#i’ve been wanting to do this for a while

[lizardho]

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about some of the people I interact with. I have a coworker who I am pretty sure is a MAGA type, and she is also a lovely woman who is dreadfully overworked and so good at connecting to patients when they call. I can see the conflict on her face when she talks to me, a gigantic tranny dork who speaks Spanish and affirms the LGBT community, but can also talk to her about her cows and knows about guns and stuff. I can see the fear in the eyes of my former Young Men’s leader when he misgenders me and realizes that I’m not an ideology but a person he has known for a long time. I can see the way my extended family stop and stutter over political discussions when they realize they are talking about me. And I don’t know why but lately it’s just made me think about my neighbor as a kid.

When we moved to Arizona, we moved next door to a lovely retired couple - John and Lucy. John was a veteran of WWII, he had an M.D. and a Ph.D. in radiology, and he LOVED us to pieces. His wife, Lucy, was a sharp and gifted woman - well spoken, very observant, and VERY clever. I just know that she used that cleverness as a mom to great effect, because with my and my siblings she always managed to find a way to send us home with candy and treats for a week despite my dad’s protests. We loved them, growing up, and even though they have long-since passed away I love them still, and I love what I learned from them.

John was, as stated, a WWII veteran. He was enlisted as a rifleman, and later as a front line medic, starting at Point Du Hoc and moving inwards to France and towards the Rhine. He let me do a report on him in 6th grade where he shared war stories with me he had kept to himself his whole life - he said it was out of respect for his friends who didn’t get to come home and tell their stories.

He said he told me because he knew I could respect the memories of his friends.

He showed me his collection of medals, and which he’d kept hidden away in a sock in his attic because he’d feel an immense grief any time he saw them. He had wanted to be a doctor his whole life, prior to being drafted he was studying medicine and had taken the Hippocratic oath to Do No Harm. He saw his medals as a reminder that he had Done Harm.

After telling me his stories he was able to convince himself that while he had Done Harm, it was only because his only other alternative was, to him, cowardice. He chose to be brave even if it meant acting against his Oath because he felt that if he didn’t do it someone else would have to go in his place and he would be responsible for the harm that befell them. I don’t think that’s true, but for him it was and that was something no being on earth could have ever dissuaded him from believing.

He shared wild stories - melee combat on the beach, clearing artillery bunkers, receiving a Purple Heart for being injured in hand-to-hand combat with a Wehrmacht rifleman he said he felt pity for because they were the same age and he had to imagine the man he was fighting had been drafted just like him.

He shared how he was awarded a Silver Star for charging a machine gun nest, but shared that he was most proud of not killing anyone in the process. He threw a grenade with the pin still in it and when the machine gunners jumped to avoid being blown up they were killed by someone else so he didn’t have to do it. He took the machine gun and shot the other machine gun in that French field to pieces so he didn’t have to kill the people operating it. He said they were giving out Silver Stars like candy but I knew he was being modest.

He told me about being redesignated as a medic, about how he crawled for about 500 yards on his belly to rescue an injured tank driver, then threw him over his back and crawled the same 500 yards back (1000 yards total) to treat his injuries. He said he met the man in an Army hospital in England after his spine was broken by a high explosive panzer shell was fired through a hollowed out French farmhouse and landed about 20 feet away from him.

He told me about all the people he helped and saved as a medic, he told me about his work in radiology and research after the war. He showed me a hallway that was quite literally wallpapered with academic honors he’d earned as a researcher. He told me about how his first Fourth of July back was a horror show for him because fireworks and German artillery make very similar sounds. He told me about how he woke up in a cold sweat well over half a century later hearing the screams of German artillery men being burned alive with flamethrowers, or hearing his own voice apologizing to the young German soldier he stabbed in the heart at Point Du Hoc.

He told me that when he was asked to present at a medical conference in Germany 25 years after the war ended that he was so scared he couldn’t step off the plane, and that his wife had to hold his hand and lead/pull him with her. He said he was not scared because he was worried about being triggered, but because he knew that someone somewhere outside of that plane had the course of their life irreparably altered by his military service. That to someone out there he was the cause of immense suffering and harm. That some unwitting waiter could be the son of the Nazi Officer he stabbed in the heart with a 12-inch hunting knife. That some woman asking questions in the audience would be the daughter or widow of a man he sent to judgement with a .30-06. He was scared that they would hate him.

He knew what the Nazi’s had done, he knew better than anyone I’d ever met. He’d watched the documentaries, he’s seen the PoWs returning from camps, he’d seen the civilians massacred and tortured by their regime, but he also knew that among the monsters were people like him - idealistic 20-somethings who only wanted to make the world better and were ripped away from that life by the Nazi war machine. And he spent his whole life mourning the loss of innocence and peace that was forced on so many people by such a corrupt power.

To be honest I don’t know if I could do that, but he could. He told me he could still feel the dead and lost with him, both when he slept and when he woke. He told me he thought he’d go to his grave never having told a word of this to anyone. That the stories of him and his friends and allies would disappear silently with him and those like him. That he had wanted that until he realized that he didn’t have to sell out to share the stories - that he could give the stories away for free to someone who would love the people in them, and not just the content of them. He didn’t want his stories to be used as Patriotic Pornography by some TV network or magazine. He wanted the people he knew to be respected, he wanted their memories to be honored and loved, and he entrusted me, a 12-year-old “boy” to do that.

He told me for years afterwards that after telling me these stories that he slept better than he ever had. That by sharing the stories with someone who could hear Him over the din of victory and glory and honor and revisionistic history. Someone who could see the man in the story and not just see the plot of a battle being won. He wanted to be human, and he wanted the people he saw die to be human too - everyone, not just the people on his side. He wanted someone to see and to know the anguish of having to look someone in the eye as heartblood muddies the ground beneath them and hope that they understand that this was not an act of love or hatred but an act of desperation. To hope that you had just taken out One Of The Bad Ones instead of a medical student or a poet who had been drafted. He wanted me to see how hard he had worked since then to build a world without scarcity, to build a world of peace. He wanted me to know SO badly that the cost of violence, any violence, even necessary violence, is always ALWAYS paid by both parties involved.

I think about the rise of the new right wing - the new Nazi movement’s traction in politics, and I feel sad and scared - the world that Johnathan J Yobaggy, my neighbor, my friend, and my hero, worked SO hard to build is being done away with by people who do not understand the cost of the path they are entering. I can see brief moments of recognition in the eyes of some of the people I mentioned - The former young men’s president who immediately regrets misgendering me and hen he makes eye contact with me and sees Me staring back at him and not a faceless “ideology.” I can hear it in the voice of my uncle who quietly comes up to me to apologize for some homophobic comment he made absentmindedly. I can see it in the eyes of racists and sexists being interviewed on TV when they realize that they didn’t vote for a concept, they voted for a real thing. And honestly, I have mixed emotions about it. Because while I understand frustration with the status quo, the importance of basic human needs like affordable good and rent, and I know the fear that comes with feeling powerless, I also can’t help but grieve the endless wheel of history bringing us back to this God Damned Fucking Place again. I hope we can avoid this fate, not just for our sake but for the sake of everyone who has ever tried to make the world safer. For everyone who has ever tried to make up for human nature, for everyone who has ever placed themselves on the offering plate to protect others from the cruelty they know lies just under the surface of mankind’s tenuous grip on progress. I want SO badly for there to be a solution to this, for the people who idolize the Nazi party and the impact of fascism to see that the price of this path is paid in more than just blood but in soul. That they’re allowing themselves to be devoured too. I want for the centrists and the fence sitters and the idealists who want to “change it from the inside” to see how dangerous our politics have become. I want them to see that they’re losing the things that make them great in exchange for a security blanket that’s now become far far far too small to ever work for them again.

Safety found in the past is already gone, and safety found in the future is only as real as a daydream. That any ideology that promises that by “joining us now we’ll make things rough so we can make things safe in a decade” is a promise made by those who will not have to fight the battles they send you to.

