gravitational field – they’re everywhere. 

“You can tell me to go die, but I swear it’s just gonna make me stay longer.” He whispers, stepping inside with you like he always has. This is such a familiar maneuver – so familiar it makes you smile. His hand on your wet shoulder, his toned stomach melting into your back. You sigh against him, nodding slowly. 

You don’t know what to say. “Hi.” You reply, rolling your head back on his sturdiness. Toru breathes out a short laugh. 

“Hi, my love.” He kisses the top of your head, taking this moment as his. Nothing can ruin this right now. 

One more kiss – a few seconds to linger, then he turns you around. His hands trap your arms, and his tall reflection feels like home as he gazes down at you. You’re being stared down like headlights in the dark – blinding and cruel. You blink up at him. 

One arm falls, reaching between your pressed bodies, and your thighs part as they know. Except his fingers concentrate under your belly button, smoothing out before pressing softly. You suck in a breath. 

“It feels good to leave my mark like that, though it hurts you.” He’s mumbling, so the mood isn’t lost or twisted. Satoru is in here because he knows one more round will do him in perfectly. So, he pushes you to your knees, keeping his arm strong and stiff to guide you as you fall. 

You do so without saying a word, ignoring the singing in your pelvis and the shame on your cheeks. He knows what he wants – you know what he wants, so you don’t waste time. 

Rescinding all control, you lean forward and press your lips to his heavy-hanging cock, breath so hot and painful in your throat. His thighs smell like him – the tuft of hair around him being the absolute goldmine of his body. A beautiful head of hair falling into a gorgeous face, body, and crotch – all dripping like a waterfall to his long fingers, strong legs, and wide feet. Every part of him was crafted with so much care and precision; it’s your job to worship it. 

Satoru reaches down, grabbing his cock by the base. He palms it to the side, letting it linger on his thigh as he presses your face to the swell of his sack. You whine, tongue darting out to catch the water that streams against the soft skin. Satoru tastes so much like himself as you suffocate between his legs, but it’s a taste so salty and loving that if you could bottle it for a high, you would.

He holds you close for a moment, letting you kiss and lick at him like a needy kitten. His thick fingers trail across your chin, sending down little breaths and moans to make your blood hotter. You reach up and bury your fingertips in his thighs. 

Satoru pushes you away once he’s hard enough. His blood is rushing again, thick cock painted in a hue of crimson. It almost matches the palm of his hands – as soft as them, too. Shiny and pink like his lips. 

“Open your mouth.” He demands.

You do. 

Water attacks your gaze when you try to open your eyes, but he notices and shifts just for you, letting the water pelt his shoulder blades. With a curl of the lip – a suck of the cheek, he gathers spit on his tongue and lets it fall right into your waiting mouth. 

Your lips snap shut. His cock eases against your jaw, sliding delicately across your wet skin. He pushes your head back, water falling on your skin as he rubs his length over your cheek, brushing your nose, poking at your eyelid. 

He’s guiding himself with his thumb, making sure he’s pressed close enough to feel something. The rest of his fingers tangle in the hair behind your ear, caressing you like a porcelain doll. 

Satoru knows he has you again. It’s a feeling he can’t see but can pinpoint in the darkest of hallways. It’s the sound of your voice – your obedience, your care for his jokes. He knows. 

You’re right back where he wants you. 

At the end of the night, you crawl into his bed. All the lights are off, and the bathroom door is cracked – soft light from your shower spilling into the void. You think Satoru is asleep on his side of the bed – his soft snoring is familiar. 

You’re half asleep, throat on fire, stomach in knots when you crawl over him. 

Your knee presses into his side, body sliding over his arms as you make your way. He ruined your set, and now you’re wearing his clothes to bed. You don’t mind. Satoru surely doesn’t mind when he blinks awake, and it’s the only thing he sees. 

You settle against his back, slipping an arm under him – winding one over his broad shoulder. He’s the little spoon, rolling back into the touch like he’s never been without it. You used to hold him like this when you called him your husband, sneaking little ear kisses and wandering fingertips as the night dragged on. 

Now, he knows you’re awake. He’s awake. 

His voice hits so genuinely, you think it might kill you. “We don’t have to be married if you don’t want to be… but I think we’re good enough to start over.” 

“Satoru…” You whisper, voice broken with the ghost of him scrubbing your throat raw. “I’m scared.” 

“So am I, but it’s a good feeling.” He reassures, giving you that sweet, low voice he knows you can’t say no to. “If this weightlessness isn’t gone by tomorrow, we’ll know, and I’ll give you your divorce.” 

It’s been a week since you’ve been moved into your apartment. You and Satoru have had sex two more times since that night, but you two don’t bring up the obvious. 

You’re staring in the floor-length bedroom mirror, fingers at the blouse you’re buttoning to your skin. Like always — it’s your friend's idea. You’re impartial to karaoke, but they’re desperate to see you again, chalking up the weekend outing to a housewarming. 

It’s been too many times that you’ve blown them off; now you have to show up. 

You straighten out your hair in the reflection, avoiding your eyes and the darkness that just won’t fade. Your phone rings — exercising bad habits, you reach for your side table to answer it without checking the caller. 

“Hello?” 

Your mom is on the other line — her voice is warm. ‘Hi, dear. We haven’t heard from you since you visited. How’s Tokyo?’

You sigh, stepping back to sit on the edge of your bed. “Um… I know. It’s just been a lot. Tokyo is good… It’s good for me to be back here.” 

‘Settling into your new place, still?’

“Unfortunately.” You’re ripe with shame for some reason, fingers twisting in the strings hanging from your thin skirt. “Had a friend help me move the last of my new furniture today. It’s good to actually have stuff.” 

She hums — you know she wants to say more. ‘And… is it okay if I ask about him?’ 

You close your eyes, the sound of her gentle voice making you cry only the way a mother can. “Satoru? Mhm. I put in for divorce yesterday. Just waiting on the proceedings to be shipped to me.” 

‘That’s good. I’m proud of you for taking that step. I know it’s hard.’

“Really, really hard.” You’re crying now, unable to hide the sound of it in your voice. Over the line, she hears, giving you a sad little hum. You feel so pathetic - reaching up to cover your eyes to hide from yourself. “Mama, I’m so scared.” 

‘Darling, you have no idea just how strong you are and just how strong I think you are. No matter your reasons for leaving, I understand and support them. Satoru was an important person in your life — there’s no doubt about it, but even the closest of relationships aren’t meant to last forever. God has something better for you, you know that.’ 

“Have you ever felt like this? Like you’re standing so close to the edge, but you just… can’t?” 

‘Well, what made you leave him?’ 

Your throat clicks, stopping the words before they’re even thought of. If you cared, you’d give her a laundry list right now, but you can’t. “I- I can’t. I’m ashamed.” 

That’s all you need to tell her. It clicks. ‘It’s not the sex, is it? Dear, if you’re not satisfied, have you told him?’ 

“It’s-” You pull the phone from your ear, chest tightening as tears rush. “It’s not that, it’s the opposite. We can’t stay away from each other.” 

‘Oh,’ she pauses, unsure of where to step. You two always had a good enough relationship to talk about these things, but the conversations were few and far between. You hardly talk about Satoru when you're at home, which is why the divorce doesn’t surprise her. ‘How many times… have you two been together since the split?’

“Four or five times.” You’re beet red in shame, sniffling into your hands as you try to muster up words. “It’s so bad, I know.” 

‘Nobody can blame you for going back to what you know. After so long with your father, I don’t even know if there’s a man out there who can even make me feel anything anymore. You’ve been with Satoru for years — he’s all you know. Don’t feel guilty.’ 

“Thank you.” You cry, snotting into your hand, ruining the makeup you painted so precisely just minutes ago. “It’s just – the sex is good, but everything else is so terrible with him.” 

‘Then, you’re making the right decision. Trust it.’ She pauses for a moment, offering you the rustle of movement to fill the silence. ‘I don’t dare overstep, but if all he can offer you is pleasure, why don’t you just find another outlet?’ 

“What do you mean?” 

‘Going to the gym regularly could help you balance out some of that need. Or, you could derive pleasure from other sources. I know it won’t be the same, but toy-

“Mom.” 

‘I know – you don’t want to hear it from me.’ 

“No, I don’t.” 

‘Then pretend like I’m a friend.’ She doubles down, evening out her voice as she repeats. ‘It won’t kill you to just try. It can’t be worse than going back to him, can it?’ 

And that’s what you tell yourself as you crawl back in bed, breath heavy and hot in your lungs. The conversation ended long ago – you had to sit with yourself for a bit afterward, letting her wisdom set you straight. It feels better to know that you’re not a touch-starved slut, and it makes sense that you keep going back because it’s all you know. Change is uncomfortable. That’s what she left you with.

Now, you’re lying on your back against the rustle of sheets, staring at the ceiling, trying to work up the nerve. Proudly, you don’t own any sex toys – your husband was a walking one with a voice and touch that drove you mad. It’s what you’re trying to lose as you part your knees, hand reaching down to pull your panties to the side. Under your skirt, it’s so easy to get where you need to go – Satoru always loved you in them, and always found the perfect excuse to be under it come nightfall. 

You’re thinking about one of those nights – skin to skin, your voice melting off of his tongue as you slowly approach your core. Your fingers concentrate at your slit, completely bone-dry save for naturality. You breathe out a soft breath, working up the nerve to dip your finger a little closer to your most sensitive area. 

You can’t find the nerve. 

“Fuck.” You bite, angry at yourself as you hesitate. Time moves slowly suspended at this moment, and when you slip your eyes shut, all you can see is his gaze – that cheeky little wink he sends you when he’s propped between your legs. You’re combing back to remember his taste – his touch, the way he loves. It makes your heart skip a beat in anticipation. 

“Toru… Toru – mm…” You whisper, gasping when your fingers slide over your clit, making your back arch embarrassingly. “Please, Satoru – right there.” 

You feel so pathetic, but it feels so good. Too good. 

Just not enough. 

You work your smaller fingers in messy, quick circles against your bud – just trying to get yourself off so you can have a level head tonight with karaoke. It’s shameful just to admit how much you get from being intimate with Toru – it’s a way to lose your mind, like a high from a drug that costs way too much. 

You’re trying to mimic his deep tone in your head, whispering how good and beautiful you are. Your hand quivers as you bring it to your neck, hoping the soft squeeze will be enough to emulate Satoru’s affinity for squeezing you there. It works, if even for a second. Then, you’re scrambling for your phone, remembering the one video he sent you two years ago. You were in Tokyo, and he was in Kyoto – he missed you and recorded a video of himself in bed, vocalizing just how much he did. 

That tone – that adoration. It’s what you need. 

So you’re swiping manically through your camera roll, one hand frozen between your thighs as you search and comb the archive. 

Finally. You’ve never clicked on anything so fast. 

As you click the video to start, you push your head back into the pillows, working your fingers at your clit like you’d die if you stopped. 

God, his voice. 

‘Hi, baby. Just got to my room… It’s so big and lonely without you here… I know you’re gonna shake your head and think ‘God, he’s so dramatic.’ like you always do, but I miss you. If a man is dramatic for missing his wife, then lock me up and throw away the key because I'll be in jail for a long, long time… I wish I can touch you right now. Wish you were here so I can tell you all about my day – you’ll tell me about yours… then we’ll make the sweetest love… look, see how soft this bed is? You’d sink right in, love. I’d have to dive in and pull you up for air, haha… Anyways, I know you don’t like when I talk too much about nothing, but I really do miss you. Work trips are the worst. Well, I love you. So, so, so much. Alright baby, good night…’ 

He kisses the phone, and the video goes dark. 

You’re close, leaning over to bite the pillow in a sad attempt to muffle your overwhelmed sobs. In a few swipes, the video is replaying, and as soon as that deep laugh licks the line, you’re convulsing and coming all over your fingers. 

When you’re sitting in the dark blue light in the private karaoke room, you feel lighter, yet so guilty with shame. It’s only been twenty minutes, but you’re three drinks and two shitty pop songs deep. Now, you, Shoko, and Utahime are listening to the machine run – letting the choppy backing track carry the silence when one of you stops talking to take a sip. 

Shoko’s at your left, leg pressed to your bare one, blinding white screen cutting through the darkness as she feverishly texts someone back. When you lean over to ingest her business, you see Suguru’s name. Your heart flips. 

Clutching your glass like it’s a stress ball, you sit up so fast your head is spinning. “Please tell me you didn’t invite him.” 

Shoko scoffs, not even looking at you as she sends Suguru an “okay” message. “What? Of course, I invited him, who do you think’s gonna buy the drinks?” 

“Okay, but you know he’s going to bring Satoru – Shoko, I’m gonna fre-

“I told him not to invite Gojo. Chill – it’s fine. They’re walking up now, I think. He’s just bringing Yu instead.” 

You huff, sitting back with the mind to trust her. You can’t win against an angry or annoyed Shoko – never. Not even when she’s tipsy, and you’re drunk. You actually don’t want to fight at all because you know you’d curl into a ball and call a truce. 

The fact that Suguru is just bringing Yu is a red flag – he went to school with them before you even met. If there’s one, there’s always the other. It’s suffocating trying to leave someone so integral to your friend group. 

You didn’t notice exactly when Utahime ducked out of the room, so you’re loopy and surprised when she peeks her head through the door, smiling softly, eyes shut. “Shoko-

“What?” 

Utahime opens her eyes to glance at you, then tugs at her lips as she circles back to Shoko. “I have a situation. Can you… come on?” 

“Whatever.” 

They leave you alone like it’s nothing, but you’re thankful for the loneliness. You didn’t even want to come out tonight; you thought the orgasm would help, but the conversation you had with your mother hung over your head like a dark cloud. You feel so lifeless – like joy falls onto your soul just to shrivel up and die. 

Utahime makes sure that the door is shut – she’ll keep an eye on it, too, but she’s panicking right now. There’s nobody in the world who has ivory-white hair, sticking out of the crowd like a sore thumb. It’s a weekend – the bar is thick with bodies, and Satoru stands tall amongst the crowd at the edge of the room, drawing attention. 

Utahime leaps into damage control, waving her hands in front of Shoko like it’d simmer her down before she starts. “Look, I don’t know where Haibara and Geto are–

 “Shit, is that Gojo-

She springs into action, Utahime right on her tail.“-wait! Shoko, look-

-no, I’m killing him.” Shoko would never let anyone see how flustered she was, but she knew this was going to happen. If Suguru didn’t tell Satoru he’d be here, it was surely Yu. She knows you or Utahime aren’t responsible. “Killing all of those fuckers – God, I hate them.” 

Just before Utahime and Shoko can close in on him, Satoru’s attention is pulled to his phone, then the pushing bodies moving through the door. Suguru and Yu are shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing at a joke carried over from the walk here. They don’t see each other often – not with Yu’s secretive job on the outskirts of the city he can’t tell anyone about. Suguru told you it was government work, and Satoru told you he worked for a tech company. They’re both liars, but Yu is sweet enough to overlook the grey matter. He’s been around for years. 

“You. Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest, come here.” Shoko points to each of them respectively, barreling into protector mode to shield your bleeding heart just a few rooms away. She didn’t want to see your face when you saw Gojo, but she also didn’t want to be proven a liar. 

“Hey, Shoko!” Yu tries, unfamiliar with seeing her painted in dark makeup but in love with the reflection. He just thinks she’s great, albeit a little strict. It’s why you two get along so well. “Utahime!” 

“To be clear, you’re ‘dumber.’” Shoko completely barrels past his sunny persona, letting Satoru pick it up when he looks his way. She targets Suguru, grabbing at his baggy sleeve to drag him away for a second. Utahime is quick to start damage control, leaning in to hug Yu and exchange pleasantries with Satoru. It’s hard to hide what she thinks about him when he’s so close – after everything you said about him, too. 

Suguru isn’t even surprised, but he does pull Shoko’s small hand from the expensive fabric, frowning against the flickering blue lights. Everyone’s gaze is shadowed – terribly sung music is ringing in their ears. “I didn’t invite him!” 

“I don’t care! Kick him to the fucking street!” 

“Dude, you’re drunk. Whatever, they’re cordial.” 

“Because she’s actively trying to stay away from him – ugh.” She grunts, disgusted to her core and so flustered she’s tripping over her own feet. Suguru is a lost cause; he’s too nonchalant and sweet. She needed to poke the target – the only man wearing sunglasses in a bar. “You.” She states, pointing a finger right into Satoru’s chest. 

He steps back, feigning ignorance. “Hey-

“Leave – I’m so serious.” 

He’s laughing – of course, he doesn’t think this is serious. “Why would I leave? Come on. Don’t be like that.” 

“Oh, my God, I’m going to kill you!” 

“Shoko–” Utahime steps back in, cheeks all red with flush. Poor Yu has no idea what’s happening – he doesn’t think he even wants to know. 

“You’re gonna kill me? Me?” Satoru’s challenging her; it’s just in his obscure nature. He thinks she looks like a feral kitten, with fluffy hair and a razor-thin gaze. “What’d I do?” 

“Why couldn’t you have just kept your stupid mouth shut?! We wouldn’t be in this situation.” 

“What situation? My divorce?” 

“What divorce?!” Yu stands shellshocked, looking at Suguru, who is chuckling under his breath, then to Utahime, who looks like she just wants to run and hide. He can’t blame her – these two are scary when they’re mad. 

“His!” 

“Mine!” They belt at the same time, emotions running hot without care. 

Then, it’s like something supernatural clicks. Satoru stands up straight, taking a tentative step back. “She… she’s here?” 

“Who fucking cares?!” 

Satoru looks past Shoko’s sad, tiny figure, peeking over his shoulder as Suguru gives him a small nod. 

He feels manic, like a lion swooping in to collect his mate. It’s a feeling in his blood that he’s not sure he can pinpoint, but one that feels like pure, unbridled protectiveness. He just knows you’re somewhere sad and drunk, wishing he were close even though you’d push him away. Without care, he’s shoving past Shoko – she spins on her heel and follows. Suguru slinks behind with his hands in his pockets. 

“Lay off Shoko!” 

“You’re going to make it worse when you go in there!” 

“She needs me!” 

“Guys, come on.” Suguru’s voice evens theirs out as the music thins. They stop in the hallway of private rooms; Satoru is panting. “Satoru, I don’t think you should go in there. We don’t have to fight about it, and you know-

“I’m the only one that knows what she needs.” Satoru presses his hands into his chest, blue eyes open to the hilt under his dark glasses. His heart is racing so fast he doesn’t know how to think. “It’s complicated, but I know she needs me.” 

You can hear them outside the door – you’re staring at the red wood, vision pulling in and out, distorting the obvious. It makes it easier that you’re drunk, but Satoru’s voice feels like a blanket – a loud, mean blanket. Your heart races just like his, swallowing twice when their voices draw closer. 

Then, silence comes. Someone mutters. 

And the door swings open – wind slaps you in the face. 

It takes a second for reality to settle, but when you see Toru’s body in the doorframe, you’re panicking. 

You scramble for cover, rising to your knees pressed on the faux leather couch. He closes in on you before you can blink, and trying to gather yourself to run, you rise to your feet, towering over him, for once. 

“Get down. We’re leaving.” He takes his glasses off when he looks up at you, big hand reaching to snatch yours up. He feels possessive in your drunken daze – mean in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen so blatantly. 

“What? No.” You whine, knees rocking together as you tug against his grip, nearly losing your footing. 

“Get. Down. Look at you – about to fall.” Toru glances over his shoulder at Shoko and Suguru watching on with their fists in their mouths. He has to approach this accordingly – you two are in public, and everyone thinks you’re estranged. 

Then, he thinks to himself – how estranged can a couple be after only a month and a half apart? 

No, Satoru is crazy about you. He doesn’t care. 

He snatches you down so quickly, careful to hoist you to your feet when you rightfully stumble. 

The last time you two saw each other left him with more questions than answers. Satoru is reaching out for you, gripping onto every shred of hope you hang on a string. He thinks these hookups are hope — a way to split you open so he can see who you are and what you need. 

You don’t talk to him much anymore, but you didn’t tell him no when he proposed starting over. It’s why his mind is skewed - you won’t give him the answers he needs, so he’s making it up in his head. 

Not to mention, this is not where you were supposed to be tonight. “You said you weren’t feeling well, so you were gonna stay home.” He closes his hands over your shoulders, shaking them to bring you to life. Satoru is mad, but he’s not angry. You were too drunk to care — trying to drink him away. 

“Mm,” You whine, shaking hands covering your eyes. You feel exposed with your friends in the doorway, even though the lights are so dim nobody can really see your face. Except him. He’s so close. 

“I hate when you do this!” His voice reaches a peak you haven’t heard in a few days. It’s still not enough to rid your shame. “Stop running from me! There’s nothing to run from!” 

His tone makes Shoko stand up straight, ready to dive in and protect your shivering figure. They’re just lucky the music is so loud — it drowns Satoru out. “Hey, shithead. You don’t have to scream at her.” 

Sensing this situation won’t get better if they’re idling, Suguru steps in, smoothing his hand over the top of her back. “Shoko, let’s just leave them-

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep trying.” You whimper, safe with him so close but torn to pieces at what you know you have to do. You have to leave him. This has to be the last time you two ever see each other. 

Digging deep, there has to be something there — some kind of courage that can rear its ferocious head and set you free. 

“Trying? All we do is try; this is a marriage!”

“And I want out. Let… let me out.” 

“You keep coming back! Why?! If you hate me, stop crawling back!” 

Like always, you’re crying, hunching in on yourself as his anger shoots for your core. ”I can’t stop! I can’t. I wish I knew how…” You shake your head, scrubbing at your eyes like it’s scrubbing how pathetic you feel from your frontal lobe. “I-I’m so scared that I’m not who you think I am, Toru. I need to be free — or at least feel free — and I need to be wanted by you. That’s all I want. I want you.” 

“See? You’re telling me you don’t want me, then saying you do.” He calms down when you’re shaking so bad you can’t breathe, turning that possessive arms-length hold into a comforting hug. “How am I supposed to work with that? Help a guy out.” 

“I want you.” You sniffle, finally calm enough under the prison of your hands to get some real words out. “I don’t feel good without you.”

“I want you, too — easy as that.” Satoru takes that spark you give him and lights a torch. He pulls you away when he feels your hands lower, heart-shattering when he sees your bloodshot gaze. “We’re back together now, got it.” 

“No, Satoru—

“What about me is driving you so far away?! Help me understand, I’ll change!” 

“How can I ask you to change everything about yourself?” 

You can hear it through the fog — Satoru’s heart plummets. He pulls away. “What do you mean?” 

It has to be the drunkenness— there’s no way you just said that out loud. You don’t even believe it. Yes, he has flaws like every other human, but he tries. 

Which is more than you can say. 

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, the door slipped shut because someone knocked on it as soon as the silence hit. The noise stills you to the core. “Satoru, come on. I’ll take you home.” 

Satoru takes a step back, staring into your soul as if he wants to snatch it away… his gaze is off, as if it’s missing something. Or, like something inside of him has died. 

“I-I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” 

He laughs — something akin. Just a short, stupid breath of air through his parted lips. Silently, he shakes his head, then turns on the ball of his foot, making a beeline straight for the door. 

“Sat-

“Yeah, Suguru, let’s go.” 

“Sure-

“Satoru, don’t.” Now, you’re doing the chasing, piecing together the only two sober brain cells you have to put one foot in front of the other with purpose. 

Through the door, you’re rushing past Shoko, tears streaming down your face. It’s pathetic — honestly, the laughing stock of your lifetime, but right now, you don’t care. It feels like you need Satoru. Like your heart is ripping from your chest every time he takes a step away from you. 

No. It’s not supposed to be like this. Satoru is not supposed to be leaving you. 

The crowd gets thicker as they approach the front doors — Suguru peeks over his shoulder, expression so damning and overcome as he watches you push past bodies to get to them. Satoru is dragging him along now, holding onto his bicep like he’s on a mission. 

“No! Mph– T-toru!” You sputter, the heel of your hand flying up to tug at your eyes. You can’t see much in the haze – the front door is cracking open. Everything falls by the wayside. “I’ll stay, I’ll try! I promise you, I’ll try again!” 

He stops, grip shaking around Suguru’s elbow before he yanks it back. The three of you stand like statues in the middle of the floor, blocking the exit — bodies pushing. You’re out of breath, swallowing tears and wiping wetness when he turns to look at you. 

In the pursuit, his glasses fell, but somehow you can see the look in his eyes. One that loves you, hates you so well, and that can’t hide the devotion he feels. 

It hurts. You’re running face-first into a lie. 

Satoru blinks at you, breathless, as he closes the distance in less than a second, it feels like. He yanks off his glasses, balancing in his left hand as he cradles your cheeks. Sobbing, you grip his shoulder blades, shaking your head when he pulls your gaze. 

There, in the ripe blue light at Midnight, he kisses you like he used to all those years ago. He holds you, eyelashes shuddering against your skin as he leans into you. 

The kiss is hungry and mean — he’s shoving his tongue between your lips, squeezing your face so you don’t run away. You cry and sniffle against him, whining when he bites down on your bottom lip, drawing blood. 

Satoru’s not done for at least a minute — face so red when he pulls away that you swear he’s due to pass out. In that heaviness afterward, he presses his forehead into yours. Not saying anything, just silence. Pulsing music, unfamiliar stares. 

Nothing blooms into something. You’ve thrown your life to the wolves, innocent and baring your neck to be mauled to a bloody, beautiful end. 

That’s why you’re crying now. Not for him… for you. 

Satoru is on his back in bed, your ring finger in his mouth, sucking the metal clean. 

You’re on top of him, crying like always. Head tossed back, jazz music on your skin, and blossom in the air. You’re riding him like a horse, out of your mind with pleasure as he moans your name. He’s fucking you so good, now, knowing you differently since the breakup. You feel different since then, too. Nastier — headier. 

You know what you want. Satoru knows you know what you want. He’s ready to give it all to you, but right now, all he wants to do is suck your wedding ring. 

“You look so hot like this.” You gulp, tongue flicking from your parted mouth. Your free hand reaches forward to rub over his face, marking the expanse red in your wake. “Look at me.” 

He does, slamming open his eyes and staring at you so blue it feels like you’re drowning. Toru’s pupils are blown to Hell, too — so dilated you could be mistaken for a drug he’s high on. 

“Fuckin– look at you.” He groans, teeth grinding as your hips slam down again. He’s sure your calves hurt with the fervor of your want, but he’s just too much right now. Your body is craving him – he’s treating you so well. 

Satoru reaches forward, kissing your glistening ring as he grips and grabs at the flesh gathered around your hips. Your body is making him drool, and the pure mutual attraction in the air is so thick neither of you can snap out of it. You’re caught in a constant state of praise, adoration, lust, and more praise. 

Everything is perfect, here. You’re not sure you ever want to rise to the surface.

Technically, you and Toru aren’t separated anymore. It’s complicated. 

It’s what you two tell your friends – it’s what you tell yourself. He still refers to you as his wife even though things aren’t perfect all the time. He comes to and from your apartment now, just like you do his, and the space is exactly what you two need. Maybe living with him is too much? Being around him constantly is suffocating? 

The pieces are starting to fall into place. Satoru sees that you still need to feel free even when you’re tied to him with a ring you refuse to take off. If it’s staying so perfectly, ripe with his spit and deep in the throes of pleasure, it’s meant to be on you. 

“Oh, you’re stunning – taking me like this.” 

“Tell me, baby.” 

“Sexy fuc-fuckin’ mouth. God, your pretty little lips–

You’re slowing down, catching your breath as you grind on him like you want it to mean something. Your ringed hand pinches at his chin, egging those words you need to hear along. Toru’s spacing out – he’s close. 

You shiver, that deep, grinding sensation setting you ablaze. It doesn’t dawn on you just how far you were edging yourself until you’re about to snap, but it’s impressive. “Want it in my mouth?” You whisper, dragging one of his heavy hands to your lips. Biting and kissing at the soft webbing between his thumb and pointer, Satoru mumbles something adjacent to yes, then no. You giggle – hardly there, but felt through the vibrations of the pulsing position you’re in. 

“No– yes, oh, suck on it, beautiful… Tell me you love me,” 

“Oh, I love you, Satoru.” 

“Again.” 

“I love you!” 

“Come here.” His voice turns into something primal – deep in his chest in a way he can’t replicate outside of the moment. This is taking you there at an alarmingly defenseless rate, closing in like a bounty hunter. 

Satoru yanks his hand from your mouth, pinning you chest-to-chest by the back of your neck. He knows not to be gentle now, taking the small hairs at the nape and nearly pulling them out. Open-mouthed, sharp-toothed, he gnaws at your cheek and ear because it’s just too much to get to your lips right now. 

It gets too much – he has to fuck you. He feels like a track runner, hips rising from the bed so he can carry you both to the finish line. Toru knows you too well, he knows how to sync your orgasms, and he executes it perfectly this time. 

Fingertips digging in that gorgeous muscle around your hips, Satoru fucks you right – the only way he knows how to keep you, now. He tugs at your earlobe with sharp teeth, gasping right into you. You’re sobbing for him, fists pulling at the ruined sheets as the wetness between your bodies gets too much to block out. 

“Ugh – take it.” He growls, screwing his pulsing release deeper inside of you as it comes. You can feel every spurt – your nerves are on fire. It’s that third one that does you in. It pools right against your favorite spot, stabbing deep inside of you as Satoru lays his mark. 

You’re the one that collapses on him once the aftershocks ride away, but he’s still limply thrusting into you like he doesn’t have a mind to stop. 

After the ecstasy, Satoru thinks he feels… sad. He’s sad that’s its over. He’s sad you’re so tired you can’t talk to him anymore. He just wants to talk to you. He wants to know how he did… was it good enough for you now?

Everything settles. You roll away sometime in the midst, and Satoru sits up. He knows you’re tired – don’t want to be touched, don’t want to be bothered, but he wants you to know how much that just meant to him. 

He wants to show you how loved he feels. Something he hasn’t felt in that last year of your marriage. 

“Ba-

His phone rings. Satoru closes his eyes and wills it to Hell.

Then snatches it up from the nightstand, eyes glancing at the caller ID as he stands and fishes his underwear from the pile on the floor. 

It’s Nanami. Satoru smiles when he answers. 

“Hi! How’s Malaysia?” 

‘I’ll make this quick – I’m having a peaceful time down here.’ 

“Really?! Aw, well we miss-

‘I was offered a position down here at the school… Effective next semester, but effective nonetheless.’ 

Satoru stands still as a statue in the doorway of the bedroom. Glancing back at you, it seems like you’re completely dead to the world; you must’ve drifted off. 

So, he slinks out with his promise of good news, trying to hide his smile as he shuts the door so softly the click is almost invisible. 

When he’s safe from ears-length, he opens his mouth. “That’s so amazing! How amazing! So deserved – really, that’s so great.” 

‘Don’t be coy, Professor Gojo.’ 

It’s hard to hide the face-spanning smile that creeps over his. Then, he throws his hands up – letting it take over. In any case, he grinded for over ten years just to feel this moment. Now, he gets to live it. “God – it just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?” He flushes like a child, bringing his hand to his face to cover the unbridled joy. 

He has to shake himself free of it again. He earned this. He’s allowed to feel excited. 

After all, you’re not at his feet telling him how annoying his light is. 

‘Fairly well, I admit. Look, Gojo, I didn’t know this was going to happen, but I do not regret it. Your pupils adore you, peers love you, and you’re so smart…’ Nanami pauses, taking a deep breath. Satoru can almost see him now – head in his hands, stewing away in the wake of success. ‘You know I have nothing but respect and faith in you.’ 

“Thank you… honestly, thanks.” 

‘I’ll be back in Japan next week – together, we will work on making this transition as smooth as possible, okay? Don’t let this weigh on you, Gojo. The summer semester is slow. It’ll be the perfect time for you to adapt.’ 

“Yes… yes, sir. I understand. Thank you so much.” 

‘Alright.’ 

Just like that, the line clicks on the most important phone call of his life.

Satoru spent the entirety of his twenties focused on this and you – it’s all he knows, so stepping into this shiny new territory is terrifying and so exciting. 

He just can’t stop. Satoru can’t stop smiling. 

Lost in himself in this moment, the only thing that can pull him out is you. The movement from the bedroom behind him makes that smile even wider. Toru just can’t stop winning today – you’re awake after sex. 

Still, he gives you a moment, giddy in his own skin as he paces, combing his hands through his hair, trying to slow down his racing heart. He doesn’t know whether he should grieve for the years past or look forward to the new ones – maybe both? Maybe talking to you can help him balance out these big, conflicting feelings. 

For once, Satoru actually wants to call his mother. 

He abstains, opting to slip back into the bedroom with a small grin on his lips. You’re not in bed – the sheets are ruffled. Satoru smiles even bigger. 

“Hi, sleepyhead.” He peeks his head in the dark bathroom, reaching to pull the dimmed lights a little higher. He watches as newness floats over your body as you lower yourself into steaming bathwater. 

You’re exhausted – bones sore. You needed this. 

Satoru walks into the bathroom, turning the dripping shower head you used to rinse entirely off. Silence spills the nude space. He’s biting over his lip as he watches you settle. 

“Hi.” You reply, finally. Eyes drifting shut as heat melts over your entire strung-out nervous system. Against the heat, you’re shivering,  opening your eyes as you lean against the back. Staring at his smile, you can’t help but smile back. “What?” 

Toru’s phone is still in his left hand. He waves it once, then pushes it on the counter. “Nanami’s all kicked up in Malaysia. Totally forgot about us over here.” 

You laugh under your breath, flashing him the sleepy bedroom eyes that make him feral. He steps closer. “Mm… Miss him. Nanami always has the best family-owned bakery recommendations.” 

“My professor is not a review site – but I agree.” 

“Shut up,” You shrug him off with a short laugh, rolling your head the other way as he approaches the side of the tub. The moment falls in silence – Toru is kneeling beside the basin, reaching for your wet hands against the polished stone. 

“I know it’s still too soon to tell how you’re feeling, huh?” He chews on his words carefully, avoiding eye contact when you look over to evaluate the sudden dip in his tone. 

Satoru’s referring to a conversation you two almost had two days ago over dinner. He brought up moving you back in — you declined immediately. He suggested going on casual dates until the pieces are connected again, but you also declined. 

He asked you what you wanted from him, and you lied. You want his company, but you want his lust even more. You want him to scream your name in his sleep — to torment him with debilitating morning wood and linger in the air long after it’s gone. You want to smile in his face and have him smile back — you want that feeling of teeth against softness when he smiles as he kisses you. 

That’s it. 

“What do you want to hear?” 

“That you’ll forget you ever left and let me buy you that house I always promised.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nanami took a job in Malaysia. They’re offering me his position.” 

You sit up, water splashing around you as you stare at him dead-on. Satoru is easy to read — when he’s lying, his eyes sparkle in mischief. He’s telling the truth, you can tell. 

Then, it dawns on you. “Oh, my God.” 

He’s smiling as big as he did when he found out, just ecstatic you’re around to tell it to. “I know.”

“Oh- oh, my God. Baby, I’m so happy.” You whisper, shell-shocked as you pull him into a wet hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Your naked chests melt together with water to make them stick. His heart is sprinting like a hare, knocking over your chest cavity for entrance. 

It’s true – you’re so proud of him. Before Toru was your husband, he was a friend. Previously, he was a trusted and beloved colleague. That’s where it should have stayed. 

“I love you. I do it for you.” He kisses your hair, big hands rubbing your back. This moment with you is so tender and warm, like he can pull away and feel the same heat from you. He knows the truth, though – just doesn’t want to admit it. “I feel so good right now, with you and this news. I think it’s hope.” 

Still hugging him close, arms slung over his neck, your hands pull into fists where he can’t see. You’re staring at yourself in the tall vanity mirror. You know what this is – what he’s going to take from this. Now that he’s found success, naturally, he’ll want to drag you into it. After all, you two spent your best years talking about this time in your lives. He’d get this promotion, and everything will be okay. 

So, you don’t comment on it. Instead, you state the obvious. “I love you.” 

~

 Suguru’s house is up in lights, and chatter spills out through the open kitchen window. Everyone sounds so happy – Satoru’s name is on the tip of everyone's tongue… Everyone is so happy. 

Not you. Never you. You swear something inside of you was manufactured with broken parts – this didn’t make sense. You’ve spent the best week of your life with Satoru. You two had the best conversations, and agreed on the minute stuff. This last week actually felt like the promise – a tiny little inkling of the hope Satoru wanted to churn out so badly. 

Inside, you’re nowhere to be found. 

Once he crawls off of you, you’re drowning in overwhelming numbness. 

When he kisses you, some feeling comes back, only to fade away again with the passing breeze. You look at him and see nothing, you’re tired of hearing about the promotion, and you’re tired of your inability to escape him. 

It passes through you all at once as you stare at the promotion party from around the corner. Suguru lives in a beautiful, well-maintained neighborhood – families and salarymen at the top of their field make this street more alive than you’ve ever felt. You envy it. 

You envy their lives – you bet their marriages are perfect, and their children are beautiful. Their cars are probably polished like Satoru’s, ripe with money like Suguru and demanding attention like Shoko.

You squeeze your eyes shut and fall back behind a fence, willing your life to disappear. You no longer want to have a choice. You don’t want a body that feels something your mind doesn’t – you just don’t want to be here. 

It takes everything inside of you to do it, but one-foot steps in front of the other. Your arms shake as it clutches your purse against your body. Tears come – you welcome them. 

You welcome anything that pours some feeling back into you, because you feel like a dripping, empty chasm. Burning the hope you two created as fuel, your slow steps turn into determined strides, sneaking a look over your shoulder to see if anyone from the gathering was following. 

Maybe you want them to, or maybe you just want to disappear off the face of the Earth. 

You chose the latter. 

France is beautiful around this time of year, but not the city. The countryside sparkles in the humid breeze, away from all the noise and sewage. It feels a little bit like home, only you can’t go back there. Not yet. 

Not when you gave every single piece of your old self away. Of course, you kept the ring and the last name – it feels good to carry him around. It’s proof to your former self, there to remind you that those years did exist, and they were good. 

It’s just you. You’re the faulty component. You’re the missing piece. Satoru is an angel – you’re nothing but a stranger who crashed into his life and drained his happiness from his sweet soul. He doesn’t deserve that. 

The toll you took on him was starting to kill you, but he was too indebted to ever let it show. Satoru would see the darkness in your eyes when he turned your words into a joke, then nod and tell himself to never do that around you again. Being so close to you for so long, his light started to fade at the corners like a vignette. 

He never mentioned it, and when you began to notice, you hated yourself. 

Now, you’re cordial with your mind. It’s had time to think and heal just being alone. Being in France is just a vacation for you – sleeping in a bi-weekly rented cottage a few hours from the Capital. 

You truly picked the destination out of a hat after leaving Tokyo. You quite literally ran for the hills – sending off the stack of divorce documents to his new office at Tokyo-U for him to sign. Inside that sealed package, you had decided to give him the note you had written when you left the first time. You’re not sure why you kept it, but you knew you needed to. 

This was why. You knew you were going to leave again. 

With the absence of him, you’ve begun writing again. It started as notes to him, then to your past self – now it’s studies of the mountainside, the way the air smells as it rushes through your hair. Small little poems to take your mind away, and it feels so good. You don’t feel like a walking extension of him anymore, but you feel like a Gojo. There’s that scary sense of power that sits over your shoulders, knowing it’s all one phone call away from falling back into place. 

You have plans to reach out to him eventually, but it feels good to not exist anymore. It feels good to pad around the little cottage in nothing but your socks and underwear, reciting the poem you wrote yesterday without care of anyone hearing. 

It feels good to feel the morning light on your skin, snaking in through the window with the week-old dried wishbone on the sill. You love this life right now, and that’s all you need. 

All you need is right now. 

@coralbae @nylve @torueater @yossellinn @kiwikeeahwah @gojoikawa @peacequeen2 @asimpinamillion @genericxseas @casssiesthings @bypanana @kr3ideprinz @kamuihz @bbqsauceonmytddys @sukunaslilsocks @spacefae-x @tenaciousavenueavenue

[m-ac-m]

1.

I keep writing, rewriting, re-editing. Thinking, rethinking, adjusting. Even now. Even today. Even tomorrow. Just as I shrink beneath your sight.

One step forward, two steps - where? I'm lost in following the path, I'm afraid. One look behind - how am I here? Why did my _mappins_ (oi, gamedev people) disappear?

All this time, frozen, in my pre-produced smile. Please, please world - stop spinning. Just stop spinning for a while.

I try to silence her, I do. To make her traces disappear. But she insists on coming through. She won't go quietly, I fear.

Now there's You - waiting - for my sanity to come. For my mask that hooked you in, one I try to overcome.

For my cool, sardonic smile. For my well-timed lifted brow. For all my words, thinly-veiled affection, masquerading as sarcasm, humor and deflection.

(Just so I don't scare you away with this. Lucky you. I wish I had an editor to shield me from myself too.)

All my insecurities - edited - cut - clean correction, right into the required adult, stoic perfection.

Here, I unravel. The previous form is gone. My thoughts? Left free to travel. My soul laid bare below.

I'd love to be a child once more, just trying, tasting words out loud. Testing the waters before I plunge in, to find out: Am I insane? Or am I really bright? Should I jump back in, just once more? Risk my pride? For the visions that feed my heart, my soul, my core? But then - where on earth do I hide? Am I "me" anymore?

Please, please go quietly. You - get - to close your eyes. And I'll just keep on living with the part of me that dies.

I look inside and question, ask:

is "what it takes" within, in fact? Or was it all just play-pretend? Has it all been my clever act?

Questions thrown - into the little black hole of my own.

The young-me feels like a time wasted, lost. Emotionally dead, unresponsive ghost. Did the "now" demand it? The emptiness? The cost? When in the end - I - am the one we both needed most?

I do not know what alt-future could bring. But hey - for what I have, right now - I'll give up anything.

Still, I'd hate to let her slip away - hate to watch her die. Hate to break her heart - AND mine. With all her pain and all my fear - together, we can persevere.

And then, there's this - she's still inside. The past self I'm growing out of - my pain, my shame, my pride. New branches feeding off her broken, feeble roots. Her dreams, her beliefs, her wants - hardening into absolutes.

She won't go quietly. Won't let me bury her inside. And that is good - she knows best. She's the better part of mine.

2.

Rejection - with teeth

Oh dear Lord. Give it to me, please.

I want your god-like bite in me. I want myself to disappear.

I want you - your teeth to sink right in. and me - myself - my faults - no longer here.

Give me this break. Please, love. It spins too much. Even if I find pauses like the one here, as such.

(man, I'm such a fucking catch.) If it hurts

on my terms

Does it hurt as much?

3.

Well, I guess, you're not gone. Or pissed. Or thrown. Or even just checked out

look, love. Me? I'm - Am I? God, dear Am I now found out?

I think, I shrink, I cry - I die? Has it just been all you - all the while?

No- I've been crazy way longer than this. Way longer than you. What have you missed? The past- it will have to sit - sit quietly with that.

But you - the part of which I'm so, so proud. So please. Please let me in. Straight in, today - right through the crowd.

And yet. Somehow, someway I know - fear? - that's how you'll go away.

Or stay? And then, oh dear, oh God, - then pay? To let this live without a loss. A final one. Cut clean - straigh across. I'll have to pay. I will. Cover the cost.

But hey, dear. I'll surely test this still. To break things while I can - until - Until you see me in the clear And ask - "hey, there are you mental, dear?"

Before I figure myself out. Before I kill the in-brain crowd.

And please, dear love - stay with me still. The "life", the "real" - I'll get the bill. And then, in shame - see myself out? I'm sorry - where? here? You had to find out.

Then - then I do not have words. No, never. I just lie there - waiting to close my eyes forever.

But here - right here - here I can rest. On your beloved - Your - beloved chest.

Then, please let your heartbeat say- You're free. You're full. You're safe. And hey love - that is what fixes me of late.

But now - back to you, if I may. Darling. Love. Boyfriend? Yeah? Alright? Ok? Please - pardon my intensity. I've only ever dealt with this in real low-human density.

Estonia-level. Please, please hold on there. Hold on there forever. Please - if only, this doesn't just burn.

All in all - I don't know how I got in here. I'd rather be with you. Just resting, empty-headed brain, Left to humm - not scream - just safe. So safe there, saved from all my pain.

Again. We meet in the clear. My dear.

But for these - Me-filled, putrid, honest breaks. For all that aches. You need to train. So I won't break you - won't break you ever again.

Then the goth-ier self in me, the one that wants to die -

-No.-

No, never with you. No, never with you in sight.

I'll shield you from this image - love, if I only might. And then please - you just hold me. Please, please hold me tight.

Love, even if it's true. And even if I'm right. And even if it's new. Love please - still hold me tight.

How I got here? I don't know.

My feet don't follow where I go. Let's see - see where my dice is thrown.

But I do want this. A reflection in his eyes. These eyes of his. Let me break it down - break down all of this. (I'm broken enough to reject food and sleep

- but in fact still well enough to see us - as I weep.)

We're both - both green-eyed monsters. But God. So different in the end. Don't know why you would love me. I can't even pretend.

You see me in my scariest phase. Face away. So lord, god, please - so it won't stay. Right there, in here, - in your brain Or even worse, love - in you heart.

One thing that could break us apart. . But I'm still here - all my awful parts. The parts that hurt - "the parts in arts".

Here - please, please - love - now you come through. Just do. I need your voice, your presence - you.

Ah. Yes. You. Much more than elsewhere, More then you've ever been, love. Been what then? Where? What of?

To let myself feel different. More adult. So I stop going in - stop joining the cult.

A version smoother, easier, simpler - and intact. But that love, my dear? Heh. That was just an act.

I'm so sorry, reader. If you were waiting for a breather. Not that, not a break - not end. None coming neither.

It asked me - begged me. To refrain. To find a better way through pain.

But how? My love, my pain, my pride. Do I just simply watch you die?

And here? Here we are so near. And my problems - dear God. Finally in the clear.

With a different one, much more random and deeply, deeply lost Handsome, random and lost? Give me that right there. (at what cost?)

(Then - who am I kidding. I really don't care. Problem is - fuck it. I love you more - and then I dare - Dare to challenge, to fight, no flight. Challenge them, challenge all that's in sight. Never ask again who's right. And then? We go. Then we _both_ bite. Bite into the future that's written for me. Blind to the truth that's hidden within.)

You've sunk too deep in me - my heart, my bones, my core. Also through this - this content - this message I bore. So please, love, try to understand - why my soul is sore.

This will never disappear. If there's a part of us still here.

It feels so sad. Trying, panicking. To edit the crazy out.

It's mad. But then, I'm glad.

Glad that I'm curating this. Throughout. Through all my pain and tears. Glad that all my thoughts are now neat and clean. But all the crazy is still here- All capped and wrapped. But then, my dear, still me

I didn't disappear.

Still, then, I'm dying, love, I am afraid. As I see myself, unseen. But as you see me see myself out. You did it! You figured me out!

But I need strength. Your help. Your aid.

I'm dying in my quiet self.

I'm dying in the crowd.

And God, just once. I hope you're proud.

I said your name there. Said you name out loud.

4.

But, love, is it good? Is the voice worth hearing? I - my soul - my core - my whole- All it ever could be? All there of me, there - in it? Stupidly endearing? Love, or just -

Hear me out, dear.

Dramatically fearing?

Is the message -in your clear, dear. open ears- Clarifying? Open? Clearing? Or eaten by fears?

And its core - core - the truth I try to grant you. Not perform.

But then, truely - feeling No, it's not vanity. Know this. Or power, or control.

God, please. Please, let me out of this.

This ever eating hole.

Don't let me be the end of his. When all I want is -

Ha!

God, all I want is him in this. In all my pain and all my fear, But, please. Don't let this die- don't let him near.

Words spill and flow. Some place, some space. With grace, tho, no chase. Away they go.

And I still pray. For you to stay. (and please, don't throw my thoughts away.) For him - to never disappear. To rest my head and hold him near.

I had a perfect phrase to close. Cool, calm, collected - just that, one of those.

That terminator broke - confined, then cried and died. But then, to be fair - did he put up a fight? Or even try? Well, he just still might.

I eyed him down and watched him break. (Just as my heart is still in ache. For when I look down, love, down here - why did your hands just disappear?)

A worthy opponent there, though, all in all. Now - smile, win, own it, this thing as a whole.

Words won't end this here for us. Just couldn't break my heart of glass. Wouldn't let me free of all my pain These pointless things I feel. Please stop. Learn some restraint.

But words are spilling on their own. How? I swear, I do not know. The "Her" - she must have sadly grown. Into a scary force in here. A fearless presence of her own.

And in her power, With her sharp, poetic spear. Do I cower? Die? Or just disappear?

To kill her - the inner voice tempts me to go there. But I know I don't want to close that. I'm just getting to know her. To see where we're at.

5.

I hate this feeling of remorse.

When I tell him.

Throw him off - show him. Hey - I'm here. I'm even worse.

(Where, again, dear? Where is now our course? - in here?)

Worse than whatever has - so far - transpired. Worse than what I whispered - but, love, I was so tired. Worse than what you saw in me - my frame, my pain, and - why was I desired?

She lingers in the back. With notes. And god. A better rack. And quotes.

She knows me well

I couldn't tell how deep she goes how much she knows.

But then - I love you more than her. I had to let this slip in there.

She won't go quietly. Ha! Not at all, I fear. But by now it's us.

Fearfully, painfully, alas…

(I'd add a comment here, for me. but dear, it's just so crass, I fear where would the right place be in here For a comment - God - comment about an ass. So, instead, a proud _alas_.)

So let's just savor, feel this moment, Let's not just let it "be". Let us watch it go free, there - uncuffed. In our first try - I fear we got the shaft.

Now. It's me and her. (And you?) Our little hell. (For two?) Are we a pair? (We are - I swear) It's hard to tell. (Nah - easy. We're swell.)

Here, watch her go. Watch her in our fire. We won't burn with her.

Now. Brain please. Please. I am so, so tired. Let's end this dance. Our deadly stance. Let love and peace and silence there. Inside? Where I have no room, no room to hide. Come, please - please all of you- come in. Peace, love and silence- let us all commence - embrace and face ourselves within.

You're gone now. Thanks. The silence? Bangs. Gone. Disappeared. All turned off now. Fired? If not - then still, away, away you go. Please go, dear? Right away love? Get fucking rewired.

I twirl into this masquerade thing of asking - pleading - masking. And pleading. Or silently leading?

And in this effort - searching, still. It's taxing. and man I'd love, I'd love to kill.

(not actually - to clear things up.

it's just a saying that we've got)

And through my chaos (that's what's cutting through) Am I bleeding? Am I ill? Or am I just right back here? With you? Am I coming to?

All set up here - not to fail. And there, I guess - that's my refrain.

Again, in pain. Dear lord. Not again. In pain I re-register all my thoughts to see them. Better. Simpler. Brighter.

For lack of better words - just - righter.

Just not to be made. And my love? - it's great

You - just let me keep this costume on, dear

-Then still. Don't let the mask yet disappear. Don't see me bare. I love you, dear. I'm more than her. I need you here.

And if you care. Please, hold me still.

6.

K. I asked for rhymes for "funny". What I got in return?

You catch your breath there. Your breath is needed, I swear. You hold this close. Hold – and try to cherish her.

Then wait your turn. Then go – Go! – fire and burn.

Give me – us – a solid run. Go on dear. Go on – for us, for me – my Lord.

Then make us race. And what against? There’s so much pain in me to face.

But still, give it to me. A quick run for my money. As if you hate me. My love, my dear. My “unfunny.”

(Um, like someone pays me for these bursts of soul and heart, and pain. When you – all of you – just wanted me to be plain.

That - try to explain.)

But then, back to the topic. What I got in return? What rhymes with "funny"?

“unfunny” Kay. That trip was idiotic.

That input – indeed, for me tho, has been great. Let’s hope it doesn’t eat away the _nothing_ I ate.

7.

I think it's a meltdown that I'm going through. but ping me, call me - for my curtsy cue.

It's the one that thrills. Or kills. But somehow ills?

I know it's this or that or that. Intermission? God. Then revulsion? Regret?

I pause. I revel in my flaws.

Me - I just don't want to say goodbye. To this freedom or this cage. In verse - a sigh - a fully written page. I live, I cry, I laugh, I die. In here - my cage - I want to age. God, please, step away - I have to try.

(Oi, Hemingway, the pain? - I see you. Hopefully just in the rear view mirror. Hopefully yesterday - so still, we can fix me? Hopefully never - but what would my fix be??)

Hopefully - Dear - I will correct this. In pain - and in growth. I know I can make it. Not to follow this path. Not faithfully. Not his. In all the cost and penance that I owe. And all the paths that let me -made me- grow. What made me write this. Put forward my oath. So I can live through this - live this for us both.

As for our bodies - our dreams - just put on a cloth.

(yes, the sex cloth. That's what I'm speaking of. To let us slip away, my love. Answer the call. Into my darkness - Ernest, let's safely go.)

The words just come here on their own. I try to stop them. They won't go.

I was happy. I cooked, I cleaned. And in that, God, in that still, still, I live.

But what if I've built a heaven, just for me. To let my faults, my hopes, my pain - just disappear?

Still. Still. Please hold me through. As I reach- grasp - for this glass of truth.

Here love - I'll swallow my pride. My dear, if you'd be so kind. I'll push through for strength, for truth. For light. Please love - search for me - search for me alive.

8.

Is it ok then? To force him into being my haven?

Or - come on, second me - morally hazy? Cause him? I know. He'll show up. He'll happily meet my crazy.

He'll carry with me all my crap. Am I leading him into a trap?

(And Lord - and love - am I still up? Or did I slip into a dream. Where I'll be trapped. For this. For him.)

69.

I need to rest. Head on your chest. But how? And - now?

How do I crawl back out of this? From hell - how can I get to bliss? How do I wake up - true love's kiss? But dear, it's dark. What if you miss?

(Yes, I hear you. With every bullet so far. In clever comments, you're my star.)

I might be too broken, I fear. To finally meet him there in the clear. To meet you somewhere near, my dear.

Near - where - what - sanity? (Ha! - well - hello there, dear reality. A nice thought fed by our vanity. Let's not lose sight though - let us keep the clarity.

So right - clean health is off the table. Since I've burned down my broken cradle. But hey, love, we're better now, chin up. (And please, please Marysia - try to clean up.)

So back to the core. We left it behind somewhere before.

Right - landing near. Before you truly disappear.

Near the closest I can get. Near the point I stop to fret. Near my world with no regret.

Near the stop I chose for us. Near the moment where I trust?

But then, near you - it would be just fine. A spot that's you - a spot that's kind. _Lucky, lucky you._ You haven - heaven? - of mine.

10.

it feels like I rip myself apart (a liver token - eagle guard)

To bring you mess. It's funny - -painful, crucial, - to confess.

I shrink - curtain, please, applause. There's less of me now. So I could leave. So I could breathe. So I could learn to love - and how.

Get eaten, dear. Until I'm near.

11.

The wait is done. The weight is gone! Have you been waiting for too long?

He's proud of me. I'm proud of him.

(Why did I have to get so thin?)

It's not on him, of course. It's me - my brain, my stain. My choice. My soul, my fear - and God - its

force. and all this pain. and no remorse.

I've lost so much weight. For that - I made him wait.

(and here? Ha, he has made it known. He did not like that week at all. That week without me, on his own.)

I thought it'd be great. To cut it - cut off all I ever ate. But now? What's left through what I chose? A shadow. - Smile! - A bag of bones. An army of my dying clones.

The tears I ate. The noise, too great. A broken, feeble, dying fate.

And so much hate.

The hate I felt - First - for myself. Then - for the world. Then for the coldness in my cord.

Then for my verse. Still, too intense. Now - for my starving universe.

Finally, hate for being so seen. For being more open than I've ever been. For losing the will to keep my image clean.

But see? Hear these words? It's never him.

*wanted to end on a more innocent thought but then life happened

gotta share this too

I deeply enjoy this sight as I hit "alt-tab"

Swedish drommar - "dream cookies" recipe.

houses for sale, young families

how to titty-fuck like a pornstar

Just there, purest me.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

HII, I HOPE YOU'RE WELLLLL

Since I saw you made Pin Han-wool's NSFW alphabet, I was wondering if you could do a smut of him, where the reader is confused by what she feels towards him, and he is a little obsessed with her, and one day everything collapsed and the reader realizes that she loved him. Even though she knew what he was like, and since they were in that room of Han-wool's, he laid her there in that couch and what had to happen, happened

“The Point of No Return”

Pin Han-wool x Reader — Smut + Emotional Realization, Obsessed!Han-wool

yes i know this picture is perfect for this ask

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

It always started the same way: with his eyes. Watching her.

Pin Han-wool had a look that most people ran from—sharp, hungry, like he already knew something about you that you didn’t. But Y/N never ran. Not when she should have.

She knew what he was like. She knew he was cold to everyone else but strangely warm to her, in a way that felt like a trap. Like she was the mouse and he’d left out cheese soaked in honey.