I don’t know if America was ever really great, but as long as John was alive it felt great to me. There is no ideology that can replace a neighbor. No tax plan that can replace a friend. No grocery bill that can replace community and connection. No amount of budget cuts that can replace kindness. No amount of suffering from people I hate that will ever make more love. I don’t know how to make America great, but I know how to make my America great and it is not by selling out integrity and compassion and community and fucking humanity to make eggs and gas cheaper. It is by seeing and hearing the people around me. I’m not Mormon anymore, but I still know the value of mourning with those that mourn and comforting those that stand in need of comfort. I’m not Christian anymore but I still have Eyes That Can See and Ears That Can Hear. I want to make this all stop but I can’t stop the collective power of tens of millions of people so instead I listen to my MAGA coworker tell me about how sick her kid was last week. I make jokes with my Young Men’s leader. I hug my uncle. I let them see me fully, as a human and not an ideology. As a woman and not the concept of gender. As a whole person and not someone who can be easily summarized or boiled down into something short and quippy. And I let them know I can see them fully too, and I can see all their humanity as easily as they can see mine. I just have to hope that this works - that enough people can See and Hear the people in their lives who matter to them to bring them out of their personal world of forms and into the real world.

I am probably, honestly, just spiraling a little bit. I took my ADHD meds today and in addition to helping me focus they make me a little anxious so I doubt things are as bad right now as they seem. But just in case there’s any truth to the way things seem to be going, remember, and I mean this seriously: Be kinder to each other, be gayer, and read more Terry Pratchett.

And for the love of god day hello to your neighbor.

[fushitoru]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader  word count: 2.4k notes: part 3 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack WAYYYYY fluffier than the prequel — a gift to me and all of you. Also I think this might be the last part??? unless any of you have questions or one shots you want to hear about these two 🥹

You’re late to Beau’s baseball game. Not wildly—just enough that your pulse is up, your hair’s a mess, and you feel that twist in your chest that only happens when Jack gets there first.

You scan the bleachers, hand shielding your eyes. He’s easy to spot. Legs stretched out, ball cap pulled low, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. One arm draped across the bench beside him, claiming space.

Of course he saved you a spot.

“Christ,” you mutter, flopping into the seat beside him. “It’s mid-April. Why is it still so cold?”

Without missing a beat, Jack tilts his head toward the parking lot but reaches down at his feet. “There’s a coat in the car, but I’ve got a blanket here.”

He pulls out a slightly-rumpled camping blanket and offers it without looking—like this is just what you do now. Like he’s still the guy who knows when you’re cold before you say it.

You shake your head, tugging the sweatshirt you’ve been holding over your head.

“I’m good. Just needed this.”

Jack turns. Looks. And comically blinks.

It’s the team hoodie. The one the team mom handed out last week. Big enough to swallow you whole. Team logo on the chest. But it’s the back that gets him—ABBOT in bold block letters, above Beau’s number: 4.

You pretend not to notice how he’s staring. Pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips when his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“God,” he finally breathes. “You could’ve warned a guy.”

You smirk, tugging the sleeves down over your hands. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, low and hoarse. “You realize that, right?”

“It’s not like I put your name on it for you, Jack. There’s no player with my last name. I’m supporting our kid.”

His eyes drag down your body again—slower this time. Less surprised. More… appreciative.

“Right,” he says, blinking slow. “Supporting Beau. Totally normal. Not suggestive at all.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. It’s a losing game—trying not to feel everything you’re feeling. Want. Nostalgia. The sharp edges of maybe.

“He’s almost up to bat.”

Jack lifts his phone like he’s just remembered he has it. “Gotta document the moment. Hold still.”

You hear the shutter click.

“Send that to Robby and I’m never wearing it again.”

He grins as he taps the screen. “Too late. It’s already in the group chat. Dana’s gonna combust.”

You groan, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. “You’re such a menace.”

But you feel his gaze still on you. Heavy. Intent. Like he’s remembering the nights he used to get to see you in nothing but one of his sweatshirts—and wondering if this counts.

He nudges your knee with his. “You know, it’s not too late to get one with your last name on the back.”

You glance sideways.

“I mean it.” His voice softens. The grin tugs at his mouth, but his eyes are steady. “You wear my name like that again, I might get ideas.”

Your breath catches—just for a second.

You look away, toward the field, voice deliberately casual. “Let’s just focus on the game, Romeo.”

But he leans in, not quite touching, his breath warm against your ear.

“Sure,” he murmurs. “For now.”

And when Beau steps up to the plate, Jack sits back with one arm stretched casually across the bench behind you, fingertips grazing the letters printed across your back.

–

The next weekend is Beau’s half-birthday—his idea, obviously—and while you and Jack didn’t plan a full-blown party, somehow it’s turned into one.

Robby’s manning the grill like he’s auditioning for Food Network.. A couple of interns are tossing a ball with Beau and his friends on the lawn. You’re watching from the shade with a drink in hand.

Jack sits beside you, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. And it kind of is.

“You need anything?” he asks.

You hum a soft no, your shoulder brushing his.

Across the yard, Dana lowers her sunglasses and stares you down as she approaches.

“Well, well, well.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Look at you two. Domestic as hell.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Jack mutters, sliding his arm around your waist.

Dana smirks. “No, I say that like I’m preparing a toast for the wedding.”

You roll your eyes.

“Not yet,” Robby calls from the grill. “But someone got tagged in a very cozy park bench photo last week.”

Jack winces. “Jesus.”

“It’s okay,” you say, leaning into him. “People were always going to talk. At least now it’s about something we’re proud of.”

He glances at you—really looks—and nods once.

Just then, one of the neighborhood moms hustles over, diaper bag slung low. “Do you mind watching the baby for a few? Would love to pee in peace for the first time in years.”

“Been there,” you say, arms already out. “Take all the time you need.”

You settle with the baby, Jack beside you, the baby nestled against your chest. Comfortable silence settles between you.

“Now is this grill a time machine?” Robby shouts. “Feels like we’ve turned back the clock five years.”

Jack chuckles, leaning in to nibble the baby’s socked foot. “Yeah. I miss this age.”

You hesitate, heart in your throat. You’ve been dealing with major baby fever lately—but you never thought you'd get to feel this again. Not with him. Not here.

You bite the bullet. “Always thought I’d have two or three, y’know?”

Jack hums. “Never even thought I’d have one. But after Beau, I figured we’d end up with a whole football team.”

A neighborhood kid runs up and squints at you. “Mrs. Abbot… is this your baby?”

You laugh. “Nope, this is Mrs. Turner’s baby. I’m just holding her. My only baby is Beau—and he’s all grown up now.”

The kid nods solemnly and runs off.

“Tough crowd,” you murmur.

You turn—and find Jack still watching you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a quiet look on his face, “...you didn’t correct her on the last name.”

“She’s four. It's a bit complex to explain that yes, my son’s last name is Abbot, but mine isn’t.”

His lip quirks. You nudge his shoulder gently with yours.

–

It’s Beau’s Pre-K graduation and he’s somewhere outside, bounding around in his paper cap with the usual crew.

Inside, you’re balancing a lukewarm coffee in one hand and a paper plate of grocery store cookies in the other. Someone’s mid-way through an impassioned pitch about why you should join the PTA next year.

Jack’s at your side—polished enough for a school event, sleeves rolled, one too many button undone, looking every bit like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Present in a way that feels new. Like he wants people to know he’s here, with you.

You barely even catch the name slip: “So nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s hand finds your hip, giving it a firm, familiar squeeze.

You smile without missing a beat.

The conversation wraps. You make polite excuses. You and Jack step out into the hallway toward the playground.

Behind you, the buzz of small talk fades.

“Felt kinda nice, didn’t it?” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I knew you were going to make a comment.”

You turn the corner—and he catches you. One arm braced against the wall, the other slipping around your waist, pinning you gently between him and the cinderblock.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “They called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t flinch.”

You shrug, breath hitching when he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” he says, lips skating down your jaw, “you keep playing this game, it’s gonna give me ideas.”

“Maybe I want you to get ideas,” you whisper, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

His mouth finds yours again—firmer this time. Slower.

Footsteps echo down the far end of the hallway.

You both break apart, laughing quietly.

“Down, boy” you say, smoothing your hair. “We’ve got a graduate to wrangle.”

Jack grins, still close. “For the record, Mrs. Abbot has a real nice ring to it.”

You laugh, “There are worse last names to be stuck with”.

But when he laces your fingers together and leads you out into the sun, you don’t let go.

–

It’s the last month of Beau’s summer break when you head out to the lake. Your parents will be there. Your sister and her kids. Jack’s brother and his family are driving in, too.

You’re panicking, of course. Jack is cool as a cucumber. Beau’s bouncing off the walls with excitement about a whole week of cousin chaos.