And she took the bait. Every single time.

Y/N sat on the edge of the couch in Han-wool’s room, chewing her thumb as he moved behind her. The air was thick. Something had changed that day. Something had snapped.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, not facing him. “I already feel like I’m going crazy.”

Han-wool’s voice was low behind her, that usual icy tone laced with something rougher. “That’s not why you’re going crazy.”

She turned slowly. “Then why am I?”

His smile was small, dangerous. “Because you feel the same thing I do. And you’ve been pretending it’s not there.”

She hated how right he sounded. She hated how her heart sped up whenever she heard his voice. How she dreamed about his hands on her—hands that shouldn’t feel as good as they did. How he looked at her like he owned her.

She hated that part of her wanted it.

“Tell me to stop,” he said suddenly, stepping closer. The room seemed to shrink.

Y/N looked up at him, stunned. His hand came to her jaw, thumb brushing her lip.

“Tell me to leave you alone,” he whispered. “Tell me you don’t want me. Lie to me.”

She opened her mouth.

But no sound came out.

Instead, she exhaled shakily and closed her eyes—and that was all the answer he needed.

The next second, she was on her back on the couch, his mouth crashing down on hers like he’d been waiting for this moment for years. Not days. Not months. Years.

Han-wool kissed like he needed her. Like she was air and he was choking.

“You have no idea,” he breathed against her mouth, “how hard it was—watching you act like I’m just some guy you shouldn’t want. You think I didn’t see it? You think I didn’t feel it?”

His hands slid under her shirt, calloused fingers mapping the softness of her ribs like he’d been dying to touch her this way. She whimpered as his mouth dragged down her neck, nipping the skin like he was marking her.

“I should stay away from you,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“You should,” he agreed. “But you didn’t. And now it’s too late.”

Her shirt hit the floor. He sat back for a second, looking down at her flushed and breathless, pupils blown wide.

“This,” he said, hand curling around her thigh, “was always going to happen. You just didn’t want to admit it.”

She bit back a moan as he kissed lower, his tongue warm against her chest, between her breasts, down her stomach. He made her feel raw. Frantic.

She’d never seen this side of him. Desperate, obsessed.

His fingers dragged her panties down her legs slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’ve been killing me,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. “Every time you smile. Every time you laugh at some other guy’s joke. Every time you looked at me like you weren’t sure.”

“I wasn’t,” she choked out, thighs twitching.

“But you are now.”

He sank two fingers into her slowly, then added a third without warning. Her body jolted, and he swallowed the moan that spilled from her mouth with another kiss.

Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

“Han-wool—fuck—”

His name had never sounded like that before. And something in him snapped at the sound of it. He undid his belt fast, reckless. His eyes were wild now.

“Say it again,” he growled, positioning himself at her entrance, pressing the tip against her heat but not sliding in yet.

She looked up at him, trembling. “Han-wool.”

He thrust in hard, and she gasped, clawing at his back as he filled her, slow and deep and thick.

Her head fell back against the armrest, and she felt the tears prick her eyes—not from pain, but from the weight of it. The weight of all the feelings she’d denied. Of the desire she’d buried.

He held her hips still, breathing heavy, chest rising and falling.

“You were made for me,” he said hoarsely, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in hard.

Her moan echoed through the room.

Again. And again. And again.

Each thrust was a confession. Every movement of his hips told her exactly what he couldn’t say out loud.

That he needed her. That he loved her in that sharp, messed-up way that only he could.

And somehow, somehow—she loved him too.

When she came, she shattered around him, body arching and shaking under his grip. And Han-wool didn’t stop, he chased his own release in her warmth, face buried in her neck, panting her name like it was a prayer.

“I’m not letting go,” he said as he came, thrusting one last time before stilling, filling her. “Not now. Not ever.”

She was too out of breath to answer.

But her hand curled behind his neck.

And for the first time, she didn’t want to pull away.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞? || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which she forgets but fate doesn't

The hospital lights are always too bright.

Sterile. Cold. Clinical. Nothing like the warmth you used to feel wrapped up in Paige’s arms after a long day, her voice soft against your ear, whispering about dreams and game plans and how lucky she felt to have you.

But now, the only sound that echoes in the room is the beeping of monitors. A rhythm you’ve come to hate because it means she’s alive—but not whole.

She’s been awake for three days.

Three long, agonizing days since the doctors told you the words you never thought you’d hear. Partial retrograde amnesia. A fancy way of saying: She doesn’t remember you.

She remembered basketball. Her coach. Her teammates. Her stats.

But not you.

Not the woman who held her through every injury. Not the woman who kissed her forehead before every game. Not the woman who stood in the stands with her jersey on and tears in her eyes every time she made history.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even seem to want to.

Every time you tried to talk to her, to offer something—anything—to make it come back, she would shrink further into herself. Polite, but distant. Guarded.

You told yourself to be patient. To give her time. Love is supposed to wait, right?

But then her parents pulled you aside.

Her mom couldn’t meet your eyes. Her dad’s voice was gentle but firm.

“Maybe it’s best,” he said, “if you give her some space.”

“She’s overwhelmed,” her mom added. “She’s trying to focus on healing. And you being here… it’s a lot.”

You felt like your heart had been ripped out and handed to you in a sterile hospital hallway.

“But I—” you started, but your voice cracked.

“She doesn’t remember you,” her dad said softly. “Maybe it’s time you start healing too.”

And just like that, you were being erased.

You left UConn a week later.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that gym where you used to shoot around after practice together. Not in that dorm where her laughter used to echo through the halls, tangled up with yours.

You entered the transfer portal.

A week after that, you were headed to UCLA.

New coast. New team. New life.

Except it wasn’t really a life at all.

Because every morning you woke up without her. Every night you fell asleep trying to forget the way she used to whisper I love you against your shoulder.

And Paige?

Paige healed.

She recovered. She rejoined practice. And every now and then, she’d ask her parents, “Hey… that girl that used to sit by my bed. Who was she?”

Her parents would smile too tightly. “Oh, just someone from school,” they’d say. “Don’t worry about it.” “Focus on your future.”

So she tried. She buried the questions. Tried to push past the shadow of a memory she couldn’t reach.

It’s been a year.

Final Four. UConn vs. UCLA.

Of course it comes down to this. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You spot her across the court during warmups.

Paige Bueckers. Back in form. Confident. Deadly. Beautiful in a way that still makes your chest ache.

She doesn’t see you. Or maybe she does and doesn’t know what you mean.

You play your heart out. Every cut, every drive, every shot—there’s fire behind it. But it’s not enough. UConn takes the win.

And then it’s the handshake line.

You don’t know what’s worse—the idea of touching her again, or the idea of not.

She reaches for your hand. Her fingers close around yours.

You look up.

Her eyes meet yours. And something flickers.

A spark. A ghost of recognition. A heartbeat caught in her throat.

“Good game,” she says automatically, her voice hoarse from emotion.

You nod, lips trembling. “You too.”

You try to let go first, but she holds on a second longer. Like maybe she doesn’t want to let go.

Like maybe she knows.

But you pull away with a small smile and walk off.

You don’t look back. You can’t. Because the tears are already falling.

That night, Paige can’t sleep.

She’s tossing and turning in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, the handshake replaying in her mind on a loop.

Then she starts seeing flashes.

Not highlights. Not plays.

You.

Laughing in the passenger seat of her car, your hand hanging out the window. Falling asleep on her chest after late practices. Sneaking out of hotels for midnight milkshakes before big games. Crying in her arms after your first big loss together. The way she used to kiss the inside of your wrist like it was sacred.

Your voice echoing in her head:

"You make everything feel lighter."

And then— Pain. Sharp and raw. Like her heart’s been waiting all year to remember and now it finally does.

She sits up with a gasp, chest heaving.

And she remembers everything.

The accident. The look on your face when she didn’t know your name. The way you held her hand even when she pulled away. The way you loved her even when she forgot.

And the day you left—eyes red, voice shaking, whispering, “If you ever remember me… I hope it’s the good parts.”

She buries her face in her hands and sobs. Gut-wrenching, soul-breaking sobs.

Because she remembers now. She remembers you. And she let you walk away.

She remembers everything now.

It hits her like a freight train the moment she wakes up, drenched in sweat and tears, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering her to the world.

You.

Your laugh. Your touch. The way you used to whisper “we’ve got this” before every game like you were casting a spell.

She remembers the accident. The way you used to sit by her bedside, silently praying for a miracle.

She remembers the confusion in your eyes every time she said, “Do I know you?” The way your shoulders slumped just a little more each day.

And then— Your goodbye. Your eyes red. Voice cracking. That whisper— "If you ever remember me… I hope it’s the good parts."

She needs to find you.

Now.

She jumps out of bed, heart racing, hands shaking as she fumbles with her phone.

Instagram. Blocked. Twitter. Blocked. TikTok. Blocked. Message. Green bubble. No profile picture. No read receipts. Just a wall where there used to be warmth.

She searches your name again, as if something might’ve changed in the last five seconds.

Nothing. You’re gone.

She stares at the screen like it might apologize.

Like it might undo what her silence, her forgetting, has cost her.

She runs to her parent’s hotel room like she’s being chased, the ache in her chest growing with every mile. The moment she steps through the door, her mom’s face pales.

“You remember,” her mom says softly.

Paige nods, jaw tight. “Everything.”

Her dad shifts uncomfortably. “Paige, we didn’t mean to—”

“You told her to leave, didn’t you?” Her voice is hoarse now. Breaking. “You told the love of my life to walk away from me.”

“You were overwhelmed,” her mom defends gently. “You didn’t recognize her, and she was—”

“She was mine!” Paige snaps, the tears already welling in her eyes. “She waited by my bed every day, and you treated her like she was some stranger trying to mess with me.”

Her mom’s lip trembles. “We thought we were helping—”

“You weren’t. You took her from me.”

She’s crying now. Full-on sobs she can’t control. Her knees buckle and she sinks to the kitchen floor, head in her hands.

Her dad kneels beside her, reaching to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away.

“She left because she loved me,” she chokes out. “And now I’ve lost her for good.”

Championship night.

It’s everything she dreamed of.

Confetti falls from the rafters. Cameras flash. Reporters crowd the court. The trophy’s heavy in her arms, shining under the lights.

But all she feels is empty.

Because you’re not there.

Not in the stands wearing her jersey. Not on the court, jumping into her arms. Not waiting in the tunnel with your arms wide and your smile even wider.

You’re nowhere.

She stands there, holding the championship trophy, and the moment the cameras pull away, she breaks.

Sinks to the hardwood, sobbing so hard her chest shakes.

Azzi and KK rush to her, but there’s nothing they can do. Nothing anyone can do.

Because she won it. The dream you built together. The thing you used to whisper about under blankets and after practice and in quiet corners of the world. “We’ll win one together. Just wait.”

You waited. You believed. And she forgot you.

And now you’re gone.

Later, alone in the locker room, she scrolls through your old messages.

The ones she didn’t delete. The ones she couldn’t.

"I believe in you always." "You’re not alone. Not ever." "We’re going to make it, babe. I promise."

She clutches her phone to her chest and cries again. The trophy sits on the bench beside her, shining quietly.

But it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Because she won.

But she lost you.

It’s been a week.

Seven days since the championship. Since the confetti. Since Paige collapsed in the locker room clutching a trophy in one hand and her heart in the other.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about you. You, who should’ve been on the court beside her. You, who used to trace plays on her back with your fingers at night, whispering “When we win it all…” like it was gospel.

But you weren’t there.

And the silence is louder than any celebration ever could be.

She’s sitting in the back of a black SUV on the way to the WNBA Draft, staring at the world outside the window, eyes glazed over.

Azzi’s next to her, buzzing with nerves and excitement. Paige should be too. She’s projected to go first. Her dream is about to come true.

But her hands are cold. Her throat’s dry. Because the person she wanted to celebrate with most— Is gone.

And she doesn’t know if she’ll ever see you again.

You told yourself you wouldn’t come. You’d done the whole disappearing act flawlessly—blocked numbers, wiped socials, cut the thread before it could pull you back in.

But then the day arrived, and you couldn’t stay away.

So now you’re here.

Not in the front row. Not on the list. But tucked away in the back of the venue in jeans and a hoodie, hood up like maybe that’ll hide the way your heart is thudding in your chest.

You just wanted to see her one last time.

The lights dim. The commissioner steps up to the mic.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select…”

You hold your breath.

“Paige Bueckers, from University of Connecticut.”

The crowd explodes.

You’re on your feet before you know it, clapping with your whole soul, because God, you’re proud of her.

Because no matter the distance, no matter the heartbreak— You always believed in her.

She walks across the stage, hugs her parents, accepts the jersey, does the interview.

And for a moment, you let yourself imagine an alternate world. One where you're up there with her. Where she never forgot. Where you never left.

But you blink and it’s gone.

You’re halfway to the exit when the commissioner returns to the podium.

You pause.

Probably just the last few names. Filler. Nothing that concerns you.

“…and with the 30th pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

You check your phone, already mentally checking out.

“The Dallas Wings select…”

You look up absently.

“…Y/N L/N, from University of California Los Angeles.”

Your heart stops.

You freeze. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

No. That— That has to be a mistake.

You barely played this year. You didn’t go to any pre-draft camps. You only declared because your coaches pushed you to. You didn’t even think you’d get a look.

And now— Now you're drafted?

By Dallas?

The same team as Paige?

The same Paige who’s sitting with the commentators, still soaking up the high of being drafted first overall, smiling through interviews — until your name’s announced.

You see it in real time. Her whole body freezes.

The mic drops a little in her hand. Her head snaps toward the screen behind her, where your face flashes beside your name.

She doesn’t even blink.

Because she heard it. She felt it.

Just like you did.

After taking your picture, you’re pulled into a different room, mind still i overdrive, not being to comprehend much yet. As you walk in, there she was — looking beautiful in her suit.

You don't know what to expect. A handshake? A nod? Maybe just silence?

But as soon as you reach her— She steps forward and pulls you into a hug.

Tight. Shaking. Desperate.

And suddenly you're back in her arms, back in the place you never thought you'd be again.

"I prayed for a second chance," she whispers in your ear. "And you showed up."

You swallow the lump in your throat, gripping the back of her jersey like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

“I didn’t think I’d get drafted,” you murmur. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. There's glassiness there, but also something else—something soft and fierce and real.

“I’m not losing you again,” she says, voice thick with tears.

You can’t trust yourself to speak. So you just nod. Because maybe this time, fate is finally on your side.

[waepenwifestre]

Let's Talk About Security Culture: Why Keeping Secrets is Cool and Sexy

It's a natural impulse -- if you love crime -- to want to talk about how great it is. And if you hate America, it's only natural to want to share your dreams for its future with the rest of tumblr dot com. It can feel brave and transgressive. And there is a drive to share your soul with the world at the heart of social media. Surely I should be posting the most concrete implications of my politics, right? This is the poster's curse.

Security Culture refers to a set of "best practices" developed over the past several decades, largely (in a US context) coming out of radical environmental groups as they faced intense state repression, infiltration and entrapment. If you're not familiar, there's some fascinating crimethinc write ups to give you a window into that world:

Much of it boils down to: don't talk about crimes, past or forthcoming with people who don't need to know about them, and be mindful of the possibility of surveillance and infiltration. And, we can support each other as a community in minimizing risks, with an eye towards enabling bold action rather than getting bogged down in fears and anxieties. The guidelines that make sense for AG-based trouble-makers are different from the guidelines that make sense for posters, but plenty of common principles apply. To speak briefly to our position here as posters:

First, it bears saying that long term anonymity is nearly impossible to maintain. Unless you've never accessed Tumblr without a vpn, and avoided connections with other ppl who can be associated with you/your location, and never shared pictures without scrubbing metadata, and a bunch of other 100% consistent steps, it's trivial for the state to know who you are.

Second, just because something isn't actively being prosecuted now doesn't mean it can't be prosecuted later. The priorities of the state change and a shift in power towards the right or a growth in radical action from the left can suddenly make it a priority to destroy anarchist networks or just find a few ppl to prosecute as examples (who probably weren't that plugged into larger networks before getting arrested). Advocating for specific anti-government crimes or declarations of intent to commit such crimes are likely prosecutable, and even if charges don't stick, they're an easy vector for legal harassment.

Third, it's worth thinking about heat as separate from prosecutability. There are modes of engagement that may not be directly criminalized but signal that you are someone worth watching. Some people choose to be public in ways that make heat unavoidable. But it's worth noting that heat isn't strictly individualized, that it persists over time but also is going to shrink over time.

It's easy on here, ime, to see yourself as a proud member of the crime fandom but not much of a content creator. And it's easy to feel like you've generated an amount of heat where you're locked into that role. But heat you generated 10 years ago is probably pretty well gone. Heat you generated 5 years ago has faded substantially. It's worth thinking about how the world might shift in the coming years and what doors you want to keep open.

The non-individualized nature of heat also means that leaning into the spiciest of anti-state positions will make it a bad idea for people who are acting out those positions end up tied to you. Loudly talking about how "more people should be doing [X/Y/Z]" unfortunately sets you up to remain distant from people who might be doing or thinking about doing such things.

Which brings me back to: keeping secrets is sexy. Not spelling everything out builds intrigue. You can lay out a theoretical position and leave working out the practical implications of that as an exercise for the reader. There's value in opacity. The poster's curse and the drive to confess are extremely convenient for the state, but we can resist them. We can hold dreams in our hearts that we refuse to offer up to the posting spectacle.

[daylighted]

HEY, JUDE ㅤ₊ ㅤ˚ ㅤ✧ ㅤ ﾟ ㅤ. ㅤ☾

☽ㅤdetails, or, dean never expected to have a family of his own, and his expectations hold true when all that becomes of it is a baby who looks identical to you.

☽ㅤincludes, single dad!dean, girl dad!dean, reader exists in mentions, self deprecation, grief, blood mentions, death mentions, i am so sorry

word count: 7.1k

 baby girl.

“hey, jude,” he murmurs softly into his baby girl’s ear, cradling the fussing, teary eyed infant to his chest. she was still so little — so fucking little — but he wasn’t sure when being little shifted from something to coo over to something to fuss over. and he doesn’t have much comparison to go off of, over what is too small, not when everything shrinks in the expanse of his biceps.

it is not the first time he wishes you were still around, but instead another tack on the growing list. 

he is so fucking useless without you. he really is. and it only hits him now, in the dead of night when his little girl won’t stop crying like something aches or something’s wrong, and he’s completely at a loss on how to fix it. 

he couldn’t fix losing you; and now he can’t fix her. he’s all she’s got left, and he’s failing her. 

those thoughts are a plague. they fester. they gnaw on his skin and feast on his blood and whittle his bones. and he is so sick, and he is so lost, that he couldn’t find his way to a cure if he tried. 

jude is wailing now, and he’s seconds from joining her. he doesn’t know, still, the difference in a baby’s cries. he did not nurse her for nine months in his belly, like you did; the internal guidebook on fatherhood was not automatically installed into him when she was brought out to be cradled by you that very first time. his was a manual installation, and it was still, seven months in, fucking lagging. 

“m’sorry, jude,” he whispers into the soft hair gracing the top of her head. it’s the same color as yours. the only thing she inherited from him was his eyes, and he hates looking into them and seeing every failure he’d made so far reflected back at him. 

all he can do is rock her, until she stops her fussing or she doesn’t, and then he can switch tactics. he doesn’t think often about the military-sort of childhood that he was raised in, but it comes up every time in times like this, when his methods of defense present themselves in tactics. 

the cradling tactic: for when jude wailed like she was grieving, like she’d sobbed so hard in her dreams that it broke into real life. there was no way that little girl remembered your face, but sometimes he thought that she missed your voice, with the way his never seemed to soothe her in times like this. 

the food tactic: for when it was clear that the cradling tactic didn’t work. sometimes her lips opened and closed like a fish’s, and he could skip the first step entirely and go to this one. maybe he wasn’t entirely useless as a father, after all, if he subconsciously knew this little tell of hers. he’d never let himself think so kindly of himself for long, though.

the diaper tactic: no explanation needed. this one he could always tell when was necessary. sometimes, it’d linger like the plague in his blood, and then he’d had to dive into, 

the bath tactic: which jude hated. god, she fucking hated baths, almost like she could tell that warmth was the thing that took you from the both of them. that’s why sometimes, even when it felt awful, he let her cry while he sat idly in the rocking chair beside her crib. didn’t want to stress her out more with his lack of coherency when it came to what she needed — and that little fact, that he thought it upset her more sometimes when he tried to be the thing to fill the missing, bleeding wound that was you. 

in his arms as he rocked her, jude’s little mouth opened and closed. her cries were still ear piercing and raw, but at least he could do something about it now. he nearly sighs in relief the moment that she gives him that little hint, like she can tell, in her infancy, that he was incapable of this on his own. 

she’d moved away from bottles long before, and upgraded to the wonderful world of mashed vegetables and fruits. though, she hated new flavors. he thought it was a game, in a way; always making him have the first tiny spoonful of pureed asparagus. he felt like a bodyguard in moments like those, testing if the princess’s food was poisoned before she got a taste.

but it was late, and she didn’t need any of the cereals that they’d been working on, too — though, he really would never have argued with stealing a couple or a couple dozen of those little strawberry banana things. 

and she was spoiled, despite all of his worries that he was failing her. she’d get to stay in his arms while she ate, instead of the high chair he should have been adjusting her to. 

oh well. add it to the tallied list on how he was fucking up his — your — little girl. he could take it.

“feelin’ midnight snacky, is that it?” he asks, so softly, always so softly like any increase to his volume will shatter her. honestly, he thought that she was the strongest person he’d ever met, and she wasn’t even a year old yet. she could only grow up to impress him — and ruin him, with how she was already turning into a mini you. 

she still cried, because she always cried until her problem was fixed in its entirety, but the sobs had broken and given way to sniffles and unintelligible noises that sounded too close to mama for his comfort. 

mama, mama, mama. shit— how did he tell her that he missed her, too? how does someone baby-talk down the fact that she was dead, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing left anymore without her? 

well, except for jude, of course. and what a stark reminder that is, that she’s all he has left of you. 

tonight’s snack was mashed carrots. the last one of that flavor, because it was jude’s favorite. had to be because it was such a stark color, the color of the deepest sunsets, one of the things that you loved the most. 

he pops the top with one hand, the other still cradling this tiny thing that was his daughter to his chest. the metal lid clatters to the ground, and he winces, thinking that the noise is only going to startle and break his daughter’s heart more. but to his surprise, as he dips his hand into the drawer of silverware, now mostly full of those baby sized spoons with zoo animals on the handles, jude is silent.

not just silent, but curious. dean knows the curious look, even if he doesn’t know how to differentiate most of her expressions still. it’s because it’s the same as yours used to be. lips parted, eyes wide, darting around. it’s more devastating on jude, though, because she has the longest eyelashes, and the smallest little lips, so small he can hear every breath she draws in as she searches for what captured her attention. 

dean smiles to himself. it’s these moments where he doesn’t feel quite so much like a terrible father; when his little girl has stopped wailing, and looks at him for every answer he might have.

maybe by the time she’s grown, he’ll have some of those answers.

 toddler.

“hey, jude,” dean snaps his fingers to capture jude’s attention, his expression flat and exasperated at once, “get the remote out of your chompers, alright? don’t know where all it’s been.” 

really, he doesn’t know. at one point or another: between the couch cushions, underneath the rocking chair cushion — every damn cushion, really, the dusty floor, the clean floor. hell, it’d probably been in his mouth before, when his hands were too occupied with a beer and a plate. wouldn’t put it past him. 

jude is becoming a sassy little thing. she does specifically what he tells her not to, even at her ripe age of four, when she’s just barely beginning to figure out she’s a person. 

you didn’t even back talk him this much, when you were around, which leaves the answers for his many internal, baffled questions to be that jude had gotten it from him.

karma always does get its kiss, eventually. its kiss was in the form of a toddler with his attitude, his eyes, and your face.

she looked so much like you now. 

her little button nose was filling out in the shape of yours, her eyes were as big as yours, and she was so little compared to him, just like you’d been. she was in the in-between stage of her growing, small chubby limbs that made her whine every night, thumb still in her mouth because he can’t, can’t, bring himself to stop that little habit.

if dean could keep her this little and innocent forever, he would. fuck, he would. it was selfish, to want to preserve this tiny little girl in a box and keep her on his shelves, but the thought of watching her grow into a version of you…

it was easier, now, that a few years had passed. never easy, and never simple, but easier. his feelings were still complex, still bottled up deep within him and ignored, where the oddest things sometimes could send him into a spiral. sam would come, pick up his pieces and keep him from doing something stupid, and the cycle of denial would repeat.

but every day, dean swore he saw more of you in her. if it wasn’t the fact she was a mini you, it was the way she acted. hence the attitude — which, realistically, was all his own, but why would he ever vocalize that out loud?

jude stomps her bare foot on the hardwood, her little face scrunched up with so much volition you’d think he beheaded all of her teddy bears, and she was coming to enact revenge on him for it. “why?” 

oh, you used to do that too. that angry why at him instead of just trusting that whatever he said was with good intentions, or to the best of his knowledge, fact. 

dean stands in front of her at his towering height, staring down at this knee-height little girl with bows in her hair, and a little sundress that she’d fought and fought him about putting on. it’s a battle of centuries. 

jude breaks first. another foot stomp. her hand holding the remote is raising suspiciously slowly back to her mouth. 

“juliet.” dean tries to make his voice sound stern and commanding but he can never quite manage it with his little girl. that’s his princess, alright? “don’t make me go get mr. bear bear.” 

that used to get her. it used to get her so bad that she’d cry, thinking he was going to send mr. bear bear packing. that’s probably why he has such a hard time scolding jude — because any time he did, she’d start bawling. it had to be a manipulation tactic. 

at least he was aware of it, even if he fell for it everytime. 

“mr. bear bear isn’t talkin’ t’you.” 

dean bristles. “and what does mr. bear bear think i did this time, huh? is he mad i made you brush your teeth?”

it’s ridiculous, standing in the middle of his living room, having a cowboy showdown with his four year old daughter about a stuffed animal named mr. bear bear. but that’s parenthood, he guesses.

her arms cross firmly over her chest. in this moment, and this moment alone, he sees himself in her. he’s standing just like that too. “he says,” she starts, interrupted by a hiccup that discredits all of his arguments, because he’s a goner. already wants to swoop her into his arms and apologize to her. “he says you make things up.” 

vague. and true. but how does mr. bear bear know this? frankly, none of his business, if you asked dean.

 “what’s he sayin’ i’m lyin’ about?” dean shoots back, his head tilting up in that cocky little sneer that jude loves. good cop, bad cop is her favorite game to play with him, even though her version of a good cop includes smashing her toy cars into his leg to make him confess. it works, though. his bruises prove it.

as if on cue, jude’s giggling up a storm, interrupted only by bursts of her hiccups. “lyin’ about mommy.” 

the floor drops out from beneath him. he feels nauseous. he feared this day coming and here it was. the first time she brought you up, too much intelligence in that little brain of hers, to know that it just wasn’t common to not have a mommy alongside your bad cop daddy.

he keeps a brave face, though. bad cops don’t break persona the first time something detrimental gets dropped into their lap. “go bring ‘im out here. lemme give him a talkin’ to, too.” 

she sprints off, so steady on her little feet now that it adds to the ache in his chest. she was getting so much bigger, and you weren’t here to see it. maybe you were looking down, watching as her tiny form grew taller and stronger. he could hope, couldn’t he? 

jude returns moments later, soft brown teddy bear in her arms. his little bowtie is a mockery of him, if what jude says that he says is true.

in his heart, he knows that all of the things that the bear tells her are her own thoughts, manifesting in a gentler form so that it doesn’t hurt her as badly when they do. it breaks his heart. so little, and she’s already gotten a defense mechanism in place.

dean kneels down to be eye level with jude, gingerly plucking mr. bear bear out of her small fingers. “a certain pretty princess told me you were mad at me, sir,” he says, voice lowered like it was just him and this fucking bear, ear forever wet from jude’s gnawing, even though he’d thought she’d gotten over that fixation. he’ll feel like an idiot for having a serious, talk-it-out conversation later with his daughter’s teddy bear, but for now, her feelings are more important to him. always. “i’ll be honest, bear bear, i have been keeping things from the pretty princess. your feelings are very valid.” 

he’s quoting things from his therapist, now. to a teddy bear. they don’t tell you a thing about parenthood before you get into it, but they certainly don’t tell you this.

“i just didn’t want her to think that it was her fault, not at all, about what happened to her mommy. surely you understand. you and i, we keep our pretty princess safe, don’t we?” he even pauses for an answer that won’t come, his eyes flicking over to his little girl, her folded hands in front of her as she patiently waits. she’s so sweet that it kills him. “mama didn’t go away on a business trip, you’re right. mama died, very tragically, while protecting our pretty princess. and it’s not her fault, and not our girl’s, either.” 

there’s a little sniffle from behind the bear in his hands, and he looks up to see jude, eyes welled and lip wobbly in that way that makes his heart ache. just like when she was a baby, when her screams shattered his heart to pieces, but worse, because her tears were silent now, like she was trying to soothe it all away herself.

she didn’t have to. that’s why he was there. dean hands her back the bear, and in that same movement, scoops her into his arms in a tight embrace. instantly, she falls apart at the seams, her shoulders shaking as the stuffing pours from the buttons of her eyes. 

“she would have loved you,” he whispers into the top of her head, smoothing out the tangly strands with his fingers. you really would have loved her, too. she humbled him — you humbled him. she broke his heart, you broke his heart. 

maybe she’d forgive him one day, for letting something happen to you when he promised he wouldn’t, when he swore up and down that you were it for him, that you wouldn’t—

it’s too much. even when dean feels like he’s getting better with this grief thing, he can’t move past it. not when there’s a smaller you attached to his hip, waiting for him to hang the world for her and protect her, too. 

he can only hope that he gets it right this time.

 child.

“hey! jude!” dean stands out on the sidewalk before the elementary school, seeing jude off on her first day of third grade. in his hands is her little lunchbox, ever forgotten in her excitement.

every single first day, dean cries. he’s not ashamed of it, either. it’s tough seeing his little girl run off into the real world on her own, and being the one to see her off, all on his lonesome. 

it wasn’t like the single moms didn’t try to catch his attention, either. they constantly did. it was that he preferred the isolation over the company every time. how could anyone hold a candle to you? 

jude glances over her shoulder, her long hair flipping in the process, catching in the wind. he has to bite back a sigh. the braid’s already loose, the strands already spilling out of it, tangling in the wind. 

her little feet stomp back toward him, splashing in the remnants of last night’s rain in the concrete,and dean wants to tell her to slow down. wants to tell her to stop time, stay exactly like this. young, small, forever protected by him. just to prove to himself that he could protect something, and that he’d never have to see her hurt. 

“thanks, daddy!” she lisps through her wide, toothy grin. she’s got the cutest gap tooth right now from losing one of her front teeth in a burger a few days ago, the pink gums peeking from between her middle teeth making him smile every single time he saw it. she was never embarrassed, or shy, about that smile, either. 

her hand is outstretched for the lunchbox. pink and purple and glittery, and one of the most expensive at the store. anything for his jude, though. 

dean keeps it back from her, his chin tilting up in mock sternness. “what do we do if people are mean to us?” he asks in a reminder of their rules. he had a couple of them that he never let up on. 

“kick their ass,” jude says, her fingers clapping against her palm in a gesture to get her box. “ass. ass?” each attempt comes out more lispy, her face contorting in her irritation. “kick their ass.” 

dean cackles, inching the lunchbox slightly closer. “very good, baby girl,” he says with a nod, “now what do we do if someone puts their hand on us?” 

“break their fuckin’ fingers,” jude grins, her eyes glimmering. ever since she found out that her dad’s rules had bad words in them, she was as mischievous as ever about saying them. 

dean’s eyebrows raise. “how?” 

her little hand — so big now, though, it makes his heart clench in his chest — grasps his fingers and pulls back, and once his hand is as bent as her strength can manage, she twists. 

dean lets out a nervous chuckle, tugging his hand free from her light grip. “whoa, princess. no breakin’ daddy’s fingers, alright?” he flexes his fingers, reaching out to grab her hand and kiss her tiny knuckles. 

she was nowhere near close to hurting him. but who was he to ever crush his little girl’s spirits? he couldn’t. he couldn’t. 

jude’s evil grin only widens, though. “maybe someone will try me t’day and i’ll get t’break their fingers!” 

“you should not be wishing for that,” dean says, even though his heart swells in the process. jude may have been an identical version of you, but the longer she spent around him, the more parts of him shined through. god, he loved her so much. “last rule?” 

jude’s expression softens. her milky green eyes glisten with unshed tears, and this is the part that always ruins him, that brings him to his knees. “hug my daddy goodbye, always.” 

“almost forgot this time,” he mumbles, his voice more strained than it should be after having done this four years now. he kneels, holding open his arms, the lunchbox still dangling in his fingers. 

she was growing up too fast. getting so independent so fast. jude practically jumps into his arms, his grip tight around her little frame as hers is around his neck. 

he doesn’t want to let go. letting go always feels like giving her away to someone else, and he can’t. she’s all that’s left of you, and he’s selfish, and he doesn’t want anyone else to love his little girl as much as he does. 

“can i tell you a secret?” she whispers in his ear, and he nods into her hair, taking the liberty to reach up and tug the hairtie out of the ends. it would get lost somewhere in that school if he didn’t now, and the purple ones were her favorite. couldn’t lose them on his watch. 

“i tell mommy goodbye, too,” jude says, lifting her head to look dean in the eyes. her look was so earnest, so warm and raw, that dean’s eyes got glassier than they already were. 

“yeah?” dean asks, clearing his throat. the last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of his kid. he was a tough guy, took all of the hits that life tried to deliver to her, was covered in bruises and scars all over the skin she loved to cling to. “mommy ever say anything back?” 

she nods, picking at a thread on her shirt. “she says she’s always watching.” 

how weak did it make him to nearly buckle under that quiet admission? how pathetic was he that any mention of you, even in his daughter’s big imagination, had him clinging to those thoughts, using them as ways to self soothe the aching hole that you left in his soul? 

dean reaches up to pinch her cheek between his two fingers, handing her the lunchbox, finally. “go on, pretty princess. don’t want you to be late.” 

didn’t want her to see him cry, either. he was clinging to the last shreds of his stability, losing grip by the second.

“bye bye, daddy!” jude hugs him one last time as he stands, clinging to his knee for a second before turning on her heel and sprinting away. 

he watches. watches as her little self disappears into the big front doors of lawrence elementary. watches until she’s long gone, and straggling parents running late drop off their kids that sprint away without a goodbye hug, or a promise that their mommy’s always watching them when dean can’t. 

dean’s eyes flick up to the sky, like maybe he can see you there in between the clouds. the sun looks a little brighter today. maybe it’s you, seeing jude off, too.

“thanks,” he whispers, nodding once to you. he watches, then, too. for any sign in the sky that you heard him — a twitch in the clouds, a flicker in the sunbeams pouring down on the concrete. but everything is still.

☽ ₊ ㅤ˚ ㅤ✧ ㅤ ﾟ ㅤ. ㅤ☾

“i’m serious, sam,” dean says into the phone, keeping it held to his ear with the press of his shoulder, “it could just be kid stuff, but—” 

“...but when is it ever actually just the imagination explanation, yeah,” sam finishes, voice scratchy through the speaker. both of them are silent for a second, dean shoveling fries into his mouth while he sits in the long ass pick-up line outside of the school. “and, you know, jude doesn’t seem like she’d make things up.” 

dean almost snorts. he’s talking about the little girl that still puts mr. bear bear at the kitchen table when they eat dinner, still makes dean make him a plate and everything. 

but he’s right, about this. jude had stopped asking her prying questions about you the moment dean told her the truth, so it didn’t make sense for her to suddenly tell him this, insisting that her mother talked to her—

“she died like mom did,” sam continues, his voice softer, more sincere. “which could mean—” 

“that she’s one of those chosen special kids like you were, yeah, i know.” dean shakes his head. the thought makes his stomach feel like it’s bottoming out. he shoves the fast food bag further into the passenger seat, appetite vanished. “m’not thinkin’ about that right now.” 

sam scoffs into the speaker. “you’ll have to. and if you don’t tell her now—” 

“do not fucking tell me, sammy,” he says through gritted teeth, moving the phone from his shoulder to properly hold it at his ear, “how to raise my kid.” 

“dean.” sam’s sincerity makes dean want to kill him, in this moment. “you can get cute little kid questions now, or you can get resentment later.” 

dean’s eyes flick up to the front entrance of the school, to the hundreds of kids piling out of the doors. in the midst is his kid, her tiny feet carrying her quickly to his car. “gotta go, sammy. good talk.” 

he hangs up before sammy can get another word in. realistically, he knows sam is right, but that doesn’t make him happy about it. what little kid doesn’t want to have superpowers? and what teenager wants to be outcasted? the choice was clear. just… uncomfortable. 

jude throws up the front passenger seat door, tossing her backpack onto the ground with a hard thump. “fun first day?” dean asks, automatically scanning over her. no injuries, hair still in the loose waves from the fallen out braid, dress still in tact, shoes both still on—

“boring.” she sighs, climbing up into the seat with practiced ease. her eyes light up at the greasy bag in her seat. “for me?”

“who else, pretty girl? i don’t see anyone else around.” dean waits until she’s nice and buckled up before he takes the car out of park and starts to — slowly — leave the school zone.

jude already has her fist shoved deeply into the bag, digging around. there’s half a box of fries left, half a burger — he got hungry, alright? it isn’t until her little fingers are shoving two fries in her mouth at once than dean asks it. 

“any new updates from mommy?” hurts to say, hurts to think, but he can’t imagine being jude, potentially having a direct hotline to you on the other side, and not ever getting to see you. not knowing how great you were, besides the fact that you were her mommy. 

jude shrugs her shoulders. “just a little one.” 

dean’s fingers tap idly on the steering wheel. “and? what was it?” 

jude’s chewing with her mouth open, half bitten fries hanging out of her hand. “she said, ‘always.’ but i dunno what the heck mommy was talking about.” 

dean knew. and maybe the sun was a little brighter now, and maybe the clouds looked a little bit more like you.

 teenager.

“hey, jude,” dean sighs, a frown already tugged deeply on his lips at the sight of his daughter standing on the stairs, still dressed in her pajamas. 

she’d been sadder lately. wouldn’t talk. wouldn’t open up. he’d pushed a little too hard, and now he was suffering the tail end of the silent treatment. tail end because he was certain that she was going to talk to him, now. even if it wasn’t to let him inside that angsty head of hers. 

jude had her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes full of a deep disappointment that no girl her age should know about, let alone replicate. “dad.” 

see? he knew she would talk. it was… a very poor start, but a start nonetheless. 

“m’sorry that i asked about…” he made a broad, vague gesture with his hand. “you know.” 

“about my abilities, or about mom?” she snaps back, her eyebrows raising. one of her arms unwind from herself and the hand leans on the stairs’ railing. “because i have a feeling that you’re only sorry for one thing.” 

damn it. dean has to close his eyes and count to ten. he’s had to do this a lot, recently. teenagers were not for the faint of heart, and jude was as sassy as they came, just like you’d been. 

god, she looked so much like you. it was more evident now than anything, as she approached the age that you were when you…

“jude,” he starts, his hand moving to his face, scrubbing at it. his face is scruffier than usual, not in the mood to clean it up when his little girl was seething and hurting in the other room. who could do that? who could go about their routine while their daughter suffered? “you know i don’t use you to hear from her, right? you know that?” 

jude bristles. another wrong thing to say. he wants to be frustrated, but wasn’t he just like this as a teenager too? expecting everyone to know what he was thinking and what he wanted? “well, you never ask about the others.” 

“the others?” 

“the others,” she echoes again, like he’s the stupidest guy that’s ever walked this planet. “you never ask about grandma—” 

“don’t wanna know about grandma,” he says instantly.

her eyes roll. “don’t ask about grandpa, either.” 

“especially don’t wanna know about him.” dean’s figured out, in his own way, at his own pace, that his father’s treatment toward him wasn’t kind. all of the expectations placed on him were not normal, and were entirely neglectful as they were harsh. 

it took having his own kid to figure that out, sure, but he did. it should count for something. 

“why are you talking to grandma and grandpa, anyways?” 

“because they’re telling me things!” she shouts, her lip starting to wobble. dean didn’t mean to break through to her like this, but he did, and he’s thankful, in a way, for the progress. “they’re saying—” 

dean waits. he knows better than to approach without warning, has learned just how mean a teenage girl can get if you try and comfort her in the ways that she liked as a kid. he also knows that asking will only push her away. that’s how they’d gotten here, after all. 

“they keep saying something bad is going to happen.” 

dean blinks in alarm. “what?” he takes a step forward anyways, and he can’t help but reach out now. his hand closes around her wrist lightly, waiting for her to pull back. she doesn’t. that’s how dean knows that she’s serious, that she’s afraid. “what are they saying, princess?” 

her free hand lifts to wipe at her eyes, the irises that match his own locking and holding his stare. he can almost see the little girl in them, again; the one that was so curious, had so many questions, that looked at him like he held them in his palms. 

“grandma says she’ll be here for me,” she whimpers, shaking her head, “grandpa says to stay strong. mom says…” 

dean holds his breath. as much as he hates jude thinking that he uses her to hear from you, each update on what you say sticks in his mind until the next comes. he’s selfish, selfish, selfish. 

“mama says she’s so, so sorry.” 

dean is floored. it’s all so vague, all of the messages that come through the veil and into jude’s heart are always so vague, like the energy it takes to reach her is too much, and so they try to condense it down, but it’s an unintelligible mess. 

he can only think that that means something is going to happen to him. if the ghosts of his past are comforting her, that means that something godawful is in the plans for him. 

he tries to keep up a strong appearance, but the thought of abandoning jude, his little girl, makes him want to be sick.

“that’s just ghost speak,” he tries to say lightheartedly, his thumb gently tracing circles on her inner wrist, trying to soothe her worries about his impending death. god, this was the worst update of them yet. he’d thought hearing your promise to watch over her always was hard, but this… “you know how they are. vague, unhelpful, stirrin’ the pot from the other side because they're bored…” 

“mama’s never done that to me.” jude is starting to close off now. how come all of his worst traits made it into her, mixed in with all of your best traits? every time he’d come to terms with the fact that the only thing jude got of his was his eyes, something else peeked out, rearing its ugly head.

stubborn. hot-headed. reserved. 

he couldn’t bear to see it all reflected back at him in her identical eyes. 

dean doesn’t want her to keep pulling away, disappearing into her mind, a mind so much older than it needed to be. jude was only sixteen. there was no reason for her to bear all of this, to wear it so blatantly on her face. 

“it’s little glimpses into the future,” he says instead of reassurances that don’t land, “right? you hear them speak to you when they can manage it, and it coincides with the—” 

“visions,” jude fills in, nodding. every time sammy came over, they talked about this shared connection they had. it makes dean a little more angry than it should, that sam had this one-up on him, when it came to connecting with his impossibly-reserved daughter. “the visions.” 

dean nods along with her, letting go of her wrist finally. “so what was the vision this time?” 

dean’s phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. he doesn’t answer it. sam usually calls a few times after dean’s initial lack of response, and he either picks up if he’s freed before the routine comes to a close, or he just calls back when he can. right now, he wasn’t abandoning his daughter for anything. 

the phone stops ringing. jude must have been waiting for it to, before she spoke, because her words are firm and confident. “you were there.” 

dean closes his eyes. he expected this, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt still. 

“you were there, and you had blood all over you—” her lip is trembling again. his phone is ringing again. “and you were screaming, your voice was nearly gone…” 

his mind cuts back to his time in hell, when all he could do was scream as he was tortured relentlessly. every piece added up. 

his phone stops for a few seconds, starts up again. dean pulls it out of his pocket to turn it off. “that it?” 

jude’s eyes snap back into focus. “that’s it.” 

he’s devastated. all sixteen years of jude’s life, he wished that you were here alongside him. now, more than anything, he wished it too. he’d be abandoning your daughter. leaving her to face the real world alone, by herself. he could have handled it — at least better than now — if he knew he’d be leaving jude with you, but— 

“we’ll figure it out, okay?” he says softly, and when he pulls jude into his arms, she doesn’t pull away. she buries her face into his chest like she used to when she was smaller, less broken on the inside. 

he wished you were here, too, with your ability to stop time. keep him and you and jude in this moment forever, before he was taken away from her.

 young adult.

“hey, hey, jude,” dean’s voice trembles, shock and adrenaline at war in his veins. he’d never moved so fast in his life, catching her before she could tumble to the ground. 

her body folds on itself anyways, blood staining her chin, pooled in the corners of her lips. her mouth opens and closes, and no words come out, only the sound of gurgles as her throat fills with blood. 

her chest is so red that it’s black, shining under the moonlight. there, beneath her shirt, was a gunshot wound, fabric torn open where the collision happened. 

this wasn’t supposed to happen. this wasn’t supposed to happen. jude asked for anything, and he gave it to her, even when she was twenty-one now, and a lot of parents would take that as meaning it was time for her to find her own footing.

how could she without trying the things that she wanted? she knew about how he used to hunt. was desperate to see what it was like, just once, at least, before he was stolen away. five years later, he was still kicking strong, and he thought — he thought it would be okay. just a lone vampire on the outskirts of kansas. 

the drive had been fun. easy. he let jude drive baby a little, let her pick the music for once, and somehow fell asleep to the lullaby that was metallica. being raised by him had embedded itself into her nature, it seemed. 

he didn’t anticipate that he was, maybe, out of practice. maybe a bit too old for this. it was no wonder that his dad was gone for long periods of time on hunts because it took a while to get things right, when your body was slowing and your defenses were weakening. 

he hadn’t seen the gun. he hadn’t seen the gun. he— 

“jude?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically small. “jude, baby, c’mon, open your eyes—” 

“dad?” her voice is barely even a breath, wet and thick and faint. “dad, what’s… what’s happening?” jude’s mouth is opening and closing again. she coughs, and blood splatters onto his shirt, onto the wetness seeping through hers. “i don’t feel good.” her grip on his hand is loosening. his tightens. 

dean’s phone rings in his pocket. sam. has to be sam. no one else ever calls him but sam, anymore, and jude. but jude was here bleeding out. sam, sam, sam, if he could spare a few seconds to answer it—

but his eyes dart away and in that moment, jude’s eyes start to roll back into her head, and he panics. he pulls her tighter to his chest with one arm, letting go of her hand to fumble for his phone. it stops ringing. 

“just keep talking, baby girl, c’mon,” he mumbles, and he wants to shake her, he wants to force her eyes open, to force every bit of his life force into her. it was on a time limit anyways, right? 

his heart stops. his phone starts ringing again, or maybe it’s just his ears. 

grandma says she’ll be here for me. 

grandpa says stay strong. 

mama says—

dean feels his stomach lurch, his throat full of bile and tight with the growing lump in it. it was never him that was going to die. it was never him. 

it took five years for her fate to reach her. fate was so fucking fickle like that; turning your brain into a worried muddle of mess all the while knowing and withholding the exact things that worried you. 

he looks down at himself, and he’s covered in blood. and he knows exactly when he’ll start screaming to the point of losing his voice. 

“dad, it’s so cold,” jude says through a small sob, tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. “it’s so—” 

dean isn’t going to tell her, that she saw her own death five years prior. that this was the moment they’d been dreading, but reversed. tears pool in his eyes and spill over like waterfalls, turning the blood on her face watery and pink. 

“it’s okay,” he promises, his voice shaking, tremoring. “it’s okay, baby girl.” 

it wasn’t okay. but he’d been keeping secrets and sparing her from the truth for years now, when he could. maybe she’d forgive him for it. but he was not strong enough to let her feel bad for his mistakes this time. 

“i’m sorry,” she chokes out, another coughing fit bursting from her blood-slickened mouth. “i’m s’sorry—” 

“nothing to apologize for, pretty princess,” he says, and his voice strains through his throat like it’s being cut by shards of glass. “you have always, always been the perfect little girl. even now, look at you. trying to apologize to me, when—” 

dean doesn’t finish. his lips pull into a forced, small smile. “do you remember when you were a little girl?” 

jude doesn’t react. doesn’t move. each moment between her chest rising and falling is growing longer. “you’d be scared of the shadows in your closet, or of the voices you heard that i didn’t,” he explains anyways, each breath of his own trembling, “and you’d make me sing to you. remember? like my mama — like grandma used to, with me.” 

her lips quirk ever so slightly, her eyes distant, foggy. “hey, jude.” 

he nods. his grip on her gets tighter, like he can hug the life back into her. but dean can’t. he’s not the son with the abilities, or the dad with the magic or the answers, or you, who could stop time in this moment and call someone while the clock stayed still. he’s just dean, and he’s losing the last piece of you he had left, and the pieces of his daughter that he loved so, so much. 

“i don’t want you scared right now,” he whispers, moving her carefully in his arms to cradle her. he used to wish that she’d stop growing, would always stay small enough to fit in his arms. it feels like a sick joke now. “so if you want me to sing, i’ll sing.” 

“okay,” jude says, and her eyes lock onto his for a brief second, before they start to fade again. 

the words fall from his mouth in shuddering, shaky gasps, his eyes locked on jude’s. jude’s, that are open and unmoving. jude’s, that have always matched his, the one thing that she got from him. 

his voice is raw, echoing in the abandoned den, screaming so loud that it would have woke the dead up, if it worked that way. but it didn’t, because jude didn’t move, and the world was silent and buzzing in his ears, or maybe it was his phone ringing again, again, again, and the only thing that played in his head was the song that used to comfort him.

hey jude, don't make it bad. take a sad song and make it better. remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better.

tags, @depressionbarbie2023 @jasvtsc @deanswidow @titsout4nicholas @cosmicanakin

@beausling @whyyouegg @ostaramoon @ultravi0lence14 @bombarda-babe

i fr don't know who esle to tag the more ppl i tag the more i will have to say sorry to

[slytherinsmuse]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Frayed | Theodore Nott ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Fem! Reader

Warnings: smoking, not proofread, characters are 18+, toxicity, violence

Summary: Anst/Fluff | Theo is trapped in a toxic relationship until a breaking point ignites a bond long overdue.

Word count: 6974

author's note: I wrote this after a dream I had the other night. My dreams have been so wild lately.

Sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, you tried to focus on your breakfast, though your eyes kept drifting to the scene unfolding across from you. Theodore was there, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else, with his girlfriend firmly planted on his lap, practically wrapped around him. She was all over him, laughing too loud and tossing her hair as if her every move needed an audience.

You felt the familiar pang of irritation as she cut into yet another conversation Theo had been trying to have with Blaise. She leaned in, whispering something into his ear while casting a territorial glance at the others as if daring anyone to interrupt. Theo’s posture was painfully awkward, his shoulders tensed, his gaze dropping to his plate. He gave a few non-committal nods, visibly uncomfortable but too withdrawn to say anything about it. That spark of easygoing confidence you’d always known him for was nowhere to be seen.

Your stomach twisted. This was the same Theo who used to laugh with you at the silliest things, who’d always save a seat beside you at breakfast and swap notes with you during potions. Now, it was like he’d become a stranger. He barely spoke to you anymore, all because his girlfriend had made it clear she didn’t want you, or any other girl, around him.

Across the table, Pansy caught your eye, a look of pure annoyance mirrored on her face. She rolled her eyes, tilting her head toward Theo in silent solidarity. You returned a tight smile, but your grip on your fork tightened. You hated watching this happen—watching Theo become a ghost of himself, isolated even while surrounded by friends.

Just then, he looked up, his gaze meeting yours. A flicker of something softened his features for a brief moment—a hint of the Theo you knew was still there, just beneath the surface. But before either of you could acknowledge it, his girlfriend’s hand was on his jaw, pulling his attention back to her, and the moment was gone.

Blaise’s expression turned sour as he glared at Theo’s girlfriend, his jaw clenching in visible frustration. She had interrupted their conversation just as he’d been getting to the important part, and from the look on his face, he was done holding back his irritation.

He leaned over to Draco, muttering low enough for only him to hear. "How many times has she done this now? Theo might as well be in Azkaban with the way she’s got him trapped."

Draco gave a dry, humourless chuckle, casting a sidelong glance at Theo, who was looking down at his lap, his girlfriend chattering away like nothing was amiss. "It’s getting ridiculous." Draco replied in a whisper. "She won’t let him breathe. Remember last week’s boys’ night? He couldn’t even stay an hour before she was dragging him off."

Blaise nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. "She’s poison,. he muttered. "And Theo just… lets her. Doesn’t even fight it."

They exchanged a look filled with shared frustration, helpless to watch their friend slowly shrinking under the weight of a relationship that seemed to drain the life out of him. Their annoyance was only half-hidden, and you could see the resentment simmering in both of them, like the beginning of a storm.

Mattheo leaned in, his tone dripping with annoyance as he joined Blaise and Draco’s quiet complaints. "You know what gets me? She just has to be there every single time. Boys’ nights, Quidditch practices—even when we’re just hanging out talking about girls. She practically makes Theo sit in silence while she listens in, like we’re some kind of circus act performing just for her."

Blaise snorted, a bitter edge in his laugh. "It’s maddening. We can’t even relax around him anymore without her hanging on his every move, demanding all his attention like it’s some kind of test."

Draco gave a small, wry nod. "And Merlin forbid we talk about anything she doesn’t approve of. It’s like she’s scared we’re going to lead Theo astray if she’s not there to monitor every conversation."

Mattheo rolled his eyes, casting a glance at Theo, who was currently enduring his girlfriend’s over-the-top attention, looking exhausted and defeated. "She’s sucked all the life out of him." Mattheo muttered, shaking his head. "He doesn’t joke around with us anymore, doesn’t even talk about anything unless she’s ‘approved’ the conversation first."

You could hear the exasperation in Mattheo’s voice, echoing everything you felt yourself. They were right; it was like Theo was a shell of his former self, bound to her by nothing more than her relentless possessiveness. The boys’ irritation was boiling over, their whispers growing just loud enough that you feared she might hear. But they didn’t seem to care anymore.

You did, though, and shot them a pleading look to try and keep the peace. Tensions were already stretched thin, and if something snapped now, you worried it would be impossible to fix. You only hoped Theo could see through it all before everything went too far.

As you glanced over at Theo, the change in him was painfully clear. He looked smaller, somehow. The easy smile he used to flash during breakfast was gone, replaced with a weary, distracted look. He’d gone from being the witty, lively one in your group to barely speaking, keeping his eyes cast down, his shoulders perpetually slumped. It was like watching a light slowly dim.

You took a steadying breath, trying to keep your own frustration from showing. It had become your role, somehow, to hold things together—to keep the peace. If Theo noticed the tension brewing among his friends, he said nothing, perhaps too worn down to add another battle to his day. But with every passing moment, it felt like something had to give.

Yet here you all were, trapped in the stalemate of your seventh year, a tense silence settling over the table as his girlfriend continued to laugh, completely oblivious to the waves of irritation rolling off everyone around her.

Pansy moved seats, sliding onto the bench beside you, her expression a mix of frustration and worry as she leaned in, her voice just a whisper. "Caught him smoking again." she murmured, glancing sideways to make sure Theo’s girlfriend wasn’t listening. "Poor guy’s practically hiding in the shadows just to get a moment to himself."

You sighed, feeling the weight of her words settle over you. It had become all too familiar—Theo sneaking off more frequently, finding solitary corners of the castle to light a cigarette in peace. He’d always been a social smoker, only indulging on rare occasions or during particularly stressful times. But lately, you’d noticed the lingering scent of smoke around him more often, his fingers sometimes stained with ash from hasty, hidden smokes.

"He’s getting worse, isn’t he?" you murmured back, glancing at Theo. He looked pale and worn, a shadow of the friend you’d known since first year. And the worst part? The very person causing his stress was also the one berating him for it.

Pansy nodded, her gaze softening as she watched Theo from across the table. "It’s like a vicious cycle. She’s the reason he’s turning to it, yet she’s the one who’ll tear him apart if she catches him again."

Your heart ached for him, watching the way he seemed to fade a little more every day. He’d once been the friend you could laugh with about anything, the one who always had a clever quip ready or some sarcastic remark that would have everyone cracking up. Now he barely laughed, barely even smiled, constantly stuck in a web of someone else’s making.

As everyone started getting up to head to class, Draco leaned over toward Theo, his voice casual but with a note of genuine invitation. "Oi, Theo, you up for hanging out before the party?"

Theo’s face lit up, a glimpse of his old self emerging as he looked up and started to nod. "Yeah, I—"

But before he could finish, his girlfriend’s hand was already on his arm, her eyes narrowing as she glared at Draco. “Actually, we have plans. So, you can move along, Draco.” she cut in, her tone laced with barely hidden disdain.

The room seemed to hold its breath, Draco’s jaw tightening as he held her gaze. He was clearly trying to keep his temper in check, but his patience was hanging by a thread. With an exasperated sigh, he shot Theo a look that spoke volumes—both an apology and a warning—before reluctantly turning back and leaving the Grand Hall with the group.