You gave your family a stern talk before you left. Be nice. You love him. Beau loves him. He’s doing the work. He’s different now. You’re making it work—and yeah, you’re scared—but you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been.

Naturally, you three are the last to arrive. Of course it’s your fault. One final Zoom dragged long and you left straight from Pittsburgh with your laptop still warm in your bag.

The cabin is palatial. Jack found it. He definitely went over budget, but you know he’d never charge your family. It’s just who he is now—present, generous, steady.

You send Jack and Beau to the backyard with the others while you start unpacking.

A soft knock on the doorframe makes you glance up. Your sister walks in and flops dramatically on the bed.

“Okay,” she says. “You didn’t tell me you replaced your ex with a well-adjusted clone. Where’d Dr. McBroody go?”

You laugh. “I know. It’s weird. You guys didn’t know him when we first started dating. He’s… back. The guy I fell in love with. I didn’t think I’d get that again.”

She hums, skeptical. “Then why are you still keeping him at arm’s length?”

“What?”

“Just trying to figure out why you’re still holding back when he keeps proving himself—over and over—from what I’ve heard and seen with my own two eyes.”

You glance out the window. Jack’s lifting Beau to dunk over the older cousins, both of them laughing.

You sigh. “I’m scared. I can’t go through that again.”

She softens. “You can’t live like that. Cut the poor man some slack. Either go all in, or cut him loose. But don’t keep him in limbo. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” you murmur, following her downstairs.

It’s a surprise when Jack books dinner for just the two of you on the last night of the trip. At the waterfront place you told him your parents went to every summer.

“You’ve got a house full of babysitters,” your dad says, shooing you out the door. “Go enjoy yourselves. Beau’ll be asleep before you’re back.”

It’s a quick drive, and Jack reaches for your hand over the console as soon as you hit the main road. His palm is a little clammy. Yours too.

“I think this might be the best week of my life,” you say, squeezing his hand.

He’s quieter than usual. But relaxed. Smiling.

At the restaurant, he rounds the car to open your door, hand warm on your lower back as he leads you in.

“Reservation for Abbot.”

“Ah yes—right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

You give him a look. “You paid them to say that.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he says, smug as he pulls out your chair.

Dinner is easy. Familiar. Dreamy.

“Can I ruin the moment?” you ask.

“Nothing you say could ruin this.”

“I miss Beau. He’d hate it here—no kids menu. But I love our little unit.”

“I love our unit. I love Beau. I love you.” His fingers trace absentminded circles over your ring finger.

“I love you too.”

After dinner, you walk along the beach, your head resting against his shoulder. He leads you to the edge of a quiet pier.

“You know,” he says, voice soft, “we’ve been through a lot. And yeah, I’d change so much… but also nothing. Because it all got us here. And I know we’ve talked about this, kind of, but I still wanted it to feel a little traditional—”

You blink, heart racing. “Jack…”

“Just let me finish—before you turn me down, let me say this. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying. Really trying. And I think you’ve seen that. I think—” his voice catches. “I think we can do this. For real. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears are already slipping down your cheeks. “Jack. Just ask me the question.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Oh—right. Okay.” He drops to one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. Your breath catches.

“Baby,” he says, eyes shining, “I know I don’t deserve you. But would you do me and Beau the honor of becoming an Abbot?”

You drop to your knees in front of him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” You kiss him between each word.

He slides the ring onto your finger. You kiss him again, a little breathless.

“Alright,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Let’s get you home.”

In the car, you stare down at your hand.

“This ring is perfect. It looks just like my mom’s. It’s my dream ring.”

Jack chuckles. “It’s not like it. It is your mom’s.”

“What?”

“They knew how much you loved it. They gave it to me.”

You stare.

“We still can go ring shopping if it isn't what you want. But when I told them I was going to ask… they offered it. Thought it might mean more.”

“It does,” you whisper. “They know?”

“Of course they know. And Beau knows. And your sister. My brother. Robby. Half the ER. Even the grocery store checkout lady. I haven’t shut up about it.”

You laugh as he pulls into the driveway.

The house is dark, unusually quiet after a week of family chaos.

You lean across the console to kiss him, half-climbing into his lap. He grins against your lips but gently stops you.

“Let’s get inside first.”

You cock your head. “Since when are you the voice of reason?”

He rounds the car, opens your door, and leads you inside, where the lights flip on and the entire house bursts into shouts of “CONGRATULATIONS!”

Beau barrels into your legs and you scoop him up, laughing through tears as Jack presses a kiss to your temple.And for the first time, you don’t flinch when someone calls you Mrs. Abbot. You just smile, because it’s exactly who you are now.

[heavenlybodies333]

Mile High Club -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

The jet was obscene. A floating mansion in the sky.

You gaped as the BAU team boarded the aircraft parked on a private tarmac in D.C., your heels hitting the polished wood floor with a hesitant tap. Leather seating, marble bar, private suites. An attendant handed you a glass of champagne before you even made it down the aisle.

“What the hell is this?” you muttered, spinning in place to take in the sheer scope of it. “Is this what profiling gets us now?”

Hotch gave you a rare smirk as he passed, briefcase in hand. “No. It’s what tracking a fugitive across thirty states and two continents gets us.”

The team had been summoned by the American embassy in Dubai. The unsub they’d been chasing for months—one who’d left thirty-two bodies and three different crime scene signatures in his wake—had been identified on surveillance across multiple embassies in the UAE. A rare international assignment, fully funded and far from home.

The suspect vanished two days ago. Now intel pointed to him hiding out, most likely going to kill again.

And someone—likely someone very powerful—had arranged this flight.

"Still feels like overkill," you muttered, slipping into the seat beside Reid. "We're profilers, not diplomats."

He gave you a small smile. “Well, if the killer fled to an oil-rich nation that wanted to avoid an international scandal, they might be motivated to… expedite things. Quietly.”

“Expedite,” you echoed. “Right. With lobster rolls and Egyptian cotton.”

Reid’s hand brushed yours where it rested on the seat between you. His pinky hooked around yours for just a second—barely noticeable. But you noticed. And so did Morgan.

“Damn,” Derek said, appearing out of nowhere with a bourbon in hand, eyeing the two of you with a smirk. “Either this plane’s making everyone real friendly, or I’ve missed something.”

Reid’s hand snapped back like he’d touched fire. You rolled your eyes and took a sip of champagne to hide your smile.

“Missed what, exactly?” JJ asked, raising a perfectly arched brow as she slid into the seat opposite yours with Emily.

“I think Morgan’s bored,” you said smoothly. “He’s making up romance novels in his head again.”

Emily grinned. “As long as it doesn’t end with someone getting murdered, I’m in.”

The banter helped. It always did. You’d needed it this time—God, had you needed it—because this case had been a living hell. But Spencer had been your quiet anchor the entire time. Late-night reports shared in silence.

An hour later, most of the team had dispersed. JJ and Emily had locked themselves into the in-flight spa shower suite, probably out of sheer curiosity. Rossi was drinking brandy and reading a dossier. Morgan was in the gaming lounge—yes, the gaming lounge—trying to beat a VR flight simulator and laughing too loudly. Hotch had disappeared in the private meeting suite at the front of the jet, reviewing files.

And you were standing at the open door of the bedroom in the back of the plane, staring at the bed. Plush, king-sized, with crisp sheets and ambient lighting that looked entirely too romantic for an FBI-sanctioned flight.

You didn’t turn around when you heard him step in behind you.

“I’m going to hell for what I want to do to you in there,” you said softly.

“I think about you like this,” he whispered hoarsely. “On planes. In cars. In the fucking briefing room. I think about your legs around my shoulders while Hotch is assigning tasks.”

Spencer moved fast. Faster than you thought he would—quicker than he ever did in public. One hand gripped your waist, the other tangled in your hair, and his mouth was on yours with a force that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

God, you loved it when he stopped pretending.

You kissed him hard, fingers twisting into his shirt, until the press of your bodies wasn't enough. His hand slid beneath your blouse, up your spine, over the lace clasp of your bra, and you moaned into his mouth—quiet, but not that quiet.

“Shh,” he whispered, grinning against your lips.

“I hate when you do that.”

“No you don’t,” he murmured, pushing you back onto the edge of the bed. “You love when I tell you to be quiet.”

That made you whimper. Loudly.

He hovered over you, hips pressed between your knees, and you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh. God, he was already so worked up. For you.