Theo slumped back, his expression defeated, all the excitement drained out of him in an instant. He didn’t even bother to argue. You could see the exhaustion etched into his face as he sank lower in his chair, as though he’d expected this outcome all along.

As you walked to D.A.D.A class, you caught Draco’s eye, and he gave a subtle shake of his head, his own frustration mirroring your own. There was a tension in the air that was impossible to ignore, and it was only a matter of time before something would break.

~~~

The usual Friday night Slytherin party was in full swing, the common room lit with a warm, flickering glow as laughter and conversation filled the air. You were all seated in your usual spots on the couches, drinks in hand, enjoying the rare moment of camaraderie that Fridays always promised.

For a while, things felt normal again—comfortable, even. But then, of course, Theo’s girlfriend wedged herself into the group, shifting the entire energy of the evening. The lively conversation dulled as she took over, barely concealing her disdain as she joined in. You could feel the collective irritation settle in, an unspoken understanding among friends that her presence was, as always, unwelcome.

It wasn’t as if the group had a problem with partners joining them; quite the opposite. Each of them had dated at some point, and their significant others were always welcomed with open arms. There was a quiet understanding that relationships brought new energy into their tight-knit circle, and everyone usually made an effort to include them. Some of the best nights had been spent with the laughter of new faces blending seamlessly with their own, adding stories and jokes to the mix without disrupting the balance.

But this girl was different.

She was the first one who seemed determined to force herself in, to overshadow conversations and steal away Theo whenever it suited her. There was no laughter, no blending of energy—just her cutting remarks and possessive glances, her presence casting a shadow over their usual ease. No one could relax when she was around, knowing that any moment of fun or camaraderie could be snuffed out by her biting comments.

It was as if she thrived on control, slipping her influence over Theo like a chain, pulling him away piece by piece from the friends he’d known for years. The group had tried, at first, to welcome her in, to treat her like they would anyone else. But it became painfully clear over time that she wasn’t interested in being part of their lives; she was only interested in controlling Theo’s.

As you looked around at your friends, each of them casting uneasy glances her way, it was obvious that everyone felt it. The tension that lingered whenever she was near, the way the entire room seemed to lose its warmth when she entered. She wasn’t just an outsider. She was the first partner to truly ruin things for them.

Mattheo, who had been rudely interrupted tonight, had less patience than the rest of you. He was midway through a particularly animated story about his latest near-miss with Professor Snape when she interrupted, rolling her eyes and sighing loudly. Mattheo glared at her, barely holding back his annoyance. "Do you mind? Some of us actually want to hear my story."

She scoffed, crossing her arms and leaning back with an air of superiority. "Oh, please. Nobody cares about your stupid stories, Riddle."

A tense silence settled over the group, but Pansy wasted no time in stepping in, her tone sharp. "Actually, everyone but you cares. Maybe if you didn’t make it your mission to ruin every conversation, you’d know that."

Theo shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his girlfriend as if he wanted to step in but was too tired to argue. Meanwhile, you could see the smirk forming on Mattheo’s face, his gaze locked onto her with barely contained satisfaction.

"Yeah." Mattheo added, raising his drink in mock salute. "Cheers to that, Pans. At least some of us know how to have a good time."

His girlfriend flushed, anger flashing in her eyes, but she stayed silent, perhaps finally realizing that the rest of the group had no intention of backing down. It was a rare victory, but it didn’t feel as sweet as it should have—not when Theo was sitting there, staring down at his drink, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Draco let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back on the couch, grumbling just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Well, that’s one way to ruin a perfectly good night."

The comment was sharper than usual, carrying the unmistakable weight of weeks—months, even—of suppressed irritation. He didn’t bother to look at Theo’s girlfriend, who was already glaring daggers at him, her face reddening as her patience finally snapped.

Turning on Theo, she crossed her arms, her voice icy and accusing. "Are you really just going to sit there and let them disrespect me like this? Unbelievable." She looked around the room as if daring someone to disagree, but no one moved or spoke. It was clear where everyone’s loyalties lay, and that only seemed to inflame her further.

Theo’s shoulders slumped, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and quiet resignation. He opened his mouth, as if to offer a half-hearted defence, but no words came. The effort it would take to argue—yet again—was too much for him tonight.

With a huff, she whipped around, storming away from the couches, her heels clicking loudly against the stone floor as she disappeared through the crowds in the common room.Her exit was followed by a heavy silence as everyone’s gaze shifted to Theo.

He let out a long, weary sigh, the sound carrying the weight of everything he hadn’t been able to say. The group was quiet, each of you trying to process what had just happened, but it was obvious that no one wanted to break the silence. 

Theo ran a hand over his face, looking down at his drink, and muttered, "I… I’m sorry, everyone."

Blaise cleared his throat, attempting a small smile to break the tension. "It’s all good, mate." he said, giving Theo’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Honestly. No harm done." His tone was light, casual, like he was brushing it all off as if it hadn’t mattered at all. Blaise had always been the type to keep the peace when he could, trying to nudge things back toward their usual warmth.

But Mattheo’s face was another story, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at the door through which Theo’s girlfriend had just exited. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "I’m getting real tired of this." his voice laced with barely controlled anger. His gaze flicked to Theo, and for a second, it looked like he might say something else, but he bit back his words, stewing silently.

The group sat there in uneasy silence, the usual lively atmosphere muted, everyone nursing their own thoughts. Theo’s shoulders stayed slumped, and you could sense the regret and frustration rolling off him in waves.

Just as the quiet began to settle, Pansy’s entire body tensed beside you. Her gaze was fixed on the far side of the room, her eyes wide. Following Pansy’s wide-eyed stare, your gaze landed on the far side of the common room where Theo’s girlfriend had reappeared, but she wasn’t alone.

Your stomach dropped as you saw her pressed up against another student from your house, their faces close, her hands running through his hair as she leaned in, kissing him with a brazen, shameless fervour. She didn’t seem to care who might see them, her actions loud and clear as if she were making a statement for everyone in the room.

A stunned silence fell over the group, each of you frozen in shock and disbelief. Blaise’s hand slipped off Theo’s shoulder as his jaw tightened, his earlier attempt at easing the mood now rendered meaningless. Mattheo muttered something under his breath, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

But Theo—Theo just stared, his face going pale as he watched her with that other guy, his expression a mixture of hurt and anger, mingled with a strange, hollow acceptance. It was as if he’d suspected something like this all along, yet seeing it unfold was a wound far deeper than anything he could have anticipated.

The tension in the room had reached a breaking point, each of you waiting for someone to say or do something, the air thick with disbelief and fury.

Theo didn’t say a word as he got up, his face blank, and headed toward the exit. You could see the tremor in his hands as he reached into his pocket, likely going for a cigarette to calm his fraying nerves. Without a glance back, he slipped out the door, leaving a heavy tension in his wake.

The second he was gone, you felt something snap inside you. Your fists clenched, and before you knew it, you were on your feet, ignoring the surprised looks from your friends as you made a straight line across the room, heading directly toward her.

She was still laughing with the guy she’d been kissing, completely unbothered, until she caught sight of you storming toward her. Her eyes narrowed, a look of feigned innocence crossing her face as she crossed her arms, almost daring you to confront her.

“What’s your problem?” she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What’s my problem?” you spat, the words tumbling out like fire. “What’s your problem, throwing yourself at some random guy in front of everyone when Theo’s just… just sitting there?” You could barely contain the anger shaking through you. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to him?”

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Oh, please. Like it matters. Theo’s been a miserable bore for months. And who are you to talk to me about what I can or can’t do? Jealous, are we?”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped you. “Jealous? No. I’m furious. Furious that you’ve taken someone who used to be happy and turned him into whatever you think he should be for your own ego.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“Oh, I know enough.” you shot back. “Enough to see you don’t care about him. He deserves better than to be treated like your possession, like some accessory you can throw away the second you get bored.”

The argument escalated, voices rising as the tension boiled over. Each accusation only fueled her anger, and she stepped closer, her voice venomous. “You think you’re so noble, don’t you? Acting like you know what’s best for him. Maybe he’s miserable because you all can’t let go of him.”

The room erupted as you snapped, the anger in you boiling over as you shot back, “You know what? You’re nothing but a manipulative bitch.” The words were barely out of your mouth before her face twisted with rage, and without warning, she shoved you hard, almost knocking you backward.

That was it.

Without a second thought, you lunged forward, colliding with her as the two of you stumbled, grabbing at each other in a flurry of fury. The next moments were a blur of shouts, hands, and the sharp sting of pulled hair and clawing nails as you both fought, neither one willing to back down.

Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Pansy were on you in seconds, surrounding the chaos, but looking caught between trying to pull you apart and staying out of the way. Blaise’s eyes widened, flicking between you and the girl as if he couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Draco stepped forward, arms out, calling your name, but the intensity of the fight kept him at bay.

“Bloody hell!” Mattheo shouted, looking between you and Draco, unsure whether to jump in or let you have it out. “Someone pull them off each other!”

Pansy, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. She moved in closer, her voice sharp and commanding as she tried to grab your arm. “Enough! You’re going to get us all into trouble—stop!”

But the damned bitch was relentless, snarling as she tried to push you away, her eyes alight with rage. “Stay out of our business, you’re nothing to him! Just some desperate hanger-on!”

Fueled by her words, you managed to break free from Pansy’s grasp for a moment, lunging again, but this time, Draco and Mattheo grabbed you by the shoulders, dragging you back as Pansy stepped in between, raising her voice. “Stop it, both of you!”

The door creaked open, and Theo appeared in the doorway, cigarette in hand, eyes wide as he took in the scene unfolding before him. The shock on his face was unmistakable as he realized what had happened, confusion turning to something darker as he looked between you and his girlfriend, who was now dishevelled, panting, and glaring at you with venom in her eyes.

You stood there, chest heaving, adrenaline still surging through you as you tried to regain control. The room was dead silent, everyone too stunned to move, but your gaze was locked on her—bruised, bloodied and dishevelled, glaring up at you with a twisted smirk on her face.

“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” she sneered, her voice dripping with malice. “The only reason why Theo even stays close to you is because he pities you… and your pathetic dead parents.”

The words struck a nerve deep within, unleashing a storm of anger that washed over you like a tidal wave. Before you knew it, you’d pulled out your wand, rage blinding you, the incantation forming on your lips as the words seethed out, “Cruc—”

But before you could finish, a hand clamped over your mouth, silencing the curse in an instant. Theo had rushed behind you, his grip firm yet desperate, his wide eyes filled with panic, fear, and something else—something pleading.

“Enough.” he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. His hand stayed pressed over your mouth, holding you back, while his other hand gently grasped your wrist, lowering your wand.

You blinked, the anger slowly dissolving into a mess of emotions, the weight of what you’d nearly done settling over you. Theo didn’t move, keeping his steady hold on you.Theo glanced around at the group, his expression a mixture of exhaustion, and protectiveness. Without another word, he took your hand, his grip firm but gentle, and led you out of the common room, past the stunned silence of your friends. Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Pansy watched, exchanging concerned looks but staying silent, knowing this was something only Theo could handle.

He guided you through the dimly lit corridor, never loosening his hold on your hand as he made his way to his dorm room. You followed in a daze, your heart still pounding as the adrenaline began to ebb, replaced by a confusing whirl of emotions—anger, shame, relief, all tangled up together.

Once you were inside his dormitory, he shut the door behind you both, locking it with a quick flick of his wand. The room was quiet, a soft glow from the lamps casting a warm light over his belongings, the familiar scent of his cologne faintly lingering in the air. Theo turned to face you, his hand still holding yours as he took a deep breath, his expression softened, though his eyes remained filled with a quiet intensity.

“You… you almost used Crucio.” he murmured, his voice a mix of disbelief and concern. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, grounding you, as he searched your face, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened.

You looked down, feeling a wave of guilt rise up, the weight of what you’d nearly done settling heavily on your shoulders. “I’m sorry.” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I just… she went too far. She’s hurt you way too much, Theo.”

Theo exhaled, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders, and took a step closer, his gaze softening further. “I know.” he said quietly. “I’ve known for a while now. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

He let go of your hand only to gently cup your face, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek, grounding you, as he whispered, “But you… you can’t let her make you into something you’re not.”

~~~

Theo never officially ended things with his girlfriend. There was no formal breakup, no final argument, but it didn’t matter—everyone could see that it was over. She didn’t come around anymore, didn’t dare try to force her way back into the friend group after the scene you’d caused. The bruises you’d left had faded, but the message had been loud and clear, and it seemed she’d finally accepted it.

You’d earned yourself a month of detention for the fight, and though the professors had given you disappointed looks and stern lectures, none of it fazed you. You took the punishment with a sense of pride, wearing it like a badge of honour. If you had to do it all over again, you would. Theo’s well-being, his freedom, had been worth every second spent scrubbing cauldrons and rewriting parchments under Filch’s glare. You weren’t ashamed for putting her in her place; she’d deserved it and more.

The only lingering regret was that split-second decision to pull your wand, to nearly utter the curse that could have changed everything. That was the one thing that weighed on you, the reminder that, in your anger, you’d almost let her bring out the darkest part of yourself. But Theo had stopped you, pulled you back from the edge. And in the quiet moments of your detentions, it was that thought that lingered, his hand on yours, his voice steadying you when you’d needed it most.

Since then, Theo had been… different. Freer, lighter, as though the weight he’d been carrying had finally lifted. He didn’t say much about what had happened, but he was around you constantly, seeking you out, sitting beside you in classes and at meals, sharing quiet moments without needing to speak.

He never said it directly, but in the way he looked at you, the way he stayed close, it was clear. You’d been there for him when he’d needed it most, and he wasn’t about to forget it.

As the weeks passed, the group’s dynamic began to shift back to normal, the heaviness that had hung over everything finally starting to lift. The familiar laughter and banter returned, the camaraderie that had once been the foundation of your friendship rekindled. It felt like everyone could breathe again, like the unspoken tension had finally evaporated, taking with it the gloom of Theo’s toxic relationship.

The others hadn’t let you off easily, though. Ever since that night, they’d given you a new nickname, a playful jab that seemed to stick—“The Hitman.” Whenever you entered a room, Mattheo or Blaise would grin and say something like, “Look out, the Hitman’s here. Better watch what we say.” Draco would give you a mock salute, pretending to be wary of your next move, and Pansy would pat you on the shoulder, shaking her head with a smile and muttering, “Our very own bodyguard.”

They teased you relentlessly, but you didn’t mind. If anything, it filled you with a quiet pride. You’d earned it, and knowing they’d all be just as protective over you, had the situation been reversed, only strengthened the bond between you all.

Theo, meanwhile, seemed to have thrown himself back into Quidditch with renewed energy. Every practice was more intense, every play sharper. He channelled all his frustration, all the months of suppressed anger, into the pitch, his focus like a laser. Theo was back to being the friend you remembered—driven, concentrated, locked in on his own priorities, and finally unburdened. Watching him fly across the field with that fierce determination, you knew he was ready to leave the past behind.