“Spence,” you breathed, nails biting into his shoulders. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“They could hear.”

“I know.”

You dragged him down again, desperate. His hands roamed everywhere—over your breasts, your stomach, under your skirt. You rolled your hips and ground against him, hungry now. He groaned like you’d short-circuited him, fingers sliding your panties to the side, and the moment he touched you, everything else disappeared.

He dropped to his knees, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and buried his face between your thighs like it was the last thing he’d ever do. You had to bite your wrist to keep from screaming his name. His tongue was unrelenting—years of theoretical knowledge applied in all the right places, all at once. When he slid two fingers inside you and curled them just right, your whole body tightened.

“Spence—Spencer, I’m gonna—”

He groaned low, desperate, then licked a slow, torturous path along your inner thigh, teasing the wetness already dripping down your legs. “You’re soaked.”

“Maybe I like planes,” you said, voice shaking as his tongue flicked over your clit.

He laughed against your skin. “Or maybe you like me like this.”

And when he stood, eyes wild and lips glistening, he didn’t ask. He just kissed you again, harder this time—messy, filthy—before turning you around, bending you over the silk-covered mattress, and pulling himself free from his pants.

The first push of him inside you knocked the breath from your lungs.

You both gasped.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Thrusting into you over and over, hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat over your mouth when you got too loud.

His hand muffled the broken moan that ripped from your throat as he snapped his hips harder—deeper—each thrust shaking the frame of the bed beneath you. You were gripping the silk sheets so tightly they might rip, your knuckles white, your legs trembling.

You whimpered, hips rocking back into his.

“Spencer,” you cried out, muffled by his palm. “Oh my God, I—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His fingers dug into your hips as he snapped into you harder. You were shaking, sweat slicking your skin, and when he moved his hand to your throat, gently tilting your head back so he could kiss your jaw, you came, moaning as he thrusted you full of warm cum making your eyes roll back.

The only sound in the room was the distant hum of the engines and the obscene panting of your wrecked lungs. Spencer’s weight slumped against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist, still inside you.

Then he kissed the base of your neck. Soft. Gentle. Too intimate for something that was supposed to be casual.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. His curls were a mess, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. You’d never seen him like this. You’d never seen him more beautiful.

And it hit you like a punch to the gut.

This wasn’t casual. It hadn’t been casual for a long time.

“Spence…” you whispered, suddenly breathless for a different reason.

He brushed your hair away from your face, brow furrowing like he’d heard it in your tone.

But then—like a cruel twist of fate—the door handle rattled.

Both of you froze.

“Yo, Pretty Boy?” came Morgan’s voice, way too close. “You in there? I need your brain. JJ says I can’t bet on whether or not Rossi’s gonna fall asleep with the brandy still in his hand, but I need the odds anyway.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Spencer’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, then he slowly—very slowly—pulled out of you and reached for his pants.

“I’m—uh—give me two minutes!” Spencer called, voice cracking like a damn teenager. You shoved him off with a panicked squeak. He caught himself on the coffee table, grinning like a lunatic.

You scrambled to fix your dress. He tried to tuck in his shirt.

“I swear he has a sixth sense,” you said, cheeks still flushed.

Spencer exhaled through a laugh, brushing his fingers over your thigh, then your waist, lingering like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“This thing between us…” you started, hesitant.

He looked at you, all trace of laughter gone. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s not nothing.”

You nodded, throat tight. “But it can’t be something.”

His jaw flexed. “Not yet.”

You looked at each other for a long time. Words unsaid crackled in the air. This was dangerous. It had been dangerous from the beginning. But now it was more than just lust in conference rooms and stolen moments in hotel elevators.

You weren’t sure what it was becoming. But you knew it wasn’t casual anymore.

a/n: FBI stands for Fucking Barely Incognito

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[thejackthatsmilesback]

It’s me. I am “unemployed friend” (largely due to being disabled. Yes, I’ve applied and appealed for ssi. No, they don’t want to give it to me).

Let me tell you some things I’ve been able to get up to on good pain days that aren’t obstructed by doctor’s appointments.

I’ve been to lowrider cruises

Painted at the park a few different times on a Wednesday.

The movies where I’m at is discounted on Tuesday so me and my best friend and I go semi-regularly.

There’s community engagement fairs/block party/pop-ups on the first Thursday or Friday of the month, depending on the what part of the city is putting it on and they include: drag shows, performances, bouncy houses, vendors, food trucks, dance classes, art installations and SO MUCH MORE.

You would not believe the number of sporting events that take place during the week.

My friend and I will decide on a whim to take a trip on the train to a different city and hang out there for the day then head back.

We flew to Vegas for like 5 days and I didn’t need to ask another adult for permission

Randomly ended up at the mall, and it wasn’t congested with people

Walked around the city and did lil photo shoots of each other

Gone to art gallery openings

There is SO SO MUCH MORE but I am struggling with memory right now, and tbh the point is being trapped by the withholding of shelter, food, water, healthcare, childcare, education, and the freedom to own or do things you enjoy by a system that will work you to death in order to get just a few of those things back while selling you things that will hurt you more isn’t a system that allows you to look at your “unemployed friend” with anything less than jealousy. That’s why it’s vilified/ demonized. “Oh, that person is so lazy” like omg I am literally disabled Dave, get a hobby. Or better yet, look into ways to divorce your life from the need to participate in capitalism. I didn’t choose to be someone who couldn’t contribute to the exploitation fund, my body just doesn’t work. So I chose to make the best of a bad situation and you’re mad that it looks like more fun than that security guard position and you still can’t make rent either. Tell me how that’s my fault.

I actually do feel like the "unemployed friend on a Tuesday" meme actually helps de-stigmatize unemployment because it frequently affirms that when you don't have a job you're more likely to be getting up to some weird shit rather than just lazing around. But I also feel like the unemployed friend is frequently up to some random shit because there's a whole pile of miscellaneous life tasks that full-time employment keeps people from. The unemployed friend is helping their cousin move, or babysitting, or checking in with a neighbor with mobility issues. The unemployed friend is a walking thesis on the inflexibility of our current labor landscape and just how much work exists outside of work.

[kianamaiart]

As someone who’s been on the internet for a while and has been building themselves up through social media and places like Tumblr, do you have any tips for someone new to Tumblr who’s hoping to do the same while keeping their online identity separate from their real one?

I’m planning on writing an original story and posting it on Ao3 and I want to use Tumblr as the place I promote that story and a way to help me better foster a community for the world I’m making. The main problem is that all of this is very new to me. I’ve never had a social media presence, I’ve never put a story onto the internet, and I have never engaged in anything close to an online community outside of liking things.

Is there any etiquette I should be aware of, whether that’s just general social media stuff, Tumblr specific, or even being-a-creator specific? Anything else you might think is worthwhile to bring up?

Please and thank you if you answer this, I love your work and I’m lowkey really happy I got Tumblr for this purpose because I’ve now been exposed to so much good art of yours outside of the PPPIDWTBAMG pilot (and sorry for the long ask, I’m still not used to this kind of thing lol kinda feel like a boomer with how unfamiliar this all is).

I feel like tumblr's pretty straightforward. It's one of the few social media platforms that isn't completely bogged down by an algorithm and is largely community/fandom based and truly SOCIAL media. Best tip I can give is to make friends, get involved in other communities, share your work regularly and use relevant tags 👍🏾

and thanks so much!

[bowtiepasta]

you’re hot, uncomfortable, and pinned to the mattress by 170 pounds of pro hero who’s nose is smushed into the side of your neck, mouth agape, breath fogging warm onto your cheek.

you’ve been awake for a while now, plotting the least disruptive escape route for your very full bladder.

when you move, keigo lets out a low, pitiful whine and slides his hand across your stomach, palm splaying flat just under your bra. “where’re you goin’.”

“kei,” you groan. “i have to pee.”

“no you don’t,” he mumbles, nose nuzzling into ur collarbone. “you think you do, but it’s fake.”

his fingers creep under the waistband of your shorts to rest on the dip of your hipbone. not quite anywhere inappropriate, but it isn’t exactly helping your case. “i’m keeping you warm. relax. let the pee reabsorb.”

“baby, that’s not how any of that works.”

“you’re cozy. you smell good. everything’s perfect.” he kisses the spot just below your ear, even licks it a little. “if you get up, i’ll die.”

“you can survive thirty seconds.”

he opens an eye. “bold of you to assume i want to.”

there are three cups on the nightstand. one still has a teabag floating in cold water. the other two — one from yesterday morning, one from the night before — have fingerprints smudged down the sides and tiny dust rings under them. you keep meaning to bring them to the kitchen. he keeps promising he’ll do it.

“keigo. let me go. i’m serious.”

“you’ll come back?”

“yes.”

“you promise?”

“yes..”

“love you,” he says sleepily. “stay a little.”

you purse your lips. “i’m about to flood the bed.”

“you’re being dramatic,” he slurs, eyes shut. he burrows his face deeper in your neck and rubs his foot against your calf. “stay. i was having a nice dream.”

“i’ll come back.”

“i’ll forget what you feel like by the time you do.”

“you’re such a little freak.”

“yeah?” he hums, barely awake. “you love this freak.”

you finally manage to peel his limbs — and feathers — off of you and sit up. you shuffle to the bathroom in your sleep shorts and a wrinkled shirt (his), rubbing at your eyes. when you flip on the light and glance back, he’s standing in the doorway.

more sleep than person, boxers crooked, hair flat on one side. his eyes are closed, forehead resting against the doorframe like he might fall asleep standing up. one wing drags behind him, and the other twitches like it’s still deciding whether or not to stretch.

you raise an eyebrow. “seriously?”

“jus’ makin’ sure you don’t fall in.”

“i’m not six.”

“you’re sleepy. you might slip. it’s dangerous. tile’s cold. corners are sharp. i’m being responsible.”

“i’ve been peeing by myself for like, twenty years.”

he doesn’t budge.

you do your business while he stays planted in place. a man deeply committed to making sure you don’t disappear in the 45 seconds it takes to pee. cute..?

when you finish and wash your hands, he finally stirs.

he finds your hand in the dark hallway. his fingers thread through yours, and you let him pull you back toward the bedroom, barefoot on the wooden floors.

“c’mere,” he rasps out, lashes stuck together.

you crawl in beside him and he drags you down no trouble. his leg is immediately back where it was, hand sliding back under your shirt like it never left. the other flops over your ribs and stays there.

“i was cold,” he mumbles.

“we were apart for two minutes.”

“longest two minutes of my life.”

[docrobinavitch]

sacraments of healing

dr. robby x f!attending!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, ANGST, swearing, no real medical stuff in this one besides a single cut and some sutures, family trauma, complicated mother/daughter dynamic, sibling death, grief, childhood trauma, mentions of physical/emotional childhood abuse, age gap (reader is about 34 i had to do the math to get the timeline right as you'll see, robby is probably like 53-54 here) words: 8.7K synopsis: loosely inspired by episode 2x06 of the bear (fishes) so if we have any bear stans here hi how are ya! reader is an attending at the pitt, did her residency under adamson, a fellowship in boston, and now has been back at the pitt for roughly two years. her and robby have been dating for the entirety of those two years, but have been working together since she was a resident (with the exception of her fellowship). robby insists on meeting her family when her mother reaches out to him via facebook and a nightmare ensues!! a/n: hi! thank you for all the love you've given but i stayed anyway, truly means the world to me. i hope you enjoy this one, tho i feel it is a bit niche so no worries if not!! please please note the content warnings and don't read if you think it'll bother you. ok talk soon.

“So,” Robby parked himself next to you at the hub while you looked up at the board, “Christmas Eve, are you picking me up or should I come get you?”

You frowned and turned to him, “What are you talking about?”

“The Feast of the Seven Fishes. At your parents’ place.”

You choked out a laugh and started walking towards a patient room, iPad in hand, “Right. You will not be attending that.”

“Ah, but I will. I already told your mother I’d be there.”

You stopped cold, forcing Robby to walk into you, and then turned to face him, “Since when are you in contact with my mother?”

He shrugged, that mischievous grin on his face, “She friended me on Facebook a few weeks ago.”

Oh, this could not be happening. This was your worst nightmare come to life. “Okay, well. Please block her and I will inform her that you won’t be coming.”

He gently reached out to grab your arm and pulled you to the side before you could walk away again, “Not happening. I want to meet your family. I will be coming. It’s not up for discussion.”

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, “Robby—“

“Baby, we’ve been dating for two years. You’ve met my family, dozens of times now.”

“Yes, well, your family is lovely. And normal.”

He smiled down at you, “And your family raised you. So they can’t be that bad.”

You closed your eyes and shook your head, “You have no idea what you’ve agreed to.”

“I’ve agreed to meet the people who made the woman I’m in love with,” He said tenderly. You were angry and scared out of your mind, but when he said that, you found yourself wanting to give in.

But you knew what would happen the second he met your family. You’d been through it before. Many times. Steeling your face, you walked around him.

“Look,” He said, walking in front of you again, “If you really don’t want me to come, I won’t, but then consider us done.”

Your eyes locked on his. There was no smile, no flush to indicate he was lying or teasing.

“You don’t mean that.”

He nodded, “I do.” He sighed, “I’m sorry, I can’t keep watching you build these walls up around yourself to keep me out and then pretend like everything’s fine.”

You laughed flatly, “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“I did the work,” He said quietly, “For you. It’s your turn now.”

And then he left you like that, alone in the middle of the ER.

***

It was about a year ago when you had gone to Robby to request a day off from work. It was late February, still in the dead of winter. The city couldn’t quite shake off the snow.

“Hey, I wanted to see if I could take next Thursday off?” You asked as casually as you could manage, “I can find another attending to cover if you need—“

“No, it’s fine. I can manage by myself,” Robby looked up from his workstation, perching his glasses on his head, “What’s going on next Thursday?”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, and then sighed, looking down at your hands, “It’s just, it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death so I just have a hard time being in the ER that day.”

“Oh,” Robby said, clearly caught off guard, “Sweetheart, I’m… so sorry I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” You said quickly, uncomfortable with the attention and the sympathy, as you always were, “It was a long time ago.” You cleared your throat, “I have to go check on a patient.” You said and were gone before he could follow.

But you had felt his eyes on you for the rest of the shift. Sure enough, as soon as the two of you were out in the cold winter air, he brought it up.

“You never mentioned your brother died.”

You slowly inhale through your nose, “I don’t like to talk about it. It was over a decade ago.” You shrugged, as if the time had made it hurt less. It hadn’t, not exactly. The hurt was just different now. You had learned to live with it, bargain with it, figure out ways to work around it. But it was always there.

He nodded slowly, “And he died in an ER?”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could indulge this line of questioning before you were likely to snap at him. It was absolutely fair of him to be asking, you had talked him through Adamson and Jake’s girlfriend, Leah, more times than you could count.

But it was true what they said about doctors being terrible patients.

“Congenital heart failure, undiagnosed. He went into cardiac arrest during a half marathon. They got him back for a little bit in the ambulance, but he had been down a while, so.” You shrugged, concentrating on your foot prints through the snow so you wouldn’t see the way he collapsed, still a half mile away from you. You wouldn’t remember the way you had hopped the fence and sprinted to him, knees buckling when you got there. “We were nineteen.”

“Your twin?” He asked, voice soft.

You only nodded, “And before you ask, I’ve been tested. I don’t have it.”

“I bet that felt very unfair.”

No one had ever said that to you before and it nearly stopped you in your tracks. But it was true. You had spent many years, not being sad that your brother had died, but being absolutely furious with him for leaving you here, perfectly healthy, to carry on.

And when every test came back proving that you were healthy, everyone told you how lucky you were. Only it didn’t feel that way. It felt as though he had abandoned you.

The tears burned the back of your eyes, but you had grown very adept at keeping them at bay. You breathed through it until you thought it safe to speak again.

“He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere I couldn’t follow.” Despite your best efforts, your voice wavered and Robby heard it.

He reached for you, you felt his hand on your arm. It was likely he was pulling you in for a hug, but you shrugged him off.

You didn’t look at him, so you weren’t positive, but you could guess he had looked hurt by your dismissal. You kept walking, listening to his boots crunch in the snow next to yours. Reassurance that no matter how you pushed him away, he’d still be there.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, you cleared your throat, “There’s this ramen place a few blocks from your house I’ve been meaning to try. Do you want to order for dinner?”

“Sure.” He said after a few moments of silence.

It was a ceasefire agreement, disguised in take out ramen and letting you pick the movie to watch on his couch that night. He wouldn’t ask again about your brother. Not for a while. But it was only a temporary and tenuous peace, never meant to last.