And as he trained, you couldn’t help but notice the small glances he’d send your way after a particularly successful practice. When he’d make an impressive play, his gaze would drift toward the stands, where he knew you were watching, his grin just a bit wider when he caught your eye. It was as if he was finally himself again—fierce, focused, and free.

~~~

The final match of the season had the entire school buzzing, and you and Pansy stood shoulder to shoulder in the stands, bundled against the brisk wind, your hearts pounding with excitement. The atmosphere was electric, green and silver flags waving wildly in the air, cheers rising like waves as the players took their positions on the field. The Slytherin team was locked in, each player’s gaze fierce, and at the centre of it all was Theo—focused, determined, every bit the player you’d always believed he could be.

From the first whistle, the match was intense, a flurry of movement as players darted back and forth, Quaffles flying, Bludgers smashing through the air. Every play had you and Pansy gasping or shouting, barely able to stay still as the score climbed steadily, each team battling for dominance. Gryffindor’s Chasers were relentless, pressing the Slytherin defence with an intensity that sent chills through the stands.

As Gryffindor advanced toward the goal, weaving past Slytherin players with almost frightening speed, your heart raced. Theo was there, hovering near the posts, watching, waiting. The Gryffindor Chaser drew closer, feinting left before taking a sharp turn to the right, raising his arm to shoot. You held your breath, fingers digging into the railing as the Quaffle hurtled toward the left hoop, aimed with deadly precision.

But Theo was faster. With a sudden, powerful lunge, he darted across the goal, stretching his arm out just in time to deflect the Quaffle. The impact echoed across the pitch, and for a split second, everything was still. Then, the Slytherin section of the stands erupted in cheers, and you and Pansy screamed, jumping up and down, adrenaline surging through you.

“Yes! Did you see that?” Pansy shrieked, grabbing your arm as she laughed in pure exhilaration. “He saved it! He actually saved it!”

Your eyes were locked on Theo, who was grinning, his face flushed with triumph as he exchanged a brief look with Draco, who had already positioned himself higher above the pitch. The save had disrupted Gryffindor’s formation, and in the split second of chaos, Draco seized his chance, his eyes fixed on a flash of gold darting across the field.

“Go, Draco!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the crowd’s roar. Your hands were clenched, and Pansy was beside herself, both of you leaning so far over the railing that you might as well have been on brooms yourselves.

Draco was a blur as he sped after the Snitch, his eyes narrowed, his entire body angled forward with singular purpose. Gryffindor’s Seeker was close behind him, pushing hard to catch up, but Draco had the lead, his broom slicing through the air as he reached out, his fingers grazing the Snitch’s fluttering wings.

“Come on, come on…” Pansy muttered, clutching your arm as you both watched, barely daring to breathe.

With a final lunge, Draco’s hand closed around the Snitch, raising it triumphantly in the air. The crowd erupted, the Slytherin side a sea of celebration as students cheered, shouted, and hugged. You and Pansy screamed, the exhilaration almost overwhelming, watching as Theo and the other Slytherin players surrounded Draco, lifting him onto their shoulders, their faces bright with victory.

Before you knew it, the entire house was rushing down to the pitch, flooding onto the field in a wave of green and silver. You and Pansy exchanged a breathless look before joining the charge, weaving through the ecstatic crowd, eager to congratulate the team.

The players were already on the ground, grinning, shouting, their faces flushed with victory as they clapped each other on the back. Theo, Blaise, Mattheo, and Draco stood in the middle of it all, surrounded by the crowd, practically lifted off their feet by their housemates’ enthusiasm.

You and Pansy finally pushed through, laughing as you spotted Theo first, his hair messy and his cheeks pink, looking more alive than you’d ever seen him. Without a second thought, you wrapped him in a hug, feeling his arms come around you tightly, the two of you sharing a moment of pure celebration, all the weight of the past weeks forgotten in the euphoria.

“You were amazing, Theo!” you shouted over the noise, pulling back to meet his eyes. His grin was wide and genuine, the happiness in his expression infectious.

“Only because I had the best fans cheering me on.” he replied with a wink, his voice filled with excitement.

Pansy immediately pulled Draco into a hug, shouting something about how he’d almost given her a heart attack with that final dive for the Snitch. Draco laughed, hugging her back before turning to you, and you threw your arms around him, congratulating him on the catch.

One by one, you and Pansy made your way through the group, hugging each of the boys, feeling the thrill of victory in every laugh, every smile. Mattheo picked you up briefly, spinning you around before setting you down, both of you laughing as he ruffled your hair. Blaise gave you a quick hug, still beaming as he clapped Theo on the shoulder, their shared pride shining through.

The air buzzed with joy and triumph as the celebration continued on the field, the Slytherin house united in victory, the players and friends all caught up in the moment, letting the adrenaline and happiness wash over them. This was the kind of memory that would stay with you forever—the kind of joy that felt limitless, boundless, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

As the crowd began to move off the pitch, heading back to the Slytherin common room with laughter and celebration echoing through the night, you felt a gentle tug on your arm. Turning, you found Theo beside you, his hand lingering on your wrist as he subtly pulled you back from the group. His expression was warm, his eyes softened with something quieter than the exhilaration of the victory, and your heart skipped a beat as you slowed to match his pace.

The others drifted ahead, too wrapped up in their own excitement to notice the two of you hanging back. Theo glanced around, making sure no one was watching, before he looked at you with a faint smile.

“I wanted to thank you.” he said, his voice low, barely audible over the lingering noise of celebration. “For everything. Not just for tonight.”

You felt a warmth spread through you as he spoke, his words carrying a weight that went beyond the game, beyond the victory. It was about everything that had happened—the support, the fight, the loyalty you’d shown him through the toughest moments.

“You don’t have to thank me,. you replied softly, smiling up at him. “I’d do it all over again if I had to.”

Theo’s eyes held yours, something unspoken passing between you. Then, without another word, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a warmth and familiarity that felt like home. You could feel his heartbeat against yours, steady and strong, and for a brief moment, the rest of the world faded away.

As he pulled back, his face close to yours, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to your lips for the briefest of seconds before he looked away, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he grinned, the moment of vulnerability passing as he nodded toward the path ahead.

For a brief second, a tense, awkward silence settled between you, each of you unsure of what to do, the unspoken tension hanging heavy in the cool night air. You could feel your pulse racing, your heart hammering with the anticipation that had been building for what felt like ages.Theo cleared his throat, looking away for a moment as if to collect himself, but when he glanced back at you, his eyes lingered, conflicted yet intent. As if deciding all at once, he leaned in, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek, and before either of you could think twice, his lips brushed softly against yours.

The kiss was brief but electric, a quiet intensity that sent a thrill through you, leaving you breathless. But just as you began to process what was happening, he pulled back, his hand falling to his side as he looked down, his cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and guilt.

“I… I’m sorry.” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean to—”

You could see the regret in his eyes, the way he seemed to be bracing himself for your reaction, almost ashamed. He looked ready to pull away, to distance himself again. You felt a surge of determination rise within you. You couldn’t let him pull away, not when the moment felt so right. As he started to step back, you reached out, your fingers brushing gently against his hand, grounding him before he could retreat.

Without hesitation, you leaned forward, closing the small distance between you, and kissed him—slowly, deeply, allowing the tension and emotions that had built up to flow freely. This time, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation, only the warmth of his lips against yours, the steady beat of his heart echoing through the touch.

Theo stilled for a moment, his surprise quickly melting into something softer, more certain, as he responded, his hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you closer. The world around you faded, the distant sounds of laughter and celebration from the common room dimming as you both gave in to the kiss, the barriers that had held you apart finally breaking down. The kiss deepened, a magnetic pull drawing you closer until the world outside that moment ceased to exist. Theo’s hands traced a path up your back, sending a warmth through you that made everything else fade. His lips moved with a gentleness, a passion that left you breathless, a release of everything the two of you had held back for so long.

Somehow, amid the intensity, his Quidditch shirt slipped off, discarded in the haze of your closeness. When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, he paused, his eyes dark with a mixture of affection and amusement as he looked down at the shirt in his hands. Without a word, he lifted it, slipping it gently over your shoulders, letting the familiar, slightly worn fabric settle around you.

The warmth of his hands lingered as he adjusted the shirt on you, his gaze softening as he took in the sight. You looked down, cheeks blazing when you caught a glimpse of his toned chest, the result of years of Quidditch training, each muscle defined and yet somehow perfectly understated. His eyes sparkled as he noticed your blush, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Come on.” he murmured, his voice soft as he reached for your hand. He squeezed it, grounding you back to the moment, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. With a gentle tug, he pulled you back toward the Slytherin common room, the warmth of his presence steady beside you as the night’s quiet secrets lingered in the air around you.

As you and Theo stepped into the common room, the lively energy of the celebration settled into a curious, knowing silence. Every eye flicked between the two of you—his shirt draped around you, cheeks flushed, Theo’s hair slightly tousled. It didn’t take much for your friends to put the pieces together, but no one dared to say a word, their smiles a mix of amusement and silent approval.

Draco raised an eyebrow, shooting a smirk in Theo’s direction, while Mattheo gave you a subtle thumbs-up, as though finally, after everything, a balance had been restored. Blaise’s grin was unmistakable, though he kept his comments to himself for once, nodding at you in quiet acknowledgment.

Across the room, Pansy caught your eye, her own gaze softened with pride and understanding. She gave you a small, satisfied smile, as if she’d known this was inevitable all along. You returned her glance, feeling the warmth of friendship and relief wash over you, grounding you in the moment.

Without a word, Theo’s hand found yours again, squeezing it gently. In that simple touch, everything felt right, all the struggles and tension finally giving way to a peace you’d both waited so long for. You looked around, surrounded by friends who had stood by you both, and for the first time in months, everything felt exactly as it should be.

And as you settled down into the couch beside Theo, your fingers still intertwined, a quiet contentment settled over the room, the unspoken promise of new beginnings hanging in the air.

Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡

© slytherinsmuse. please do not copy, claim, translate or steal any of my works as your own.

[hamilton-here]

Hiiii! Could you do please one where Lewis and reader are good friends though Lewis is crazy in love with her since the moment he met her but she has a boyfriend so he is just like yearning for her. Until she and her boyfriend broke up and Lewis is there for her, supporting her, being the good friend he is, helping her heal until eventually she inevitably falls in love with him too.

Thank you so much in advance for reading.

I wish you the best. Have a good day :)

𝒜𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒴𝑜𝓊

Authors Note: Hey guys! Another request finished. I apologise, I’m slowly getting through them as fast as I can, since I got 3 new assignments recently. Still have another 6 requests to go. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis has been in love with his best friend since they were young. Reader doesn’t realise until a break up in adulthood.

Warnings: slight swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You met Lewis in your final year of secondary school.

You’d transferred halfway through the term - a mid-year shuffle after your parents’ divorce meant moving to a new town, new house, new everything. The school was bigger than your last, louder, the kind of place where everyone already had their people. And you were just floating. Walking the halls with your headphones in, sitting alone at lunch with your tray of untouched food and a book you’d already read twice. Pretending not to notice the stares, the whispered “who’s she?” that always seemed to follow new girls around.

You were used to hiding. The chaos at home had taught you how.

What you didn’t expect was that someone else was hiding too and that someone was Lewis Hamilton.

Even then, he had that spark. Teachers called it potential. Kids called it weird. He was fast not just on the track, but in the way his mind worked, the way he doodled car parts and corner lines in the margins of his maths book. Most of the time, he was quiet. But when he smiled really smiled you could feel the air shift.

Still, he wasn’t exactly popular.

Some of the boys resented him. For being different. For being focused. For being a different skin tone in a school that only ever paid lip service to diversity. You’d seen it in the way they snickered behind his back, the way they'd "joke" about the way he talked or call him names just under the teacher's radar. Not loud enough to get caught. Just loud enough to hurt.

One day, after a PE lesson, you saw him sitting alone behind the bleachers. His uniform was crumpled, his knees pulled up to his chest, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone that hadn’t been there that morning.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside him without a word, pulling your water bottle out of your bag and handing it over.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should trust it.

“You look like you hate this place almost as much as I do,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

You huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Well, I haven’t exactly been given a reason to love it.”

That was the beginning.

From then on, he’d meet you by your locker before class. You started sitting next to him at lunch, not caring that some people looked confused by it. You shared music. Traded secrets. Snuck snacks into the library during free periods. He let you read his notebook full of racing dreams and engine sketches the one no one else was allowed to see. And you let him see the messier parts of you, the way your chest still ached when your mum didn’t call back, the nights you cried into your pillow wondering why everything in your life was temporary.

Somehow, with him, it stopped feeling like you were just surviving.

And for Lewis in a world that often tried to shrink him, to make him smaller, quieter you never asked him to be anything but himself.

He didn’t realise it at first. Not in any dramatic, falling-off-a-cliff kind of way. It was gradual like the way morning light fills a room without anyone noticing until it’s fully bright. One day, he was just your friend. And the next he wasn’t sure how to breathe right when you laughed too hard and leaned into his shoulder. Or why his hands always felt warmer after you touched them. Or why it suddenly mattered so much if someone else made you smile.

He never said anything. Not then.

You were still figuring yourself out and he was still trying to prove himself to the world. So, he tucked it away. Folded those feelings into the pages of his sketchbook and the spaces between texts that said, “You okay?” when he really meant, “I miss you.”

But the truth of it lived quietly in him. The way he always saved you the better half of his sandwich. The way he noticed when your voice dipped just slightly over the phone. The way he’d rather spend hours lying on your floor doing nothing than be anywhere else.

And even after school ended, even when life began tugging you both in opposite directions him into the world of fast cars and global fame, you into uni lectures and internships and early heartbreaks the thread between you never snapped.

But before all that - before all the Grand Prix’s and mechanics and podiums you remember the first time you ever went over to Lewis’s house.

It was a rainy Friday afternoon. He’d noticed the way you lingered at your locker, dreading the walk home. You hadn’t told him your mum had forgotten to pick you up again, or that you’d been surviving on cereal and vending machine snacks for the last three days. But Lewis always had a way of knowing things without you saying them.

“Come over,” he said simply, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “Dad’ll be cool with it. He always makes too much food anyway.”

You wanted to say no. To come up with an excuse, a lie, anything that would let you keep your walls up. But something in his eyes made it hard to retreat. So, you nodded and followed him.

The flat was small, lived-in, warm. Racing posters covered the walls, and the faint scent of motor oil clung to the air like a second skin. But it felt like home in a way yours hadn’t in a long time.

Anthony Hamilton opened the door and took one look at you drenched hoodie, tired eyes, polite smile and something in his face softened.

“This her?” he asked, glancing at Lewis.

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. This is her.”

Anthony gave a quiet little grunt of approval and stepped aside. “Well, come on in then. Hope you’re hungry.”

You’d never had someone’s father cook for you like that before. He made spaghetti and garlic bread from scratch, cracked jokes across the table, and never once made you feel like an inconvenience. When you offered to help wash up afterward, he just shook his head and said, “Nah, you’re a guest. But if you’re coming back next week, I’ll put you to work.”

And he meant it. Because you did come back. Again, and again.

Anthony always greeted you like family. Remembered your favourite snack. Asked about your exams. Called you “kid” or “trouble” and sometimes when he thought you weren’t listening - told Lewis he was lucky to have a friend like you.

Lewis didn’t argue. He just smiled, small and secret, and looked down at his plate so no one could see what he was thinking.

You didn’t realise it at the time, but that house became a kind of second home. Not perfect, but safe. A place where you weren’t just seen but looked after. A place where you were wanted.

And it all started with a bruise on Lewis’s cheek and a quiet moment behind the bleachers.

You saw each other. Really saw each other.

And Lewis? He never stopped.

Years passed. The world spun faster.

Lewis became Lewis Hamilton. A name not just whispered between classmates anymore but shouted by fans from grandstands around the world. He wasn’t just the boy who shared your revision snacks and knew all your little tells - he was a world champion. A headline. A global name carved into history.

You watched his name rise from the corner of your laptop screen, from the tiny telly in your university flat with its dodgy antenna and sagging couch cushions. He was there in the background of your life like a familiar song, in magazine covers at the supermarket checkout, in Instagram stories forwarded by old classmates with messages like, “Remember him?”

Of course you remembered.

You never forgot the boy with ink-stained fingers who used to dream out loud to you in the back row of English class, notebook filled with cars and quotes and wide-eyed ambition. You never forgot the way he listened, really listened like every word you said mattered more than the noise of the world around you.

You texted sometimes. Birthday messages. The occasional “Good luck this weekend” or “Saw you on TV — still doodling in margins?” He’d always reply sometimes within minutes, sometimes days later from the other side of the globe. A scratchy voice note from a hotel room in Tokyo. A blurry selfie at an airport gate captioned ‘Look familiar?’ His replies were always warm, always tinged with something that never quite dulled with time.

But life had swept you up too.

There was your degree - long nights in the library, surviving on caffeine and cramming. An internship that turned into your first job. Your first apartment a tiny, creaky flat with paper-thin walls and a shower that only worked when you held the handle just right. You learned how to be alone. How to make instant noodles taste like something resembling dinner. You had your share of flings, mistakes, and one heartbreak so sharp it hollowed you out for a while.

And somewhere along the way, when you weren’t looking, the years folded over each other like pages turning on their own.

Then one day, he was back.

It was off-season. A rare break in the relentless hum of engines and media. He texted out of the blue:

Lewis -

In town for a bit. You around?

You stared at the message longer than you meant to, rereading it with a pulse of warmth you hadn’t felt in a long time. You typed back “Of course. Same café?” before you could overthink it.

And just like that, it was as if nothing had changed. Like the years between you hadn’t stretched or blurred.

He was waiting at the corner table of the café you used to sneak off to after school, the one with mismatched chairs and chipped mugs, the scent of cinnamon and coffee thick in the air. He was wearing sunglasses despite the overcast skies, a hoodie pulled low trying to blend in, though he never really could.

But when he looked up and saw you, his face split into that grin. That same damn grin that used to undo you in quiet, stupid ways.

“I still owe you a sandwich,” he said, holding the door open like always. “And probably a hundred library snacks.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you stepped inside. “I think you’re a little behind, Hamilton. More like two hundred.”

He laughed too low and fond but there was something in his eyes now. Something quieter. Something tired. Something that flickered when you told him about your job, your flat, your recent travels. And then—

“Josh, my boyfriend,” you said, smiling as you stirred your tea. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it didn’t shift the ground beneath his feet.

Lewis didn’t flinch. Not visibly. But his fingers paused their slow tapping against the ceramic mug. Just for a second.

“Good guy?” he asked, voice soft.

You nodded, totally unaware. “Yeah. He’s great. Smart, steady. He makes me laugh. We’re thinking of moving in together next year, actually.”

And just like that, Lewis folded it all back in again.

The ache. The slow, quiet longing that had bloomed again the moment he saw you walk through that café door. The way you’d tilted your head at him and smiled like no time had passed it had unmoored him. For a moment, it had felt like something was beginning again.

He had been falling for you not with the reckless speed of youth, but with the slow, aching certainty of adulthood. The kind of falling that doesn’t feel like falling at all just coming home.

But he said nothing.

Instead, he asked about Josh. Nodded when you told him how you met. Chuckled when you shared some awkward first date story. He laughed in all the right places and nodded at all the wrong ones, because it was the only thing he could do. Pretend it didn’t crush him every time you casually used the word we.

Because he remembered the way you used to lean your head against his shoulder during revision breaks, the way you once cried into his hoodie over a boy who never deserved your tears. The way he used to think even back then — Maybe one day. And the way that day had never come.

He’d waited for the right moment once.

But life got loud, and time got away from him.

So, he backed off.

He was good at that slipping out of reach without causing a ripple. Letting you shine while he drifted just outside your orbit. He’d mastered that balance on the track, and now he practiced it with you letting his love for you live in the space between what could’ve been and what still was.

Still, he stayed.

The friend. The constant. The voice at the other end of the phone when your car battery died or when Josh forgot your anniversary and you didn’t want to make it a thing. He was the one who sent you memes at 2 a.m. when you couldn’t sleep. The one who always answered, even when the call came in the middle of a media day.

Because being near you even like this was better than being without you.

And maybe, deep down, a part of him still hoped. Not for now. Not even for soon. But for someday. Some quiet, unpromised someday when maybe the timing would finally be right.

Because the thread between you might’ve frayed with time, pulled taut with distance and different lives…

But it had never quite snapped.

Lewis started to notice it in the little things.

The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes when you talked about Josh anymore. How you used to light up when saying his name, voice soft, full of something warm and certain. Now, it caught on your tongue, like you weren’t sure it belonged there anymore. The way you once laughed a short, sharp sound with no real humour behind it - when Lewis casually asked if the move-in plans were still happening.

He didn’t press. He never did. But he paid attention.

He always had, when it came to you.

You met for coffee now and then, like you used to. Familiar places, familiar drinks. Life was busier now with race schedules, deadlines, missed calls that turned into half-hearted apologies but somehow, your paths kept circling back to each other, like gravity was doing its quiet work behind the scenes.

You told him stories. You always had stories. But lately, they came with longer pauses. You’d drift mid-sentence, distracted by something unsaid. You talked about work, about weekend plans, about Josh but more often now, Lewis noticed the searching in your voice, like you were digging for something good to say and couldn’t quite find it. And when you couldn’t, you’d just smile a little too tightly and change the subject.

Then came the texts.

Late-night ones, mostly. Sometimes after races. Sometimes at the end of an ordinary Tuesday.

You up?

Can I vent for a sec?

Is it bad that I don’t feel excited anymore?

Lewis never asked what had happened. Never dug into what Josh had said or done that night. He just answered, every time. It didn’t matter if he was in another country or a hotel room between races. If you needed him, he was there.

When Josh started missing the important days your birthday dinner, your sister’s graduation, the quiet night in you’d planned for weeks Lewis watched you try to hold the pieces together. You always gave Josh the benefit of the doubt. “He’s just stressed.” “He said he’ll make it up to me.”

But your voice cracked more each time you said it.

And when you said, “He’s just busy,” Lewis heard what you didn’t say:

So am I. But I still show up.

The night it all broke, you didn’t call.

It was Luna, your girl best friend, who messaged him instead, her words stumbling in a rush of panic:

She found him with someone else. She’s not okay. Please can you go? I don’t think she wants me right now.

Lewis didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think about the early call time he had the next morning or the interview he’d probably miss. He just grabbed his keys, shoved on a hoodie, and drove.

When you opened the door, you didn’t speak.

Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, lashes still damp. Hair pulled up carelessly. A hoodie too big for you hung off your frame like armour, sleeves falling over your hands. For a beat, you just stood there, like you didn’t know what to say, like you barely recognised yourself.

Lewis didn’t need words. He just opened his arms.

And you folded into him like it was instinct.

He wrapped you up, warm and steady, your face pressed against his chest as the sobs came in waves softer than before, worn down by hours of crying, but still aching. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingertips weaving into your hair, grounding you. You clung to him like you’d been holding your breath all day and only just remembered how to exhale.

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t say “I’m sorry” or “What happened?”

He just let you break.

He stayed that night.

Made you tea you didn’t drink. Sat beside you on the couch, a blanket draped gently over your shoulders even though you never asked for one. He took your phone when it buzzed Josh’s name lighting up the screen and silenced it with barely a glance. And when you finally fell asleep on the couch, still tear-streaked and trembling, he curled himself into the armchair, kept one eye open, just in case you needed him again.

You woke at three a.m., disoriented, heart pounding, and he was still there - his hoodie bunched around his neck, his head resting awkwardly against the cushion. He stirred the second you shifted. Met your tired gaze with a quiet, reassuring look and asked, “You okay?”

You weren’t. But somehow, knowing he was there made it easier to breathe.

And he didn’t leave.

Not the next day. Not the one after that.

He came over with takeaway from your favourite Thai place, the one Josh always said was “too far out of the way.” He brought pastries from that little café you used to love, and when you couldn’t eat more than a few bites, he didn’t say a word. He walked your route home from work just to be near, to make the air around you feel less heavy. Sometimes, you didn’t talk. Sometimes, he made you laugh with dumb paddock stories impersonations of other drivers, tales from press tours gone wrong.

And sometimes, when the grief caught up to you when you curled into yourself on the couch, shoulders shaking, pain bubbling up without warning Lewis would pull you close, rub slow circles on your back, and whisper soft nothings until the wave passed.

You never thanked him. Not out loud. Not directly.

He never asked you to.

You didn’t fall in love with him all at once.

It wasn’t some cinematic moment or grand realisation. It was slow. Gentle. It was the way he remembered how you liked your tea with one sugar, splash of milk, extra hot. It was the way he read your silences better than most people understood your words. The way he always kept a respectful distance, never pushing, never making you feel like you owed him anything for being there.

It was the morning he dropped off groceries unannounced because you hadn’t been eating. The evening, he fixed the leaky tap in your kitchen without saying a word about it. The day he showed up with flowers not because it was a special occasion but because he thought your flat deserved some colour again.

And then, it was the day you laughed.

Really laughed.

He had said something stupid a joke about his own hair routine, maybe, or a story about George accidentally texting a team group chat instead of his girlfriend. Whatever it was, it caught you off-guard, and the sound escaped before you could stop it. Bright. Unfiltered. Real.

You covered your mouth with your hand, blinking like you couldn’t believe it happened.

When you looked at Lewis, he was already watching you.

Not with pity. Not even with relief. Just that quiet warmth again. That look that told you he’d seen the worst of you and hadn’t flinched.

Something in your chest cracked open.

Not from grief this time. But from something warmer. Something that felt like light creeping into a room you hadn’t stepped into in ages.

And in that moment, it hit you not all at once, but suddenly and sharply, like clarity finally pulling into focus:

This man had been yours all along.

Not in the way Josh had tried to possess you loudly, carelessly, like a prize. But in the way Lewis had loved you in silence. Patiently. Unconditionally. Fully. Without asking for anything back.

He had waited.

Without ever asking you to wait too.

And maybe now finally it was time.

It started slowly, the falling.

You didn’t even notice it at first. Just little things that shifted without you meaning them to. Like how your eyes searched for him in a crowd, without even thinking. Or how your chest loosened just a little every time you saw his name light up your phone screen.

One evening, a few weeks after the breakup, you were sitting on your balcony with him two mugs of lukewarm tea between you, the sun dipping behind the city skyline like it, too, was exhaling. Lewis was telling you about a disastrous team dinner in Monaco, and you were laughing. Really laughing again.

And then he looked at you just looked, not like anything had changed and your heart did something traitorous. It stuttered. Dropped. Caught again.

You blamed the sunset. Or the tea. Or the way he said your name so gently.

But that moment stayed with you.

And so did the next one. And the next.

Like when he reached over to brush a piece of lint from your sleeve and your skin burned under the touch. Or the day he walked you home in the rain, his jacket held over both your heads, and you couldn’t stop staring at the way his lashes caught the water. Or the night you watched a movie together and you leaned into his side a little longer than you needed to and he didn’t move. He just let you stay.

It scared you.

Because for the first time in a long time, you felt something. And it wasn’t grief. It wasn’t the ache of losing something or someone. It was softer than that. Warmer. Like something was rebuilding inside you, brick by brick and it had his fingerprints all over it.

You told Luna one night, voice low, like it was something fragile.

“I think I’m falling for him.”

She didn’t even look surprised.

“You’ve always been his. You just didn’t see it before.”

You didn’t answer. But the words haunted you for days.

One night, you found yourself digging through an old photo album in your parents’ attic a dusty, battered one filled with pictures from secondary school. School trips. Award ceremonies. Blurry selfies from your first ever music festival.

And there he was.

In the background of almost every photo. Always close. Always watching you. Sometimes laughing at something you’d said. Sometimes looking like he was about to speak but didn’t. And then there was that one of you and Josh, smiling stiffly at some friend dinner and Lewis, just off to the side, his expression unreadable.

You stared at that one the longest.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Like a puzzle piece slotted into place after years of trying to force the wrong ones together. You remembered the way he’d waited outside your classroom when you forgot your jacket. The way he’d walked you to the bus stop every day, even though it made him late. The way he never once told you how he felt not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t want to burden you with it.

He’s loved you since you were kids.

You felt like an idiot. A blind one. Because how could you not have seen it? How could you have missed the kind of love that patient? That selfless?

That real?

You didn’t know what to do with the realisation. It sat in your chest like a secret too big to carry, too dangerous to say aloud. So, you didn’t. Not right away.

But the next time you saw him, something had changed.

It was movie night again your third that week, an unspoken tradition that neither of you ever seemed to want to break. He was curled on the floor, back against the couch, and you were up on the cushions, your legs tucked beneath you.

And you couldn’t stop watching him.

Not in a subtle, sidelong-glance kind of way but openly. Boldly. Like you needed to memorise him. Every line of his face. The soft edge of his smile. The way he knew the movie word for word but still watched it like it was brand new, just because you liked it.

At some point, he turned to say something, and your eyes met mid-breath.

Silence.

Your heart thundered. His lips parted, just slightly, like he was going to say something, but then he didn’t. He just…watched you back.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe both of you. Maybe neither — maybe it was just something that had been waiting to happen for years, and finally, finally, the timing aligned.

Your hand slipped down beside his. Not touching. Just close.

He looked down.

Then back at you.

And then he reached slowly, like giving you time to pull away and let his fingers brush yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet.

But it was the spark.

You didn’t speak the rest of the movie. You didn’t move away, either.

When the credits rolled, you turned to him, your voice soft, trembling just a little.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He didn’t pretend not to know what you meant.

He just looked down, let out a breath, and said,

“Because you were happy. And I didn’t want to be the reason you weren’t.”

Your throat tightened.

You reached for his hand again fully this time. Your palm against his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like a whisper.

“I wasn’t,” you said. “Not really. I just didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like.”

His eyes met yours again, and something flickered there something deep, something vulnerable.

“Then let me show you.”

The words were so quiet, you almost missed them.

And that’s when you leaned in.

It wasn’t a rushed kiss. It wasn’t urgent or desperate. It was slow. Careful. Like the kind of thing that had waited too long to be careless. Your lips brushed his like a question. His answer was the way he tilted his head, deepened the kiss, his hand cradling your jaw like you were something breakable and holy all at once.

It was years of silence. Years of patience. Years of loving each other in the wrong timelines, finally collapsing into one moment where everything was right.

When you pulled back, he didn’t say anything.

He just smiled wide, real, full of every unspoken thing between you.

And you knew this was just the beginning.

You didn’t define it right away.

After the kiss that soft, silent thing that felt like coming home neither of you rushed to fill the space with labels or declarations. You stayed curled on the couch beside him, legs tangled beneath the throw blanket, your fingers still laced together. His thumb kept tracing gentle arcs over your knuckles like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this now. Like if he let go, it might all disappear.

It wasn’t awkward.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just…different.

Softer. Heavier. A stillness that settled between you like shared breath. The world didn’t shift with a bang, but something unspoken clicked into place, quiet and sure like how you always knew you were meant to find your way back to him.

You still messaged the same way stupid memes, check-ins, late-night “did you eat?” texts but something about the timing changed. His replies came faster. Your words lingered longer before you hit send. And the silence between messages stretched not with absence, but with anticipation. A little thrill of “what are we now?” echoing quietly every time you looked at your screen.

The next time he came over, he didn’t knock.

He let himself in, as always, but this time when you turned the corner into the hallway, he kissed your cheek before saying anything. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d been doing it forever.

And maybe, in a way, he had just not out loud.

That night, when you curled up beside him again under your well-worn blanket, the space between you narrowed with ease. His arm draped over your shoulder with the same hesitance you'd seen in his eyes when he first took your hand the night before cautious, hopeful. He was giving you an out, if you wanted one.

Instead, you leaned in closer, resting your head against his collarbone.

Your voice came out like a secret. “Is this okay?”

He tilted his head down, met your eyes really looked.

“Yeah,” he said, warm and steady. “If you want it to be.”

And you did. God, you did.

You just didn’t know how to be in love with your best friend without fumbling the very thing you’d both spent years unknowingly building.

The first time you went out in public again not as just friends, but not quite a couple either was for lunch at that little café tucked behind the bookshop you both liked. You sat beside him instead of across. Close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve every time he lifted his coffee.

At one point, his hand found your knee under the table. Not deliberate. Not bold. Just... there. And your heart fluttered like a teenager with her first crush.

No one looked twice. But you did.

Every second.

He’d say something funny that dry, quiet kind of wit that had always made you laugh and you’d look at him with new eyes. Like, how did I miss this for so long? His lips curved, and you caught yourself watching his mouth, remembering what it had felt like against yours.

He noticed.

And he smiled like he couldn’t help it.

“Do you think this is weird?” you asked, peeling at the corner of your napkin.

Lewis shook his head gently, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand beneath the table. “No. But I think we’ve both been scared of it for a long time.”

You looked up, searching his face.

“Are you still scared?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But not of loving you.”

It didn’t escalate right away.

He never rushed. Never asked for more than you were ready to give. Just lingered a little longer when he touched you. A hand on your back when you passed each other in the hallway. A brush of his fingers down your arm as he handed you a cup of tea. A forehead pressed to yours in that quiet moment before goodbye.

He kissed you like it was a promise. Every time. Like it was sacred.

The first night he stayed over again after everything you shared your bed.

Fully clothed. Fully comfortable.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled together beneath the covers, his hand gently resting against your spine like he was grounding you. His heartbeat was steady, strong beneath your ear.

“Is this real?” you whispered into the dark.

His voice was husky, drowsy. “Been real for me since we were kids.”

You tilted your head up, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

He caught the shift in your expression and kissed your forehead so gently it nearly broke you.

You didn’t say I love you yet.

But you felt it in every moment he reached for you when you woke up panicked from a dream, in the way he stayed quiet when you needed silence and spoke only when your shoulders relaxed enough to listen.

There were bumps.

You panicked one morning when Luna asked casually if you were back on the dating apps, and your mouth opened before your brain could catch up. You froze, unsure what to say, unsure if you could say anything yet. It wasn’t a secret. But it wasn’t public either. Not quite yours to explain without him.

Lewis noticed that night, when you sat a little further away on the couch. When you went quiet in the way that meant your mind was spinning too fast for your own good.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He just came by the next morning with your favourite coffee, still warm, and a gentle smile on his face.

“Still with me?” he asked quietly, holding out the cup.

You took it with both hands, eyes soft. “I just - I don’t want to ruin this.”

He leaned in, brushing his thumb across your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You won’t,” he murmured. “We’ve already been through the worst, haven’t we?”

Your breath hitched as you looked at him. All the versions of him you’d loved. The boy who sat beside you in class, the teenager who walked you home in the rain, the man who now held you like you were something precious.

You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “And you stayed.”

“Always.”

The first time you told him you loved him; it wasn’t a grand gesture.

It was late. He’d just come back from a long race weekend a brutal one. You’d watched the whole thing on your laptop, biting your nails and yelling at the screen like he could hear you. When he finally walked through your door, tired and rumpled and so painfully familiar, you didn’t even think. You just moved.

You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him in motor oil and cologne and something warm beneath it all.

“I love you,” you whispered into his collar.

He stilled.

Then slowly, his arms wrapped around your waist. Tighter. Closer.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes wide, like he wanted to make sure you meant it.

You did.

He smiled that small, private smile he’d only ever given to you and exhaled like he’d been holding it in for years.

“Finally,” he said. “I can say it back.”

And he did.

He said it again that night, between kisses that were slower than usual. Deeper. Kisses that said I missed you and thank you and I’ve been waiting for this for so long.

He said it the next morning, when he woke up to find you still wrapped around him, one hand curled beneath his t-shirt like you’d anchored yourself there in sleep.

He said it the morning after that, too.

And every day after, like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for a decade.

And now, he never had to hold it back again.

[shouyuus]

Vi it doesn’t let people call her many nicknames/pet names but a headcanon that reader can only call her one (I personally call her Vi Vi)😂

SO I HAVE SOME THOUGHTS. bc obviously, i spend way too many waking hours thinking about vi and just -- anyway.

i agree, but i also think that she has a love-hate relationship with her real name -- on the one hand, she loves it when you call her violet, and it feels special, the way you say it, the way you make it sound like something so much more than a name. (and it's so nice the way it rolls off your tongue when you beg for her -- violet, violet, please!)

and bc when she was younger (and way more angsty), she thought it sounded soft, a flower, violets, right? she looked it up once in the flower dictionary and rolled her eyes so hard when she saw that they symbolize modesty and humility (something about the term "shrinking violets" got to her), two things that she was so not into (at least not then, and tbh... she still struggles with them now lmfao), so she likes just "vi", and she'll occasionally let a really close friend slide if they just call her "v", but mostly, if anyone tries to call her anything other than "vi", she'll click her tongue and be like "sorry, sweets, that ain't my name."

but with you... she likes it when you call her "love", or when you say "morning, moonlight", and when she asks you why "moonlight" you tell her that it's because, little do people know, the moon cares way more than the sun.

"because... the sun shines for itself right?"

"yeah..."

"but the moon... the moon shines for everyone else."

"uh... how d'you figure that one out, cupcake?"

"because the moon doesn't produce it's own light. it has to take the light of the sun and reflect it back towards us -- look, see? she's a worrier, so she tries so hard to light up the dark for us, to make sure that even at night, there's something we can see by. even when she knows most of the world is dreaming, she's still out there, lighting up the dark for all those people who might need her light to see."

"well... if i'm the moon, does that make you the sun?"

you consider, before shaking your head.

"no, i wanna be the stars."

"oh?"

"cause... the moon and the sun are rarely in the sky together, right? and i wouldn't want that. so... i'll be the stars -- all your stars. so that even on the nights when you don't have the strength to shine, you'll still have me to guide you home."

"i love you, silly girl. you know that?"

"you've mentioned it a few times."

"well, i'll mentioned it a million more."

"only a million?"

she grins, "fine. i'll say it as many times as there are stars in the sky."

[sushirrrry]

PATIENT | a harry styles x you one-shot preview

thank you, anon, for the doctor harry request!! I hope I bring your dreams to life <3

summary: you're stubborn; harry knows this, but it's one of his favorite parts about you. his protectiveness goes into full panic mode when you start to inhibit symptoms of a serious medical emergency. as a medical professional himself, he helps you through the scary parts, the recovery, & the parts of life we fear the most: being vulnerable.

full story – tomorrow.

____________________________

You press your fingers into your side hard, almost like it can cancel the pain.

“Alright,” Harry says suddenly, pausing the movie and turning toward you, voice still calm but firmer now, “that’s enough pretending.”

You blink up at him, dazed at his comment, removing your hands to stop yourself from wincing. “What?”

“You’re not okay.” He shifts on the couch, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t been okay all day– all week, really. And I’ve been trying not to push, but… your skins clammy. You’re shaking. And you haven’t touched your tea in twenty minutes, which is your biggest red flag.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out wrong like your vocal cords are tight, cracked. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and the way his jaw tightens says everything. “You’re burning up.”

“I probably just have a flu or a bug or something,” you mutter, shrinking under his touch.

“You’ve had abdominal pain for days,” he says, sharper now. “And a fever. And you keep pressing your side like it is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.”

You look away. He’s right, of course. But you hate this—the exposure, the vulnerability, the way he’s seeing through every wall you’ve built.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” you whisper to him, eyes beginning.

Harry breathes in slowly, fighting to keep calm. “Then let me check you out. Properly. Just here.”

____________________________

[certifiedbun]

Needy

Crowe x Reader One Shot

And the universe said I love you

When you were young, before everything fell apart, your father would tell you stories. Short stories, but one always stood out amongst the rest. A farmer and a star. Falling for each other in the only way beings like themselves could. Fiery and intense, but at the same time, so tender and soft you’d fall harder in love. As a child, you wondered if you could have that. Father spoke so fondly of the experience, you couldn’t help but want it too. 

And then, then you met Jericho Ichabod. Everything fell apart, and you forgot about the star and the farmer. In your darkness, Jericho was too bright, too loud, too much for you. And when you forgot the glow of the sun, even an ember seemed to burn. But, kissing Crowe? It burns like a hearth on a winter night, comforting and all encompassing. You couldn’t dream of leaving. Under the watchful gaze of the stars and the blanket of night, your souls blend and become something new. 

Parting for air feels like suffocating. Navy blue eyes stare into your own with such a soft gaze. His face flushes, red tinting his tan skin, and everywhere you look, you see hearts. Hearts in his eyes, in the shape of his nose, in his hair, even in the grass surrounding you. Your hands wander, cupping his cheek before tracing the edge of his jaw. The exposed skin of his neck looks so comforting, your face is nestled there before you can think. 

“What are we…?” It’s such a small question, whispered too quietly for Crowe to hear. Your hands play with the loose strands of dark brown hair that surround Crowe. A steady hand is placed on your back as Crowe holds you close. He rubs circles in the small of your back, and faintly, you can hear him.

“What did you say?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you can’t help but grin in return. Small chaste kisses on his neck make him laugh under you, and his arms wrap tighter around your waist. “Well?”

“I asked,” you sit up slightly, looking Crowe in the eye. It’s not easy. He looks at you with a moonstruck expression, so earnest that your face heats up under the pressure. “What are we?” 

“What are you hoping for us to be?”

“Ah…” Your face burns hotter under the expectant stare. You know the answer, and yet, you’re scared to say it. 

“Can I tell you what I want us to be? And apologies in advance, it is a little selfish.” He sits up, his hands steady on your waist as he looks at you. The distance between you shrinks. You’re as connected as you can be with clothes in the way. “I’d like us to be together. More than friends, more than lovers. It’s selfish and crass, but I don’t want to share you with anyone.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck, his lips brushing against the exposed skin there. Your hands grip his shoulders, holding onto the purple shirt and wrinkling the fabric as your skin grows hot. “I want to wake up next to you. Spend my quiet mornings with you and find the world born anew in your eyes. It’s this… all-consuming want, and it’s so selfish–”

“No, it’s not.” The blanket of stars wraps around you both, locking you two together in a room with only yourselves as witnesses. “I think… I’ve always felt that way, even back when we first met in sophomore year.”

Before you know it, you’re kissing again. Lips touch every expanse of exposed skin as if the bruises in the shape of each other will live eternally on your skin. Part of you hopes they will. Let everyone know that Jericho Ichabod is loved by you and only you. You separate, and the needy part of you hates it. 

“Can you stay with me tonight? I’m not ready to let go yet.” A deep blush spreads across his cheeks, tinting his face even in the low light. There’s a silent nod as your foreheads touch. Begrudgingly, you pull away and stand up. You must look disheveled, and Crowe looks no better. Grass stains that will be a pain to get out cover you both, but you can’t find it in you to care. 

The whole way back to your apartment, Crowe holds your hand. It feels so natural walking through the door with him, like this was meant to be. Your future could be this. It will be. 

And the universe said I love you because you are love.

[oceansblvds]

tunnel vision — five ; coriolanus snow

MASTERLIST

pairing ; king!coriolanus snow x debutante!reader

words ; 2.3k

about ; in the glittering world of panem high society, you were raised to be perfect — the prized daughter of a powerful family. your family was prepared to make the match of the season. but when king coriolanus snow arrives unexpectedly, announcing his intention to marry, everything changes.

warning(s) ; eventual smut, angst, courting (bridgerton style), eventual fluff.

chapter specifics: kissing, marriage, wedding stuff, angst, DRAMA, talks of sex, bleeding & blood.

authors note ; :3 yeah welcome to the shitshow

“You will marry her. You will marry her tonight.” 

“I won’t,” you gasped out, your voice slicing through the heavy silence that had echoed through the gardens. No one seemed to be breathing anymore. All heads snapped toward you at your claim, your brother, your mother, even your father. “I won’t marry him,” you said again, stronger this time. “I won’t be forced into this!” 

“You’ve left us no choice!” your father barked, finally realizing that he has a voice, one that was booming over the terrace and would certainly alert the maids if they hadn’t already been alerted already to the commotion that was going on in your backyard. “You’ve ruined yourself and this house! There is no salvaging.” 

“I do not care, father,” you shouted back. “Let them talk! Let them say whatever they want.” 

“Enough!” your mother cried, stepping towards you. Her hands trembled in front of her, twisting a lace handkerchief in them until it nearly tore. “You will do your duty. You will save this family.” The family. Not you. Never you. Lucien’s face was tight with guilt and anger, as if he could go back in time and fix this. 

You shook your head, a bitter laugh exiting. Your mother’s face crumpled, your father looked away. And still, behind all of it, Coriolanus stood silent. Watching. Like he knew you would break eventually, like he could just wait it out. “You’re all so eager to hand me off to him, do you even care if I hate you for it? If I hate him for the rest of my life? What about me? What about what I want?” 

It didn’t matter anymore. It was easy to see. You were a scandal, a problem to be solved. 

“You have until midnight to be ready,” your father said, cold and final. “This is no longer a negotiation.” 

You barely remembered walking inside. 

The maids descended onto you the moment you crossed the threshold of your bedroom at the top of the stairs. They must have been waiting, already warned and instructed, because they moved with ruthless efficiency. You almost tried to shrink away from their hands, but there were too many of them and you were too tired. Indira was there, hands steady as she undid the buttons at the back of your gown. 

You didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes burned. Low and hollow. Furious as to what was to come. Her lips were still swollen from kissing a man she was now on the precipice of marrying. Her hands shook as she smoothed down the bodice of a simple ivory dress. Not the wedding gown you had dreamed of. Your mother crossed the room and knelt down in front of you, something she hadn’t done since you were a little girl. You thought back to the time you once scraped your knee, your mother kissing the wound. Times had changed. 

She reached out and took your hands in hers. 

“My darling,” she spoke. “There are . . . things you must understand about tonight. I wanted to tell you when you were engaged —” a pause. “But now is alright.” 

You stared down at your joined hands. 

“You are going to be a wife before the night is done,” she continued. “And with that comes certain responsibilities. I know you think you are too young, but I was younger than you when I was promised to your father. And my mother told me the same thing I will tell you now.” 

She looked you in the eye. 

“You must let him do what he needs to do. That’s what marriage is. It’s not always gentle. But it’s necessary. The sooner you accept him, the easier it will be. He is a powerful man. You must be grateful for the security that gives you. Even if you don’t love him.” 

You were supposed to know what she meant. You were supposed to understand. But you didn’t, not really. You could guess, from hearing whispers among the older girls. But no one ever said it plainly. “Mother,” you whispered. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.” 

“It isn’t something we speak about in polite company, you’ll understand soon enough.” 

“What if I do something wrong?” 

You could see it written all over her face that your mother had dreaded this conversation from the moment you were born. 

“They’re ready.” 

You flinched, standing and smoothing your skirts. Indira darted forward to adjust the veil even though you barely registered the touch. The rooms began to blur at the edges, a heavy scent of lilies and roses filled your nose, along with the wax of the candles. Someone opened the doors, music began, most likely the same musicians who had been there for the dinner. When things were normal. You moved toward it like a sleepwalker, the white carpet runner laid over the stone floors. 

You wanted to turn and run, but you kept moving, step by step until you were standing in front of the priest and Coriolanus, the veil falling between you both like a useless barrier. The priest’s voice droned in the distance, like it was some grand affair, like he hadn’t been called late at night to marry people who weren’t even formally engaged yet. No one in the room smiled. You flicked your gaze upward and met Coriolanus’ eyes through the veil. 

His mouth was moving, the words I do ringing in your ears. A ring was exchanged. 

The priest turned to you, and when he finished, you looked around. Everyone’s eyes were on you. The impossible inevitability of the man standing before you pressing towards you. 

“ . . . I do.” 

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” 

Coriolanus reached up, his gloved fingers brushing the veil aside. He stepped forward, ever so slow and deliberate. 

And then he kissed you. 

All around, your family and servants clapped politely, mechanically. 

It was over. You were wed. 

Your mother and father were already turning away from you, Lucien didn’t even look at you while you were being pulled towards the carriage to leave. The outside air pricked on your skin as you were ushered into the large carriage. You sat rigid on the velvet seat, fiddling with the wedding band that sat heavy on your finger. It was a large, golden band, one that you were sure wasn’t the real one that he had intended for you. Still, it felt as though it weighed down your entire arm. 

Coriolanus sat opposite you, perfectly composed, his legs crossed at the ankle. He watched you with the same quiet intensity that he always had, the shadows of the passing lights flickered over his face, casting shifting patterns across the sharp planes of his features. 

You stared back down at your hands. You knew what was waiting at the end of this journey, you knew what was to be expected. It was the thing that your mother was trying to warn you about, albeit badly. You knew that her intention was to try and make it more tolerable but knowing didn’t make it any easier. Your mouth was dry, your throat was raw. You weren’t even sure if you were able to say anything but a few words. 

“Are you going to hurt me?” you asked, the words small, fragile. 

Coriolanus tilted his head to the side, like you had asked the most peculiar thing in the world. He was studying you, not with cruelty or amusement. Like he was deciding on what to say. “I don’t intend to,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world to say. “You’re my wife now. No one will hurt you.” 

The carriage jolted as it turned down the street, nearing the palace gates. The ones that you hadn’t been to since that first meeting with him. You couldn’t help but think about how different things were now. Your stomach twisted painfully. You had no idea what would be waiting for you beyond those doors, if you were going to be treated like a wife or . . . something else. Where would you sleep? Would you sleep with him? Would he push you off into one section of the palace and keep you on display like an art piece? 

The wheels crunched against the gravel as the carriage finally slowed, jerking to a halt. Then Coriolanus shifted, reaching for the small door. The servant outside opened it before he could have any time to touch it, bowing deeply. You didn’t take anyone's hand to step out, opting to stand on the steps with wobbly knees. The palace doors loomed ahead, flanked by two guards who stood at attention as you approached. 

Inside, the halls were grand and echoing. The click of your shoes against the polished floors echoed in the emptiness. The chandeliers glittered overhead like they had just been lit and you felt small under it. You both passed through the great hall, the throne room, the endless corridors lined with statues and portraits of rulers before him, until you both made it to the royal wing. 

Your throat tightened painfully. 

He pushed open the heavy oak door, carved with intricate winding serpents. You walked past him, trying to keep your head high. There was the bed, like it was some great beast crouched in the darkness that was waiting to devour you. You stood there, frozen, waiting for him to come closer. 

A minute passed. 

And then, nothing. 

You stepped back to turn, cinching up the fabric of your dress. Coriolanus was standing just a few feet away, watching you in the flickering firelight. He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it over on the back of one of the chairs, and then unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt. You flinched, readying yourself, but he didn’t move toward you. 

Instead he spoke. “I have no business bedding a woman who’ll cry through the whole thing.” He turned to face the hearth, rolling up his sleeves. 

Your cheeks flushed a hot red.

“I wasn’t,” you sputtered. “I wasn’t going to cry.” 

He laughed a bit at that, giving you a look over his shoulder. 

“Of course you weren’t,” he said, dry and sarcastic. “You were going to be perfectly serene, I’m sure. Smiling sweetly through it all.” 

“You don’t know what I would’ve done.” 

Coriolanus turned fully towards you now, mouth curved slightly to one side. Not quite a smile. “You’re right, I don’t know,” he said, crossing the room, but not towards you. He grabbed a heavy armchair placed by the fire and pulled it a few feet closer to the bed and fell into it, exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the tightness of your corset preventing you from breathing. “But what I do know is that I don’t like to make a habit of forcing women. Especially women who are my wife.” 

You continued to glare at him, your face twisted into something you didn’t even know how to name. You were angry, annoyed, and most of all humiliated that he seemed to go this far into getting you in an impossible position that only ended with him marrying you, and now he wouldn’t even bed you properly. 

“How noble of you,” you bit out, your voice thick with rage. 

Coriolanus didn’t say a word, instead opting to unbutton the top button of his white shirt and sink further into the chair, like he planned on staying there for the rest of the night. You took the time to sit on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the pieces of your shoes that held them onto you before throwing them on the other end of the room much like a child would. You didn’t look to see how he reacted. It took a while without your maids, but you were able to get much of the outer part of your dress off before having to stand and move to a part of the room that separated you from him to shrug off the rest. The corset fell onto the floor, leaving you in the underclothes, ones that you would be able to sleep in. 

The sheets were accepting as you crawled into them, laid curled up on the side of it. You faced the heavy velvet curtains of the room that covered the windows, making it part of your mission to not look at him. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will yourself to sleep in this different place. It didn’t help that you could feel him there, sitting in that armchair, probably trying to catch sleep of his own. You shifted restlessly, trying to hide from it, though it was really of no use. 

“If you’re not going to bed me, then why don’t you just leave?” You spoke, looking at him then. “Or just get into bed like a normal husband would?” 

Coriolanus laughed. “You think I have the luxury of leaving you untouched on our wedding night. There are people waiting in the halls to report back that I did my duty.” 

You looked at him confused. “Your duty?” 

“To fuck you,” He corrected. “It’s our wedding night. Or did your mother not explain that to you? Blood on the white sheets?”

“She said that I was to let you do what you needed to do.” 

He hummed. “Something like that.” 

“There won’t be any blood,” you blurted out. “Wouldn’t that be suspicious?” 

Without a word, Coriolanus reached inside the drawer that was to your left, pulling out a small, sleek blade. Before you could speak or even react, he dragged the edge across the meat of his palm and cut into it with a smooth wrist. Blood welled instantly against his pale skin and yet he didn’t flinch at it, not even a wince. Instead he leaned over and smeared the blood across the linen, slowly and deliberately. 

“There. Proof,” he spoke, straightened his back and flexed his wounded hand, using a handkerchief to try and stop it from bleeding more. “You worry too much.” 

At least, through all of this, your new husband was willing to hold up a lie. 

For you. 

taglist: @ib525 @m-ichelles-world @coryosnows @ryomensgirll @mixedfandxms

[legendofmorons]

Written in the stars (forever on loop) chapter three - War of hearts

Pairing: pre poly! Chain x reader

Rating: T

Summary: While you and the boys are traveling, you're ambushed. Dealing with the fallout of that shakes lose a dream (?) And leaves the boys with too many emotions. Wind and Epona are done with this, though.

Warnings: HI! The dream sequence in this includes implied character death. You can skip it and get a summary at the end. (Dream is all in bold italics.) Cursing, Canon typical violence

Other: If I missed anything, please let me know.

Previous masterlist Next

Wind dosen’t know what is going on with the others, but he does know that they're treating you weird.

Which is such bullshit.

You are pretty cool so far!

Here you all are, though, walking to try to find the shadow, and the group is being super weird.

So far, you have been here two days total, and you don't seem inclined to speak to any of the others but him and maybe Sky.

Wind dosen’t even blame you.

He watches the others and can't make sense of any of it. The glares, awkward silences, distrustful eyes, and general tenseness the others display are off-putting even to the sailor.

Wind walks beside you, trying to keep your spirits up.

It's pretty obvious you aren't used to so much walking. He gets it. He struggles sometimes, too. He grew op on a small island.

"Hey," Wind says as he nudges you, "I think I'm on first watch tonight if you want to stay up and trade stories?"

You look to him with a relief he hates that you feel. You shouldn't have to feel relief at basic interaction.

The thought of his friend who shares your name and face being treated like this is heart-wrenching. His heart clenches, and he has to take a slow breath.

"I'd love that." You say with a soft smile.

Wind gives you a smile back."You'll have to tell me more about your home too."

"I can do that. You have to tell me more about sailing."

He laughs, elbowing you. "Obviously!"

"Keep it down." Warriors hisses as he turns around with a pointed glare, "You'll draw the monsters to us for an ambish."

"Sorry." You mutter, looking away from the captain and the sailor both.

Wind wants to kick Warriors. You two aren't being that loud, and no one else can be bothered to make you feel welcome besides him and Sky. Sky is in the back today, something about needing to think.

Wind just wants to make you feel welcome.

Warriors is throwing a wrench in his plans, though.

In fact, the look Warriors gives you is going to do the opposite.

Warriors shoots you a dirty look for your apology before turning back to face forward.

You shrink in on yourself visibly, shoulders hitching.

Wind huffs, sticking his tongue out at the captain's turned back.

You see it, though, and you crack a shaky smile.

Wind will take it.

He walks with you in silence, occasionally pointing to a cool bird.

You don't seem inclined to speak again, but you smile at the birds.

Wind just focuses on trying to be friendly. He thinks you're fun to be around, and he wants you to feel wanted.

The day wears on in tedious waltzes of time.

Wind catches the dirty and suspicious glares Legend gives you.

He watches Four and Wild share glances over your head before eyeing distrustful and then looking ashamed.

Wind sees Time stare at you with heavy gazes.

He sees Twilight hover around you with heavy silence. Although Epona seems unaffected by the man's hesitancy and is happy to walk near you.

He sees Sky flinch from your voice when you aren't looking.

Wind sees a group of his brothers, of his previous and later lives, and he sees them and cruel in this matter. As callous. As cowards even. In this one thing for sure.

His brothers are failing you in every way, and Wind feels something thick and heavy in his throat about the debacle.

He catches you quietly, slipping Epona an apple you found earlier. His lips tug upwards at the sight. (He's left curious about if Twilight is aware yet. If the rancher knows how taken with the horse you are?)

How can the others be so callous? You're the shit!

He turns when you nudge his side while pointing into the trees, looking over quickly with wide eyes. He follows your arm and finger up to the seagull that's perched in a large oak tree.

"That's so weird!" Wind gasps, "What is that doing here?"

You give a shrug. "Dunno."

"Think I could call it over?" Wind asks with a crooked grin.

You snort, the sound making his heart loosen a little.

"How? Do you call it like a cat?" You ask wryly.

"No, you mimic their bird call." He laughs.

You crack a soft smile. "So... you just say 'mine' a lot? Or do you call 'seagull seagull'?"

Warriors shoots the two of you another yet dirty look.

Wind opens his mouth to retort, but he falls silent when you grab his arm sharply, pointing to something else in the trees.

He turns, startling at the tight grip you have on his upper arm, following your finger again and seeing a lizafos.

Warriors hisses, having also looked where you were pointing.

Arrows start raining down as you push him behind you. Your frame serving as a shield between him and danger.

Sky is pulling the sailor under his shield next, and Wind is left wondering why in the name of Hyrule you were seemingly ready to use yourself as a shield.

He watches Warriors pull you under the captain's shield. The man pulling you to safety has a neutral look, except his eyes are desperate and wide.

-------

You knew you were all being followed, but the moment the arrows start raining, it seems like a bad time to say it.

You shove Wind behind you on instinct, something in you saying that you just need a shield. You don't have one.

You watch Sky grab Wind, putting his shield up.

You gasp as an arm wraps around you, jerking you close to a body as the person holding you puts their own shield up. Your hands fly up to rest on the person's chest.

You are saved just in time. Arrows are raining against the shield above you.

The arm around you holds you close and tight.

Warriors is the one holding you, silent as he waits for the arrows to let up. He looks down at you, brows knitting.

"Fucking lizafos." You grumble, a dislike of the monsters ingrained in you since you first saw them on a screen.

Apparently, they aren't better in person.

The man holds you close, arm firm around you as he looks down with an unreadable expression. His lips are pinched as he searches your form for any injury.

"When I say run, you're going to run." Warriors tells you with a sharp tone.

"Sounds great." You say quickly.

It's distinctly apparent in your mind now that you have no weapon. The idea seemed strange to need until now. (Your fingers itch to closer around the hilt of a sword that you have never weilded.)

You were traveling with nine heroes but being ambushed without a weapon has definitely changed your thoughts on the matter.

You're going to have to find a sword or something at the first chance you get.

The arrows cease while they reload.

"Run! Go hide, we'll find you." Warriors commands as he grabs his sword. His voice is stern, unyielding.

Following directions is easy. Running into the opposite tree line and away from the monsters seems smart.

You push yourself forward and into the forest as fast as you can, focusing on longer strides to go further.

You break the tree line and keep going, trying to block out the sound of fighting behind you.

Today is officially not great.

You rush through the trees, weaving until you see a branch low enough to climb up a tree with.

It's not a well thought out plan. It's more of a spur of the moment thought. Something about wanting the high ground.

You scramble up the tree quickly, lack of regard for caution in the moment. Yay, adrenaline!

You see the way the trees interlock and have branches that would be easy to get across...

Wouldn't it be harder to track footprints on the trees?

You start making your way across different branches, making sure not to look down or think beyond picking your next destination.

You don't bother wondering why traversing like this seems so easy.

You settle by the trunk of a tree a good fifty feet from the first one you climbed up. You're not too high up, but far enough up and with enough foliage around you, someone would have to really be looking to find you.

You try to catch your breath and slow your heart now. Blood is pounding in your ears.

You can hear everything.

The clash of weapons, the wind in the leaves, the shift of dirt on the ground.

If this is even half of what fighting is like... you can see why people sometimes like it.

The alertness, the heady high that adrenaline provides - it makes sense.

It dosen’t take away the fear, but it makes it matter less now that you're safe.

For a moment, you swear you hear familiar laughter in your mind, the sound of a man laughing in victory - it must be something you saw in a movie.

(Why can you imagine the flutter of blue fabric with the laugh?)

You can't say how long it is before you hear footsteps coming towards you.

You choke down a gasp, peering down to try to see who's down there.

There's a call of your name in a thick drawl.

Twilight then.

You wait to be sure, though. Could it be a trap or something? Who knows.

Twilight calls for you again.

Oh!

You see Epona walking under the tree.

"Sweetheart!" You call excitedly to the horse.

You can hear someone choke a little on the ground, but that seems irrelevant.

You start climbing down the tree.

Once you hit the ground, Epona is nudging you with her nose with a snort.

You smile, petting her neck. "It's so good to see you, pretty girl!"

"Ya really like her, don't ya?" Twilight asks as he eyes you.

He looks guarded, brows furowing, and mouth tense.

"Who wouldn't? Epona is a sweetheart." You smile, happily lavishing the horse with attention.

Epona gives a happy little whicker, nosing your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Wild asks, eyeing your form with a care you don't recognize.

You aren't sure why he's looking at you like that.

"I'm okay. Are you two okay?"

"Jus' fine." Twilight says, looking away.

"Is... something on my face?" You ask.

"No." Wild says, "Just- a few tears in your clothes and a couple scratches."

You sigh, "That's going to suck later."

Epona nudges you again, demanding that you go back to petting her.

You snort, reaching out to scatch her ears gently as you coo, "Aw, sweetheart, it's okay. You're such a good girl, I'm sure everyone agrees."

"We should... head back." Wild says. "We want to try to cover more ground before stopping for the day."

You nod, "Okay."

Twilight leads the way, Epona's reins loose in his hand.

Wild takes the rear.

Walking between the two men is tense and silent. The air is thick.

Epona is happy to walk at your side though, occasional nudging you for more pets.

You oblige the mare easily, whispering to her sweetly every so often.

Once you break the tree line, you see the others clustered together.

The moment Wind sees you, he's running over while yelling your name. He's got wide eyes again.

He skids to a stop at your side, "Are you okay?!"

"Yeah, I'm okay." You smile, "Are you okay, sailor?"

"Those monsters couldn't take me!" He grins up at you impishly.

You smile, "Good. I'm glad. I was worried about you."

"Your warning was helpful. You don't need to worry about me."

"If you say so."

Wind just hums. "How'd you know to look in the trees for them anyway?"

"I felt like something was following us." You shrug half heartedly.

"Well, you were right." Wind says.

Wind, Twilight, Wild, and you make your way the fifteen feet or so to get back to the rest of the group.

"You found them." Time notes.

"We did." Twilight agrees. "They hid pretty well."

You snort, "No one ever thinks to look up."

Wind laughs.

Sky steps over to you, looking you over carefully. "Are you okay?"

He has wide eyes and his lips pinch. He looks a little desperate, but you chalk that up to whatever has him so upset at noght.

"I'm good. I'll probably crash later, but that's adrenaline for you." You wave off.

Epona is nudging your shoulders again. She apparently is feeling affectionate today.

"What do you mean crash?" Sky asks with wide eyes.

"Be super tired? Maybe slow?" You pat Epona's neck as you try to figure out how to explain it.

"Okay." Sky says with a dubious look over your form as if trying to once again assure himself that you're okay.

You look around the group, taking stock of their states and immediately frowning when you see Four with a bandage around his hand.

Everyone seems fairly okay otherwise, though, which is reassuring.

Hyrule and Legend are side by side, talking about something or other. When they look at you, Hyrule gives a strained smile while Legend just glares.

Warriors is with Four, examining a dagger in his hands. Although the Captain does glance your way and give you a nod. (He also looks like he might like to yell, but that's not your focus.)

Getting back on the road is easy enough, although you have been temporarily separated from Wind. (It's like when you talk to your best friend and the teacher makes you go sit in timeout or something.)

Now you are walking beside Time, who is not nearly as excitable. But he isn't horrible. He is, however, doing that thing where he stares, and you just can't prove it.

The eldest dosen’t talk, not now, at least, though he does catch you when you trip over something.

You offer a soft thanks only to get a sharp nod.

-------