And the clock was ticking.

***

“I suggest we Uber to my parents’ place.” You said the next day as you looked over a chart, “You’ll want to be drinking, I assure you. And I certainly will not be designated driver as I need to be absolutely smashed to get through the Feast.”

Robby bumped his shoulder into yours, “Ah, so we’re going then?”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

He slipped a finger beneath your chin and tilted gently upwards until you were looking at him, “You always have a choice.”

You forced a smile and looked away. He didn’t understand that it was a false choice. No matter what you chose, you would lose him. You would lose him if you didn’t let him come, you would still lose him if he came.

Robby was smart. Every fault, every break in you, you had carefully glued together, disguised as something else so that he could love you. But there would be no hiding all the ways you were jagged and damaged once he saw your family. Once he understood.

You had seen it so many times before. Partners insisting they wanted to meet your family, despite your warnings. And you would watch as the night went on. They’d get quieter. Their fake laughter less convincing. The way their eyes deadened by the end of the night. They’d kiss you goodnight and roughly a week later, you’d get some bullshit excuse about why it wasn’t working. None of them ever admitted it was because of your family, about the future they saw for you written on the walls, but they didn’t have to.

And now, despite all the careful planning you had done, Robby would follow in their footsteps.

***

You looked up at your childhood home with Robby by your side just as the Uber dropped you off.

“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette before we go in?” You asked.

Robby looked at you, eyebrows raised, “You don’t smoke.”

“I do when I’m here.” You took out a fresh pack and a lighter and started opening them, “Do you want one?”

He scratched his head, “No. I don’t think you should, either.”

You lit up the cigarette between your lips and took a drag, “Look, you wanted to come here. This is who I am when I’m here.”

“There she is! Our big shot emergency doctor!” Your older brother, Luka, threw his arms around your shoulders from behind, “Hey, what the fuck?” He took the cigarette out of your hands and threw it on the ground, “I thought you quit?”

“Jesus, Luka,” You pulled out another cigarette, “Can’t you mind your own fucking business for once?”

He smirked, “It’s good to see you too, Ace.” He kissed your hair and then looked at Robby, “Oh, and this must be the boyfriend, Robby, is it?” He reached a hand out to Robby, which Robby took, “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“Same here,” Robby smiled.

“What’s Robby short for, Robert?”

“Uh, no, my last name is Robinavitch. I go by Dr. Robby or Robby in the ER. My first name is Michael.”

Luka nodded and then turned his attention back to you, “Just so you know, she’s in rare form today. She’s been drinking wine since noon.”

You bit your lip and nodded, “Oh, you mean like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that—“

“Come on, don’t be a brat about it, okay? Tommy’s got it under control, he’s handling it.”

This time you really did laugh, “Oh, Tommy’s handling it, is he? You mean he’s enabling her?”

“Look, Tommy’s had a tough year with the… broken engagement as you know. Just go easy on him, okay?”

You stared at your second cigarette as if it would transport you to another dimension if you thought hard enough, “Yo, Ace, did you hear me?”

“Yes, I will be super fucking kind to Tommy.” You said, annoyed at the use of your childhood nickname, “Where’s your wife, by the way?”

“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well, she’s at home with the kids.”

You laughed and shook your head at Luka, “Good for her.”

“What? She really is sick.”

“Mhm,” You put out your cigarette, “I bet she is. No, really, I’m happy for her Luka. From the bottom of my heart.”

Luka looked up at the house, “You coming in or what?”

“Yeah,” You sighed, “In a minute.”

Luka walked off toward the house and you sighed heavily before looking at Robby, “Last chance to turn back.”

He smiled at you, “I’m not afraid of your family, baby.”

You cracked your neck to one side and then the other, “Well, that makes one of us.”

And then you led him inside.

***

Immediately, as you enter the house, everyone is shouting rather than talking at normal volume. You can hear the range hood going in the kitchen and your mother shouting over it. The unmistakable sound of the men in the living room, yelling about sports.

You were already regretting not preemptively taking ibuprofen before coming here.

“Look who has decided to grace us with her presence. It’s nice of you to come home and visit us humble folk, huh Ace?” Your mother shouts as soon as you walk through the entryway and you sigh heavily.

“Ma, this is Michael, Michael, this is my mother.”

“Call me Deb, sweetheart it’s so good to meet you.” She engulfed him in her arms, kissing his cheeks, “Oh, you’re so handsome, too.”

Robby reddened under the attention of your mother, “Please, it’s my pleasure. Your daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the flush in your cheeks at Robby’s words and looked around the room with feigned interest, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

Your mother dramatically put her hands to her heart and looked at you, “Did you hear that, Ace? He thinks we did a good job with you.”

You frowned, “Interesting. That’s not what I heard.”

Robby put his hand on your waist and squeezed lightly in warning. You badly wanted to push his hand off you, but held back, knowing it would upset him. And though you thought it a lost cause, you were still going to try to keep him tonight.

Your mother ignores your comment, “How old are you, Michael?”

“Mom.” You admonished immediately.

“What?” She asked, feigning casual, “I think it’s a natural question it’s is no secret he’s older than you.”

Robby smiled and laughed, hanging his head self deprecatingly, “Yes, I am… much older than Y/N.”

You looked at him, apology in your eyes, but he only shook his head slightly.

“Well how much older?” Her smile was strained.

“Ma, please.” You hissed, but she ignored you, continuing to stare at Michael.

“Uh,” Robby also gave a tight smile, clearly uncomfortable, “About twenty years.”

Your mother’s eyebrows flew up, “Well,” She looked back to you, “I guess that’s a no on having kids, then.”

“Oh my God,” You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut.

“What? It’s true, I mean he probably already has kids, right?”

Robby shook his head, “No. I have someone I consider to be like a step son, but no children of my own.”

Your mother stared at him silently for a few moments and then shifted her attention back to you, “Well your father loves you very much, so I’m not sure where this choice came from.”

This couldn’t be happening. They had been in the house all of five minutes and already, you were sure Michael was going to break up with you as soon as you left. Maybe sooner, if it kept going like this.

“Did you just invite him here to insult him?” You asked, voice raising.

“Baby, it’s okay.” Robby whispered in your ear.

“No, it’s not okay.” You said, “If you can’t be nice for one night, then we’ll leave.”

Your mother laughed airily, “Oh relax, Ace, you’re so sensitive! I’m only teasing!” She looked to Michael, “I’m only teasing, sweetheart, you gotta have thick skin if you want to be in this family.”

Robby managed a smile and put a hand over his heart, “No offense taken.”

God, he was so kind and perfect. They were going to fucking ruin him. “I really think we should go,” You whispered so only he could hear.

“Oh, come on. You think I wasn’t prepared for your family to take a jab at my age?” He lowered his head slightly so he could look in your eyes, “I want to be here. With you.”

Your mother turned back to Michael, beckoning you both to the kitchen, “What do you drink, honey, help yourself, there’s beer in the fridge, wine— HEY, WHO TURNED THE HEAT UP ON THE GRAVY? Oh for CHRIST’S SAKE it’s bubbling over everywhere— ACE WOULD YOU GET OVER HERE AND HELP YOUR MOTHER?”

You sighed heavily, “Jesus Christ,” You mumbled and then headed for the fridge, taking out two beers, you used the fridge magnet that doubled as a bottle opener to open them both, letting the caps clatter to the floor and leaving them there. You handed one to Robby, “You should stay away from the kitchen, it’s a war zone in there.”

“And what’ll you do?”

“What I always do,” You took a long swig from the beer, “Fix everyone else’s mess.”

“ACE DID YOU HEAR ME?”

“I’m coming Ma, one sec!”

“What’s with the ‘Ace’ thing?”

You sighed, “It’s a stupid nickname. Our family plays a lot of cards, they’re really superstitious. My grandma once got a full hand of aces while I was helping her play when I was, like, five. So they started calling me Ace. It got so out of hand, they wouldn’t let me sit at the table anymore. Claimed it was cheating to have me within a five foot radius of a game”

He laughed, “That’s cute.”

Just then, the sound of shattering glass came from the kitchen along with the hysterical shrieks of your mother. “Okay,” You said slowly, “I’m gonna go handle that. You’ll be okay out here?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me, go.” He kissed you then, and even in your hopelessness you felt loved and safe, for just a second, “I love you.” He said, and you nodded, looking down at your beer bottle, “Hey,” He said and you looked up to meet his eyes, “I love you.” He said again slowly.

“Yeah,” You nodded, his words bringing you back down, “Yeah, I love you.”

“ACE, COULD YOU GET YOUR ASS IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN, PLEASE? CHRIST!” That was Tommy’s voice now and you sighed heavily.

“You’re sure you’re not regretting this yet?” You asked softly.

“Not even a little.” Robby said.

You nodded and stepped away from him. The night was still young.

***

Robby made his way to the living room, beer in hand, and was inundated with people he didn’t know and who barely spared him a glance as he entered the room. Not much in the mood yet to begin introducing himself to everyone, he found himself drawn to the mantel and the pictures perched above it.

He smiled a bit to himself as he noted pictures of little you with whom he assumed was Benji. He could tell, even from the pictures, just how close the two of you were. And his heart broke all over again imagining you having to watch him die.

“Are you Ace’s doctor boyfriend?” An older man came to his side, admiring the pictures as well.

Robby smiled, “What gave me away?”

The man shrugged, “You have the same nervous energy as she does. Always looking for a problem to solve. I’m Frank, her father.”

Robby shook the man’s hand, “Michael. It’s great to meet you, sir.”

“So how is she?”

Robby frowned, “She’s just in the kitchen, you could ask her yourself.”

He shook his head, “No, no, she won’t want to talk to me.”

Robby looked back at the photos, “She’s good,” He said, “She’s a fantastic doctor. We’re lucky to have her.”

“I already knew that part,” He smirked, “But outside her work?”

Robby inhaled deeply, “To be honest with you, sir, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

Her father nodded, “Yeah, me too. I’ve been trying to figure her out ever since Benji died. Just to know if she’s okay. I’m pretty shit at it, though.” He laughed.

Robby looked back at the photos, “I am very sorry for your loss.” He paused, “Could you… tell me more about Benji? She doesn’t talk about him much, but I can tell it still weighs on her.”

The man, Frank, was silent for a moment as he looked at the photos. “Her and Benji were inseparable. They did everything together. They had the same friends, everything. Applied to all the same schools and went to the same one. You never had to worry about them because even if they never came to us, they always had each other.

We were always very busy with four kids. Never a break. And there’s this home video I think about a lot, even now. It’s Christmas morning, they’re about five or six, opening their presents. Their mother and I are helping one or both of the other boys with something. And there’s a good thirty seconds or so where she's holding a gift that she needs help opening, a doll or something, and she repeatedly calls for her mom. Over and over. She never gets upset, she’s very calm, no crying. And nobody turns. I watch it now and I can’t understand how neither of us heard her. But of course, Benji hears her, and he goes over and grabs a pair of scissors and helps her open the package. That’s how it always was with them. They didn’t need us.”

He sighed, “And then when Benji died it was… Well, it was like she went adrift and we had no idea how to even begin to try to anchor her. Benji would have. I remember her crying that day in the hospital, hysterically sobbing by the time we got there. And then never again. I never saw her cry after that. She was the one who made all the funeral arrangements, picked out his casket, picked out a plot at the cemetery. She fundraised so we didn’t have to worry about the medical bills or funeral costs. She put together slide shows and picked out music. She picked the restaurant we went to after the burial. And I don’t think any of it was because she wanted to do that. We didn’t give her much choice. Her mom and I fell apart. Neither of us could get out of bed. And I think she heard Benji calling for us, like he heard her that Christmas morning.”

He shook his head and sniffled, “Her mother doesn’t like to see it that way, but I think out of all our kids, I think we failed her. And I don’t blame her for not coming home.”

Finally, he looks at Robby, “I’m not sure why I told you all that. I guess maybe I’m hoping that you’ll figure out how to anchor her. That she won’t be lost at sea the rest of her life.”

Robby looks down at his beer bottle and sighs before looking back up at the man, “I’m sure as hell trying.”

***

“So, the new boyfriend is also a doctor?” Tommy was perched on the counter, sipping a beer. Their mother was stirring various things on the stove and shoving things in and out of the oven while shouting at people to get out of the kitchen. You were mopping up some sort of sauce from the floor and throwing out shattered pieces of glass.

“Yes.” You said, “He’s not new though, we’ve been dating for two years now.”

“Well he’s new to us because you never come home.” Your mother interjected.

You looked back down at the floor, “God, grant me the serenity,” You murmured as you threw larger pieces of glass into the trash.

“Mom’s right, you know,” Tommy said, “Ever since Benji died you basically abandoned us.”

Your hands stilled for only a moment and then you were moving again, “I was in college, and then medical school, and then residency, Tommy. What the fuck did you want me to do, drop out and wallow in my misery like the rest of you did? Let it fucking eat me alive?”

There was sweet, blissful silence, for just a moment and then— “Maybe you should have instead of acting like a goddamn robot after he died. Might’ve done you some good. Might have bonded you with the rest of your family.” Your mother said.

Oh, you were so tired of all of this. Of the criticism of every little thing you had done since Benji died, down to the way you had grieved. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I had been competing in the grief olympics.”

“Come on, Ace, she didn’t mean it like that—“ Tommy started.

“Yes she did.” You said, “Didn’t you, mom? You don’t think I grieved correctly, isn’t that right? What was it you said to me just fucking weeks after he died? ‘Do you even miss him?’”

She continued stirring, “I don’t remember it that way.”

You scoffed and returned to picked up glass, “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Ace…” Tommy said in warning.

“It’s fine, Tommy. I’m fine.” You said.

“Yes, your sister is always fine.” Your mother said, “The picture of composure, unlike her nuthouse of a family that she can’t stand to be around.”

You threw the last piece of glass into the trash harder than was necessary, “I need some air.” You murmured and then left before anyone else could say anything.

You ran into aunts and uncles and cousins on your way outside, forcing smiles and quick hugs until you hit the cold December air. You breathed in shakily as you pulled out your pack of cigarettes, lighting another.

As if he had been summoned, Robby appeared next to you, “You doing okay, Ace?”

You made a face at him, “Please don’t call me that.”

He smiled and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him, “I saw some pictures of you and Benji when you were little. You were adorable, as expected.”

You hummed, cracking a small smile, “The only reason those are still up are because Benji’s in them. You’ll notice there’s no pictures up of me by myself. There’s barely any of Tommy or Luka either. It’s hard to compete for the favorite child when one of them is dead.”

Robby was quiet for a few moments and you thought you could actually hear the gears in his head turning. He took the cigarette from your hand and took a drag before handing it back to you, “I was talking to your dad, he’s very proud of you.”

“He said that?”

Robby nodded, "More or less."

You scoffed, “Well, nice of him to say it to you.”

“He’s never told you?”

You shook your head, “We’ve barely spoken since Benji. He looks at me and all he sees is the son he lost.”

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly.

You took a step away from him, “Why are you sorry? This is what you wanted, right? Why you wanted to come? So you could see up close and personal why I’m so fucked up?”

He shook his head, “Come on, don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Lash out at me after you were just vulnerable. You do this all the time. It’s fucking exhausting.”

You scoffed, “What’s exhausting is you bringing us here when I fucking told you it would be a disaster. And now, on top of everything else,” You gestured wildly to the house, “I have to walk on glass around you too in a surely doomed attempt at making you want to stay.”

He shook his head sadly, “Baby, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You want to argue, but you feel the burning in your eyes and you can’t cry right now. So you turn away from him, breathing slowly, and finish your cigarette.

The front door opens, and with it, the sound of the stereo playing Christmas music and the competing of a dozen voices to be heard over it. The sound quickly vanishes when the door closes.

“Hey, Ace, mom’s looking for you, said she needs your help with the lasagna.” It’s Luka’s voice.

You sigh, “Why the fuck is she making lasagna for a feast of fishes?”

“You know no one eats the other shit,” He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, “You okay?”

You sigh heavily, frustrated that this check in from your older brother had increased the wetness in your eyes that you were actively fighting. You shrugged off his hand, “I’m fine.”

He nodded, but you knew he wasn’t convinced, “It is really good to have you home, Ace.”

You barked a laugh that sounded almost like a sob, “Don’t know why, all I do is piss off mom more than she already is.”

“She loves you,” He said quietly, “You know that.”

“Oh, fuck off, Luka.”

“What? I love you. We all love you. Hey, fuckin’ look at me, would you?” He grabbed you by the shoulders forcefully turned you, but his eyes darted to your hand and he frowned, “Are you bleeding?”