Time sits by the fire with Warriors and Wild, unable to look over to where you sit. He can't stand the similarities you share with his lost love.

It isn't your fault but it's erie.

Seeing you come back with all the little scratches shouldn't have upset him so much. You were safe. He dosen’t even really know you.

"Where were they when you found them, anyway?" Warriors asks as he stares into the fire

Wild looks over, face twisting a little. His brows drawn but voice warm. "They were in the trees."

"What?"

"They said no one ever thinks to look up." Wild says with a weak laugh.

Time nods. "It's good you and Twilight found them."

"Epona found them." Wild corrects. "They saw her and came down."

"They seem fond of her." Warriors muses. "Perhaps they have a horse back home."

"Epona loves them." Wild says.

"She seems to." Time says.

"You know... they loved horses too." Wild says, the change of subject is obvious if only to those who also lost them.

Time smiles sadly, the memory of his own steed with their ever tragic soulmate. His dearest.

They left him too soon.

He got longer with them than many. (But not enough. Time is selfish, and no amount of time will ever be enough.)

"I know." Time says. "They were always helping at Lon Lon ranch."

Warriors just hums noncommittal. "They saw the lizafos before the attack."

"You said so." Time says.

Warriors sighs. "How did they know? They said they felt it but... they aren't a fighter like us."

Wild shakes his head. "(Y/n) might just have good intuition."

"Maybe." Warriors says, a bitter tone in his voice that all but screams that he's biting back emotions again.

Time finally looks over to where you are.

You're sitting with Wind, examining a wooden sword the teen holds up. You're grinning, then you laugh.

For as often as Time wishes to hear that sound again... hearing it from you instead of his beloved is wrong.

It's unfair to wish you didn't laugh.

Time wishes that anyways. He wishes you didn't sound and act like his beloved.

"I don't understand why they're here." Wild admits.

"They aren't a hero." Warriors snorts. "They've never fought a war."

"How do you know?" Time frowns.

"I asked. But also, look at them. They aren't like us." Warriors says.

"That's not bad." Wild says softer, a weight in his words only his soul brothers truly understood.

"No." Time agrees. "But it dosen’t explain why they're here."

"Because Hylia hates us?" Wild suggests

Warriors huffs a laugh.

Time supposes that makes as much sense as anything else.

He looks back to you, watching as you swat playfully at Wind's hands as the teen tries to swipe some apple slices from you. It's... nice.

You are not his beloved, but you look like them. Seeing their joyful face on you is- strange and awful, but it's nice too.

He was forgetting what they looked like. What they sounded like.

How they laughed.

You laugh with Wind quite a bit. It's awful. (He's missed the sound.)

The next time Time looks over, you are holding a wooden sword, and Wind is laughing at the bad grip you have.

"We have got to teach you to fight!" Wind laughs.

You snort. "Are you volunteering?"

"Sure, why not." Wind shrugs.

Warriors sighs. "That's going to end badly."

"Maybe." Wild says.

Time has to resist the urge to smack the wooden sword from your hands. (You shouldn't have to fight!)

He dosen’t get to make that choice. In all reality, if you are to travel with them, learning to fight will be good.

The eldest of the group falls back into memories of his beloved.

Memories of mornings spent ignoring the call of responsibilities.

Memories of a timeline that will never be (not for him).

Memories of late nights slow dancing in the kitchen to the hum of his lover.

Time can't help but wonder... how long did the others have with them?

Did their soulmate have a favorite version of them?

Time has a favorite version of their soulmate. His version.

-------

Epona is more than happy to let Twilight brush her coat out after today. It's been such a good day for her.

She has you back!

Epona isn't too sure where you went or why you wear such strange fabrics, but you're back and that's all she cares about.

She watches you with the youngest hero, wondering if you have any more apples for her. She's missed you and your penchant for spoiling her.

Mostly you though.

"Don't get yer hopes up, girl, that's not who ya want it t' be." Twilight says as he brushes out her mane.

Epona looks at him, chuffing her disagreement.

She knows you. She can tell it's you. She's lived too many lives at your side to not know you.

"It's not yet fault." Twilight sighs.

Epona nips at his arm as a chiding measure. He's being so silly!

She hears you laugh again, looking over to see the youngest helping you with a wooden sword.

It's so good to have you back. It's good to hear you laugh.

Twilight sighs heavily beside her. "Oh, Epona, we're in it now. They look just like 'em an' I don't know how I'm s'posed ta go on like this."

Epona neighs.

She is going to have to buck some sense into her master. Silly man.

They're always so silly when it comes to you. Smitten and fawning all over you and assuming you don't like them at first.

Her silly Links.

She watches you, wondering where you've been.

It dosen’t much matter she guesses.

You're here now. With your boys. It's all going to be fine.

Epona chuffs again. However long you have left, she's sure it's going to be good.

Twilight pats her side sympathetically. "I miss 'em too, girl."

She has such silly boys. She knows Twilight will figure it out, though. They always do.

After Twilight is done with brushing and feeding her he goes to check on Wild.

Epona hasn't met several of these boys but they are all her Link. She Knows.

She goes over to you, nudging you. Epona will be getting her night time kisses from you now, please and thank you.

You just smile at her, petting her gently. "Hey sweetheart. It's late shouldn't you be ready to sleep?"

She chuffs happily, leaning into the touch on her muzzle.

"Aw, you just want some love, huh?" Ypu grin.

Epona is left, thinking once again that you are the better half to her boys. Always perceptive when it counts.

You press a kiss to her cheek. "Good night, sweetheart. You get some sleep."

She nuzzles her face against you in thanks and to wish you sleep too.

Epona lets you go on your way to finish setting up for bed.

She knows you'll need it.

She watches you stay up with Wind for first shift.

She falls asleep before you do though.

-------

You can't say you love fighting, but it's much better when you fight at Link's side. There's a heady high of adrenaline, trust, and adoration when you fight at his side.

Adrenaline is a hell of a high, but something about fighting for your life back to back with the man you love is even better.

The way his back flexes as he moves about behind you, the reassurance that Link is alive and okay. The reassurance that you are alive and okay.

It's a unique experience.

The sound of his breathing is a familiar cadence that helps you focus.

There is no regret you can find in your choice to follow Link into the royal army, especially not now when you get to fight at his side and help keep him safe.

You can hear Link laugh behind you, back vibrating with the victorious sound as he takes down a particularly vicious enemy.

"That's my man!." You call back with a grin as you knick aside a blade.

"Focus on your own fight, dove." Link says with a fondness that makes your heart swell.

You're not sure how a man can be both so loving and so vicious on the battle field.

You laugh again, blocking a volley of arrows before kicking the next enemy square in the chest.

The enemies fall quickly, the two of you a formidable duo. You both ebb and flow around the other, covering weak spots and prompting moves that are otherwise to risky alone.

There is no meaning beyond this moment. For now, there is only you, Link, and those that stand against you.

The moment the last one hits the ground, Link is spinning you around, so you are in his arms. His sword drops to the ground behind you, unimportant as he looks you over.

Blue eyes flit over your form as his brows draw together.

You smile, dropping your own sword and reaching to cradle his jaw with one hand.

"You're hurt." Link frowns heavily. His hands on your waist light but solid as he tries to tell how bad it is.

"Not bad. You're hurt, too."

"That's not important."

"What's important is we kicked ass!" You laugh, shooting him a wink.

Link laughs too, eyes crinkling and lighting up. He shakes his head at you fondly, indulgent, if only for you. "Of course we did, dove."

"Get over here," You demand lightly, the hand not cradling his face settles on his shoulder.

He does. He moves closer until he can kiss you, and then he does that, too. His lips press against yours as if he has all the time in the world.

As if you aren't both filthy from the fight.

As if you are precious.

There's a soft hum from Link, nothing but an innocent sign of affection as he uses the moment to reassure himself.

He pulls back, pressing his forehead to yours. He breathes heavy, but there is a deep understanding between you and him that this is where you both want to be. Together.

His gaze meets your own, and he gives a soft exhale.

You rub your thumb across his cheek.

He smiles at you softly, a warmth reserved only for you floods his eyes.

"Why don't you head back, I need to go find my dagger." You prompt.

Link frowns at you, "I'll stay."

"No, go ahead. You have to speak to Impa."

"She can wait." He says with a soft voice, arguing to stay by your side.

You smile, pressing another kiss to his lips. "Go on, captain, I'll meet you there."

Link sighs before he leans back in, cupping your face in one hand as he presses a kiss to your mouth a third and final time. "You better get back before dinner."

"I will."

He gives you a smile before he turns and picks up his gear.

You feel something prickle in your mind, an intuition. Danger is here.

It's somewhere to the right-

You turn, seeing the spear with just enough time to react. A desperate bid to protect your lover.

It's not thought through. You launch between the spear and Link, catching the tip through your lung with a strangled scream.

There's piercing pain and the distinct knowledge this isn't going to end well.

You land on the ground, impaled and wheezing heavily.

Link screams your name before whipping around to kill whatever threw that spear-

Time blurs as blood wells up in your mouth. You cough and wheeze.

Link falls to his knees by you. "Dove, stay with me. It's going to be okay."

"Li-nk." You croak. You know you don't have much time or strength.

Based on his face, he knows it, too.

"Lo-ve you." Your voice cracks over the words, but they are important.

Link is openly crying, shaking as he reaches for your hand. "I love you too. It's okay. It'll stop - it'll stop hurting soon."

You smile weakly-

You bolt up right with a strangled sob and an ache as if impaled through your lung.

It was a dream.

Why are you dreaming about the heroes?

Wild is the one one watch and it's his voice that asks "Are you okay?"

You whip around, eyes landing on the champion. Your still heaving shaky breaths.

Wild looks genuinely worried even as his eyes look far away.

You swallow hard.

"Just- a nightmare." You manage. "I'm- I'm fine."

He dosen’t look convinced.

-------

Dream summary: You and Warriors are in a battle. You guys finish it off and are sappy. You convince him to head back while you stay put to find your dagger, but when Wars goes to pick up his things, you are ambushed. You basically die, but it's not explicitly show, your last words to him are 'love you'. He cries.

Next

Tag list: @vrsin

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

My Heart Will Go On

bob floyd x fem!reader

Part 1

Bob never wanted to get out of the car.

The engine was still running, but the world outside was quiet except for distant birds and the soft rustle of wind through trees.

He stared at the heavy wooden doors of the chapel ahead — solid, unyielding, like the weight pressing on his chest.

Every heartbeat echoed in the hollow space where his heart used to be.

He swallowed hard and kept his hands folded tightly in his lap.

Phoenix leaned over from the passenger seat, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a gentle touch that barely broke through his wall of silence.

“You don’t have to pretend this isn’t killing you,” she murmured.

Bob’s voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes searched his face. “You’re not.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he opened the car door, the cold air rushing in like a shock.

If he stayed another second, he knew he’d turn the key, put the car in drive, and never come back.

But he didn’t.

⸻

Inside, soft murmurs floated through the bright, airy chapel.

Guests were finding their seats, whispering politely as they adjusted their dresses and suits.

Rows of pristine white flowers lined the aisle, delicate petals catching the light.

The air smelled like fresh roses and something too sweet — a scent that twisted Bob’s stomach into knots.

He took a deep breath and lowered himself carefully into the second pew.

Rooster and Fanboy flanked him like silent protectors, their faces unreadable.

Hangman stood at the aisle’s edge, arms crossed, watching with the kind of hard, steady gaze that made Bob feel less alone.

No one said a word.

They didn’t need to.

Everyone knew why Bob was here — to watch the woman he loved marry someone else.

Every night in my dreams,

I see you, I feel you,

That is how I know you go on.

His hands clenched tightly in his lap, trying not to tremble.

He had no idea how he was supposed to survive this.

⸻

Behind the heavy doors at the back of the chapel, you stood in a haze of white tulle.

Your veil brushed your cheek with each ragged, uneven breath.

Your mother fussed quietly with the train of your dress, smiling through tears she tried to hide.

“Oh, sweetheart, you look so happy.”

You tried to smile, but your lips wouldn’t obey.

Far across the distance,

And spaces between us,

You have come to show you go on.

No matter how far you tried to run, no matter how much you convinced yourself this was the right choice, your heart kept circling back to one person.

Bob.

The doors opened.

⸻

Bob thought he was ready.

He wasn’t.

You stepped into the doorway, bouquet clenched so tight your knuckles had gone white.

Your eyes — shining, wet — found his immediately.

His entire world turned inside out.

Near, far, wherever you are,

I believe that the heart does go on.

You took one step forward. Then another.

With every inch you moved closer to the altar, Bob felt the world slip further away.

⸻

Your fiancé stood waiting, looking calm and certain.

Bob envied him and hated him all at once.

You reached the end of the aisle.

Your father pressed a kiss to your cheek, pride shining in his eyes.

The officiant smiled warmly as you took your place across from the man everyone thought you’d chosen.

Bob bowed his head, unable to meet your gaze.

Once more, you open the door,

And you’re here in my heart,

And my heart will go on and on.

⸻

The officiant’s voice cut through the ringing silence in Bob’s ears.

“We gather today to join these two in matrimony…”

The words blurred into meaningless noise.

He noticed only the way your hand trembled in your fiancé’s grasp.

The slight shaking of your shoulders.

The way your eyes darted back to the pews — searching.

Searching for him.

⸻

“Do you, Daniel, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Bob held his breath, the room shrinking down to a pinpoint of silence.

“I do.”

Your fiancé’s voice was clear, unwavering.

The officiant turned toward you.

“And do you—”

Your hand slipped from Daniel’s.

The room fell completely silent.

Bob felt every eye swing to you like a spotlight.

Your lip quivered uncontrollably.

Tears spilled down your face in quiet, heartbreaking streams.

⸻

Love can touch us one time,

And last for a lifetime,

And never let go ’til we’re gone.

The officiant’s voice softened.

“Do you take this man…”

You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth and shook your head once. Twice.

“I—I can’t.”

Daniel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

A broken sob tore through your chest.

“I can’t.”

⸻

Gasps rippled through the chapel.

Bob went cold all over, every nerve raw and exposed.

Daniel’s voice sharpened, laced with anger.

“What the hell are you saying?”

Your voice cracked under the weight of it all.

“I’m sorry. I thought—I thought if I tried hard enough, I could be who you needed.”

You wiped your tears with trembling fingers.

“But I can’t. Because there are three people in this marriage. And it isn’t fair to you.”

Daniel’s jaw clenched tight.

“Who is it?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

Love was when I loved you,

One true time I’d hold to,

In my life, we’ll always go on.

You opened your eyes and looked straight at Bob.

⸻

The entire chapel seemed to turn toward him.

Bob sat frozen, heart thundering in his chest.

“Floyd?” Daniel spat. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You sobbed harder, shoulders shaking with the weight of the truth.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I can’t pretend I don’t love him.”

Daniel’s face twisted in fury.

“You’d throw this away for that pathetic bastard?”

Hangman rose slowly, voice cold and low.

“You better watch your mouth.”

Rooster stood beside him, arms crossed, a wall of silent strength.

Daniel laughed, ugly and scornful.

“I’m more of a man than he’ll ever be.”

⸻

Bob stood, because he couldn’t bear sitting a second longer.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, voice breaking. “Not here.”

Daniel’s nostrils flared, fury radiating from every pore. “Stay out of this!”

“Hey,” Hangman barked, stepping forward. “You have a problem, you take it outside.”

Daniel lunged forward.

Bob barely had time to brace before Hangman intercepted, shoving him back.

The pews erupted in shouts and gasps.

People rose to their feet, some grabbing their phones, others holding their breath.

Near, far, wherever you are,

I believe that the heart does go on.

⸻

Amid the chaos, you stood alone at the altar, trembling, sobbing.

Your bouquet slipped from your grasp, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

Your veil loosened and slipped from your hair.

You pressed your hand over your chest as if trying to hold your heart together.

Bob took a slow step toward you.

And then another.

Until your tear-filled eyes met his, shimmering red and full of pain.

And you took a step toward him.

⸻

Once more, you open the door,

And you’re here in my heart,

And my heart will go on and on.

Hangman threw Daniel back into Rooster’s arms and turned sharply to Bob, voice cutting through the noise.

“Get your girl and get the hell out of here.”

Bob reached out, hand shaking.

You didn’t hesitate.

You took his hand like it was the only thing you trusted.

⸻

As you turned your back on the ruined flowers, the stunned faces, the life you were supposed to want, Bob pulled you close.

And for the first time, he didn’t care who saw.

Because some love didn’t end at the altar.

It didn’t end at all.

You’re here, there’s nothing I fear,

And I know that my heart will go on.

[woradat]

Dear, memories #5

<- back — PT5 (here) — next ->

NOTE - there's a slightly twisted romance scene here, if that's what you're going to call it

.

.

That night, you barely slept at all — thanks to Tarn’s words gnawing at your mind like a virus you couldn’t debug. Maybe he was just messing with you. After all, he was a deranged psychopath who seemed to take particular joy in scrambling other people's processors. Yeah, that must’ve been it. And it’s not like you could ever relax enough to fall into a full recharge while stuck deep in enemy territory anyway

Instead, you spent those sleepless hours inspecting your temporary quarters. The room was... weirdly nice. Too nice. There was even an Energon dispenser and a rack wash. A real cell wouldn’t bother with luxuries like that

Still, even with your energy levels scraping the bottom of the barrel, you wouldn’t dare touch the Energon the DJD so thoughtfully provided. Nobody had to teach you not to accept gifts from an enemy — it was the kind of thing any bot with a functioning logic circuit just knew

It took a good while to clean yourself up. Some of the burns were bad enough that scrubbing didn’t help much; replacement might be the only option if you ever wanted to shine again — not that your appearance was your top priority right now

That door could open at any moment, from anyone who knew the code. And that fact gnawed at you harder than the worst energon-deprivation hallucinations

Oh, and bugs, of course — cameras, mics, monitoring devices. You’d torn the place apart looking for them and, strangely enough, found nothing. Either they didn't bother installing any surveillance, or they hid it with terrifying skill. Neither thought was particularly comforting

You finally collapsed onto the recharge slab, exhausted, overwhelmed, spiraling through the madness of everything that had happened. It was all too fast. Too brutal

Your family — or the closest thing you dared call a family was just... gone. Erased. Wiped out in the ugliest way possible. Supreme Red's final moments were burned into your mind, and he hadn't even had the dignity of a clean end

"Pit-spawned slag..."

They always said happy moments were short-lived. Turns out they were right — and you hated them for it

Now, finally, your optics shuttered, despite every part of you screaming to stay awake. You clung to the childish hope that when you rebooted, it would all have been some awful nightmare. You knew it wouldn’t be. But denial was a processor’s last desperate defense

—

Tarn, meanwhile, was in an unusually good mood

He was still a demanding perfectionist when it came to reports, sure — but today he was a little less obsessed about triple-checking every comma. If you listened closely, you might even catch him humming. Humming. Like some sadistic wretch who had something very, very nice to look forward to

Everyone aboard the ship had a fair guess why. It probably had something to do with the new "guest" he'd dragged back after the latest hunt

With the List shrinking to an almost depressing length, having a new suspect was practically a holiday. Oddly, Tarn insisted on interrogating the new prisoner personally — even though Helex and Tesarus would’ve happily ripped the poor bot to shreds without him lifting a digit. Usually, Tarn preferred to leave that kind of mess to them. He had "better things to do" he would say

But not this time

The towering figure, practically radiating sanctimonious doom, stalked the halls at a pace that was almost leisurely — like he had all the time in the galaxy (Which, to be fair, he probably thought he did)

The door to your room slid open with a cheerful fwoosh

And there he was: the esteemed tyrant himself

You — having barely snatched a few hours of fraught, dream-haunted rest — bolted awake at the noise, your systems already snapping into high alert. No way you were lowering your guard, not even half-dead from exhaustion

"I see you're awake" Tarn said, voice smooth as spiked Energon

"I trust the accommodations are.. acceptable?” he turned toward the Energon dispenser, inspecting it casually

"I had it stocked for you.." he said over his shoulder, voice dripping mock affection "A little hospitality to ease your transition”

Transition to what, he didn't say

He didn't have to

Tarn watched you for a long moment, as if meticulously weighing some dark and heavy judgment in that deranged mind of his. His crimson optics glowed faintly, flickering with a strange glint — half amusement, half something much harder to name

inside, he was just as much a battlefield as you were

He should hate you — hate you so completely that the mere sight of you would drive him to grind you into a heap of shattered metal beneath his heel. He should laugh while you struggled, thrash like a fool beneath his grasp

And yet

Something about you — the way you still stood there, stubborn, unbroken, glaring right back at him without a flicker of submission — twisted that frigid core of his into something far more volatile. Something he refused to name, lest it crack him open from the inside

"you act.. as if we’re strangers - as if we never bled in the same dirt"

Tarn said at last, his voice a slow, menacing rumble as he closed the distance between you. He tilted his head, scrutinizing you with a masked face that should have hidden everything... and yet, his burning optics gave him away. They betrayed more than any careless word ever could – He laughed, a soft, hollow sound — the kind of laugh the dead might make if they still remembered what it felt like to be alive

"I wonder why" he mused, almost wistfully

You stayed silent, processor burning to connect dots that stubbornly refused to fit. This mech — he was nothing like anyone you had ever known... and yet, there was something so terribly, achingly familiar about him

“What are you trying to pull?" you hissed, your voice sharp enough to cut. You weren't just lashing out—you were doing it with precision, calculated cruelty honed by every hell you’d survived. "Some pathetic mind game? You think throwing ghosts in my face is going to break me?”

Tarn didn’t even flinch

He laughed again — a soft, awful thing

"As if I need tricks to break you," he said almost lazily "You’re already cracking, my dear”

Slowly, deliberately, he braced one hand against the wall beside your head — not touching you, not yet, but crowding you in a way that made every alarm in your system scream. He tilted his head again, optics boring into you, as if he could peel back every defensive layer you had and sift through the wreckage underneath

"Tell me something..." he murmured, so low you almost had to strain to hear him

"Do you think it’s true? That anyone can be a monster.. once they think no one's watching? how cruel we could be at the time..”

You blinked — a sudden, ice-cold shiver running down your spinal strut. There it was. A past you had tried desperately to bury, a truth you never wanted dragged into the light

How the hell did he know?

Tarn stood utterly still, watching the subtle stiffening of your frame with a satisfaction that twisted itself into something raw and self-destructive inside him. He should have felt triumphant, seeing you rattle. Instead, what coiled in his spark was a sickening, wretched yearning — the desperate, hollow need for you to see him. To remember. To understand, even for a fleeting second, that he had once existed in your world... and maybe, just maybe, had mattered more than you ever knew

.

.

You didn't shrink away

You didn’t lower your gaze, didn’t fumble for excuses or mercy like some crumbling thing — no. You held your ground like the stubborn, reckless fool you were, staring down the monster in front of you with the kind of suicidal bravery that had always gotten you into trouble, but never, ever earned you regret

Tarn loomed over you, the low thrum of his systems a suffocating presence that scraped against every sensor you had like nails down your neural struts, and for a moment, it would have been so easy to cave — to let the tide of him wash over you and drown whatever scraps of defiance you had left

But you didn’t

Instead, you tilted your helm just slightly, just enough to make it clear you weren’t the one who was going to look away first,

and you let your words slip free like poison from a fresh wound

"What’s the matter, Tarn?" you said, voice so sweet it could have rotted teeth,

"Did the little god of justice finally realize the only thing worse than being hated is being forgotten?"

The flash in his optics was immediate — quick, sharp, dangerous — but you pressed on, reckless and ruthless and past the point of caring if you came out of this alive or in pieces

"You wrap yourself in all this pomp and ritual like it's going to make anyone forget what you really are underneath — a scared, angry little glitch with a voice louder than his own damn conscience"

Your lip curled into something too bitter to be called a smile "You think I don’t see it? All that noise you make about purity and order — it’s just static to drown out the fact that you’re still just some broken thing trying to make the whole damn universe hurt as much as you do"

You didn’t give him time to cut you off.

You shoved yourself closer, close enough that you could feel the electric field of his rage crackling against your plating, and still, still, you didn’t stop

"Come on, Tarn. Be honest for once in your miserable existence"

"You don't want justice. You want an audience. You want someone to watch you tear the world apart and clap for you while you do it" You leaned in, your voice dropping into a whisper so poisonous it could have eaten through steel

"Well congratulations, you found someone who remembers you. Pity it’s not the way you wanted"

.

.

The silence that followed was monstrous

A brutal, thrumming thing that seemed to eat up the thin, recycled air around you

Tarn didn’t move

Didn’t speak

But the way his optics burned —

the way every cable in his massive frame seemed drawn tight enough to snap — it told you you’d driven the knife home. Deep — All the way to the hilt and for the first time in a very long time, you thought – maybe

you were finally the one holding the leash

At least for now

For a moment, there was nothing. No words. No movement. Just the low, gut-wrenching hum of Tarn’s vents cycling air through a body wound too tight to function properly

You could practically hear it — the snap of a hair-thin wire inside him, twanging apart under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying

And yet, instead of lashing out —

instead of crushing you against the wall the way you half-expected, half-dared him to —

Tarn laughed

Softly

A low, rasping sound that crawled up your back and wrapped icy fingers around your spark

It wasn't the laugh of someone who had been bested. It was the laugh of someone who had just found a new kind of weapon

"Oh" he said, voice so disturbingly gentle it made your internals twist "There you are"

He moved then slow, deliberate, like a predator who had all the time in the world to enjoy the inevitable. One hand lifted, not to strike, but to hover — just hover beside your helm, claws ghosting close enough to brush the heat of your field but never quite making contact

It was worse than if he’d grabbed you.

It was intimate in a way that made your struts want to lock up from the inside out

"You really shouldn’t have reminded me" Tarn murmured, almost tenderly, as if he were discussing the weather and not slicing your defenses apart one poisoned word at a time

"I was willing to let the past rot quietly. You, on the other hand..."

His optics flared a little brighter, the bloody glow of them cutting through the cold space between you.

"You insist on digging up old graves just to see what crawls out"

The tension in the room was unbearable, a pressure that made your joints scream, made the thin nerves in your frame shudder under the weight of a war you couldn’t see but could feel—

deep, electric, ancient

Tarn leaned in closer, his masked face so near now that you could see the slight imperfection in the paint across his mask, like a scar he chose to wear openly

"You’re brave, as always.." he whispered, the words a mockery and a eulogy all at once.

"Brave enough to strike at a monster and call it justice. Brave enough to think you’ll get away with it"

His servo shifted just slightly, brushing the wall beside your helm with the barest scrape of metal-on-metal — a threat, a promise, a terrible, exquisite mercy held back only by the thinnest thread of control

You could feel it. How close he was to snapping. How close he was to something worse than simple violence

But you didn't move

Didn't flinch

Because you knew — if you gave him that, even an inch, you'd lose everything you had fought to build inside yourself

So you stood your ground

And Tarn —

Tarn just smiled, a slow, chilling thing you could feel rather than see, before finally stepping back, leaving a vacuum where his oppressive presence had been

"Sleep well, little ghost" he murmured as he turned away, voice dripping with dark amusement "You'll need it"

The door hissed closed behind him with a finality that sounded too much like a death sentence

And you stood there —

alive, victorious, and yet somehow, somehow, more trapped than you had ever been

[theonottsbxtch]

the echo | no driver

an: to every girl who’s ever felt invisible, who’s ever compared herself to someone else and wished for a life that feels just out of reach, this is for you. i see you. i see the way you shrink yourself to fit in, the way you laugh when it hurts, and the nights you lie awake wondering if you’re enough. you are. you don’t have to be shiny or flawless or perfect to be worthy of love and belonging. your worth isn’t defined by someone else’s spotlight or the life you think you should be living. you are more than the roles you play, more than the shadows you hide in. you are whole, exactly as you are, messy, brilliant, and beautifully human. this was written after watching too many girls get lost chasing a life that isn’t theirs, after feeling that ache myself, and knowing that it’s okay to not be okay. so please, be gentle with yourself. you’re not alone, and you are deeply, profoundly enough. with all my heart, ann <3

summary: she was never meant to be seen, just a shadow in a world obsessed with shine. watching someone else live the life she dreamed of, she learns what it means to lose herself. a quiet reckoning in the glittering chaos of fame, love, and loss. sometimes, the world ending is only the beginning.

the echo, a monologue

i never meant to vanish.

i was just trying to shrink, quiet enough to be liked, clever enough to be useful, pretty in the way that doesn’t threaten anyone.

i laughed when they needed me to. i nodded when they spoke over me. i kept my hunger folded inside my chest like a secret i’d never earned the right to confess.

i don’t think anyone’s ever really looked at me. not properly. not the kind of look that says i see you, even the ugly bits. they glance. they skim.

they call me sweet, call me funny, call me strong. never beautiful. never enough.

there was this girl once. the kind who floats into a room and rearranges the air. lacy, or someone like her.

she didn’t need to be anything but herself to be adored.

and i hated her for it. and i wanted to be her. and i wanted her to notice me, to see the pitiful ache crawling out my eyes.

but how could she? i’d made myself a shadow on purpose.

sometimes i think i’ve become a museum of all the ways i’ve failed to be loved.

every smile, a performance. every silence, a scream no one ever heard.

i keep trying to stitch myself into something tolerable, something soft and sweet and easy to want.

but i only ever feel like paper. thin, tearable, temporary.

i’m tired of being an echo in other people’s stories.

i’m tired of watching life happen to everyone else.

but mostly, i’m tired of myself.

and the worst part is, i know i did this. i let it happen. i helped it happen.

i made the bed.

the echo, the story

She wasn’t invited, of course. But she knew exactly where to stand to be seen without being noticed.

The paddock was all polished concrete and curated chaos, mechanics rushing, publicists smoothing, photographers pouncing. Every inch of it smelt like money disguised as masculinity. Somewhere behind the barriers, engines grumbled like beasts waiting to be unleashed. But louder than all of it was the laughter, hers. Lacy’s.

She stood at his side, golden and effortless, dressed like she hadn’t tried, which meant she’d tried harder than anyone else. Flat stomach, glossed lips, hand curled around his bicep like she was something he’d won. The cameras loved her. Of course they did. So did the girls on TikTok. So did the commentators. So did he.

No one remembered the girl who came before the camera.

The girl who stood back, beneath the awning, hidden behind a pair of borrowed sunglasses. She’d returned the access pass to a friend’s assistant with a smile and a thank you. She hadn’t come to cause a scene. She’d come to see if she still existed in this world at all.

She didn’t. 

It was strange, watching someone live the life that used to be yours, only cleaner, shinier, more Instagrammable. Lacy was all angles and adoration, dressed in the latest drop, sipping something expensive with the kind of pout that suggested she’d never cried over him. Not once. Not even in secret.

The girl before the camera had cried. On planes, in hotel bathrooms, in the back of tinted SUVs. And he’d always kissed her forehead after. Not her lips. Her forehead. Like she was fragile. Like she was already fading.

She caught her reflection in a sponsor board, smeared eyeliner, wind-wrecked hair, the ghost of who she used to be. She remembered the first time he called her baby, the last time he called her darling, and how everything in between felt like a race she never knew she was losing.

She had made herself quiet. Digestible. Easy to love in public, easier to discard in private. And when it ended, it ended like it had never really started. No statement. No scandal. Just Lacy showing up on his grid post a month later, like the new tyres they put on the car, flashier, faster, better suited to win.

And still she missed him. Not the boy. The world.

The world where people looked at her like she mattered. Where she was part of the story, even if only the background. Even if she was only ever there to make the next girl look like an upgrade.

A photographer brushed past her, calling Lacy’s name with that syrupy charm. She turned, posed, kissed the driver’s cheek. The paddock lapped it up. So did he.

The girl before the camera stood still.

No one noticed her leave.

The hotel wasn’t the same one the teams stayed in. Hers was quieter, tucked behind a row of tired trees and a car park that smelt faintly of petrol and regret. She liked it for its anonymity. No marble lobby, no press lurking, no filtered sunlight. Just a kettle that wheezed when it boiled and a bed she hadn’t slept in the night before.

She slipped off her shoes the moment the door clicked shut. Padded barefoot across the threadbare carpet, shedding her coat, her sunglasses, the brave face she’d glued on since nine this morning.

It hit her slowly, like steam rising from a cup you forgot you poured. The loneliness. The reality. The fact that no one had noticed her standing there. Not the WAGs, not the team. Not even him.

She laughed. Softly, bitterly.

Once, he'd called her his grounding force. "You keep me human," he’d said, with that smile like he knew it was a line but liked how it sounded anyway. She’d believed him. Believed in the weight of her presence. In the quiet strength of being the girl who didn’t need attention to be worth something.

But they don’t want quiet, do they?

They want shiny.

They want girls like Lacy, who wear their desirability like it's built into their DNA. Who laugh without checking if it’s too loud, too much, too anything. Who never apologise for existing.

She stared at herself in the mirror above the desk. Not crying. Just looking. Really looking.

Hair unbrushed. Lipstick faded. The kind of face that’s loved when no one’s watching. She tilted her head, studying the tired girl who’d bent herself for love and was now left with a spine full of splinters.

I let them make me forget who I was

And it was true.

She’d become so obsessed with being easy to love, she’d forgotten how to just be.

Her spiral wasn’t loud. There were no broken glasses, no screaming into pillows. Just silence. A silence so thick it felt like she could choke on it. She sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the telly without switching it on, and picked at the skin near her thumbnail until it bled.

She’d made the bed. Not the hotel one, but the one she’d been lying in for months.

Made it by saying yes too often, by making herself smaller, by letting herself be invisible so someone else could shine.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t even angry at him anymore.

She was angry at herself, for wanting back in. For standing at the paddock like a ghost, hoping someone would say her name, as if that would mean she still mattered.

She pressed her palm to her chest. Felt her heartbeat. Felt it hurt.

She curled up on the bed, arms wrapped tight around her knees, as if holding herself together was the only thing left to do. The weight of all those unseen moments pressed down, thick and heavy.

She thought of him , of Lacy, of the effortless way they floated through the world she’d been desperate to belong to. Like it was all just a game she’d never quite learned the rules to. A game she’d lost without even realising it.

The world she’d built with him, shattered in a glance, a text unread, a new name whispered in the paddock crowd. She wasn’t sure how to live in the ruins. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

But in that quiet, broken moment, there was a fierce flicker, fragile, but stubborn. A spark of something beyond loss.

She closed her eyes. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself feel the ache without burying it deep. Without pretending.

Because sometimes, the world ending is just the start of something else.