You looked at your hand that was holding the cigarette and found that you were, in fact, bleeding from a cut in your palm. You must have cut it on the glass in the kitchen when you were cleaning up.

“Ah, shit.” You sighed and put out your cigarette.

“Let me see?” Robby said instantly and reached for your hand.

You allowed it, him taking care of you even though you were capable of evaluating the wound yourself. It calmed you almost immediately, his touch as he focused on your injury.

“Do you guys have a first aid kit inside?” He asked.

Luka sighed, “Probably some bandages and rubbing alcohol, but I don’t know that you’ll find much else.”

“Robby, it’s fine, it can’t be that deep I didn’t even feel it.”

“I can’t tell with all the blood and it’s too dark out here,” He started leading you back to the house, “Come on, we’ll rinse it off and take a look.”

You rolled your eyes in Luka’s direction, who smirked and followed you both back inside.

With all the cooking going on, reentering the house felt akin to walking into a sauna. Combined with the noise level from all the shouting and music, you were instantly overwhelmed again. You allowed yourself to be led, Robby’s hand gently tugging on the wrist of your injured hand.

“I’ll go find those bandages,” Luka called out before disappearing upstairs.

Robby tugged you into the kitchen, which was the last place you wanted to be.

“Oh, finally, we’ve been looking for you—“ Your mother stopped when she saw your hand, “Well how the hell did you manage that?”

“Excuse me, Deb,” Robby said politely, “Could we use your sink?”

“Oh, of course,” She stepped out of the way and let Robby by. He turned the water on and started temperature checking it with his free hand, waiting for it to warm, “Must be nice having an emergency doctor as a boyfriend, especially for Ace, she’s such a clutz.”

You closed your eyes, “I’m an emergency medicine doctor, too, Ma.”

“Oh, but you’re just a student! You’re in your, what do they call that, when you’re practicing after med school, but not really—“

“A resident?” Robby offered.

“Yes!” Your mother snapped her fingers, “That’s it, you’re in your residency, dear.”

It was taking everything you had not to sigh. Robby pulled your hand under the water and you winced at the sting to your cut, “I finished my residency four years ago. I’m an attending now. Just like Robby.”

She was quiet for a moment, “No, that… That can’t be right. You were doing your residency at PTMC—“

“Yes, and then I did a fellowship in Boston and then I came back to PTMC. As an attending.”

She frowned, “You were in Boston? You never told me that.”

Robby pulled your hand out of the water and you felt his fingers near the wound again.

“Yes, I did. You just don’t listen to me unless it’s something that pertains to you.”

The room got quiet. Robby turned off the water.

Your mother laughed, breaking the silence, and poured herself another glass of wine, “Well, anywho, it must be nice to have someone to look after you. You were so clumsy as a kid!”

“Was she?” Robby asked, still laser focused on your wound, he was applying pressure with some paper towels. Luka had returned with supplies.

“Oh, yes! One time, I remember, she was helping set the table. She picked up this beautiful eggplant parmesan I had made, fresh out of the oven with her bare hands! And immediately dropped it, of course. Burned her hands. Whole dish shattered and cut her up. She has the cutest little scar on her leg.”

You almost laughed and you found the silence of your brothers very telling. Robby was wrapping gauze around your palm now, having cleaned out the wound, “You’ll need stitches, but I can do them later tonight. I have a suture kit at home.” He said quietly.

But you barely heard him over the roaring in your ears.

“That’s not how I remember it.” You said, deathly quiet and calm.

“What?” Your mother said, smile still on her face.

“The cut on my leg, that’s not how it happened.”

“Ace…” You heard Luka behind you, the warning clear in his voice.

“Oh, fuck you, Luka. I know you know it too you were there.”

Your mother laughed, “Well, what happened then, hm? Enlighten us.”

Tommy was shaking his head at you from behind your mother. Please, don’t. It said.

But you were so fucking tired of it all. The disappointment, the subtle jabs disguised as teasing, the rewriting of history.

You picked up Robby’s beer from the counter behind him and took a long drink, “What I remember is that you and dad were fighting and I said something that pissed you off, similar to most things I’ve said tonight, and as I was walking away, you flung the eggplant parmesan in my direction. When it shattered, the glass ricocheted off the floor and cut me, which is why the scar is on the back of my leg. Not the front.”

Tommy hung his head behind your mom. Nobody else moved, but you thought you could feel the tension radiating off Luka just behind you.

But after a few moments, your mother laughed, loudly. The sound was grating and you nearly winced. “You always did have such a wild imagination, you and Benji both.”

“I didn’t imagine it, that’s how it happened.”

“What was it that Benji used to say? Oh, that kid was so clever. He used to joke that if you weren’t so good at science you’d be a New York Times Bestseller with all the crazy stories you came up with!”

Your mother laughed more loudly this time, but everyone else in the room was quiet.

“Well, it’s too bad Benji’s not here.” You said coolly.

Your mother’s laugh died out. The only sound was of the range hood and the Christmas carols that were still blasting from the living room.

“And whose fault is that?” She said viciously.

In a way, it felt like a relief to hear her say it. All these years, you knew she blamed you. Probably resented that it was you who was with him when he went. She almost definitely wished it was you who was dead and not him. Well, she could get in line.

But mostly, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. Your brothers were yelling around you, but you had no idea what they were saying. Robby had carefully placed himself in front of you. You thought maybe he was trying to break up the yelling. In another lifetime, perhaps, you would have found it funny that he was trying to break up a fight in your childhood home the same way he would break one up in the ER.

Quietly, you slipped away, passing your father in the hallway who called after you. Likely to ask you what the fuck was going on in the kitchen.

But you passed without a word and headed up the stairs.

Second door on the left, you could have found it with your eyes closed. The door creaked when you opened it, as it always had.

Closing it behind you, you reveled in the quiet first. The rest of the house was muffled from up here.

You trailed your fingers over the dusty sports trophies on their shelves, the CDs in a pile by the stereo.

You laid down on the navy blue bed that still, impossibly, smelt like him and stared at the popcorn ceiling. Glow in the dark stars stuck there. He had tried to pry many of them off when they became teenagers, but he could never get them all. Remnants of glue still stuck to the ceiling.

“I don’t understand why you have to fight with her so much.” Benji’s voice echoed in your head, “It’s easier to just placate her. We’ll be out of here soon anyway.”

“You don’t understand,” You had said through tears, “I’m the only girl. She has astronomically higher standards for me than she does for you. Or Luka or Tommy.”

“What does it matter?” He said, “Look, you’re way smarter than any of the rest of us. You’re going to get everything you’ve ever wanted, not because of her, but despite her.”

You shook your head, “And what if all I’ve ever wanted is for her to be proud of me? To be enough, just once?”

Benji had sighed and rested his head on yours, “Then I’ll be so stupid proud of you that you won’t even notice she’s not.”

Silent tears rolled down your face into your ears as you recalled the memory. You took his pillow and pressed it over your face.

***

Robby was beginning to understand it, now. Why you had been so afraid of bringing him here, of letting him in. He had thought all of it had been wrapped up in the grief of losing your brother, your twin, but this was clearly heaps and bounds more complicated than that.

He had expected maybe some tension and small tiffs, he had not expected learning that you were likely emotionally neglected as a child at best and physically abused at worst. He hadn’t expected to hear your mother outright blame you for your brother’s death. And he hadn’t expected to have to physically insert himself between you and your family for fear of a fight breaking out.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Robby shouted over the yelling, and they all turned to look at him in shock. But they were quiet, “What the fuck?” He said breathlessly, and looked straight at your mother.

“She’s fucking impossible, sometimes.” Your mother said bitterly, “I’m sure you know.”

He looked behind him and noticed that you were gone. Likely you had slipped outside for some air. He turned back to your mother, “Your son had congenital heart disease, as I understand it. There was nothing anyone could have done to save him. Especially not a nineteen year old girl.”

Deb was shaking her head, “She didn’t call us until he was already gone. We didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to him because of her.”

Robby sighed and shook his head. This was a resentment that was more than a decade old. There was nothing he could say to make this better or make her see that you weren’t culpable for what happened to Benji. And it broke his heart that you had carried this for years, silently and alone. Never talking about Benji, likely because you didn’t feel you deserved to. If your own mother blamed you for the death of your twin, it was unlikely you didn’t blame yourself too.

While he was talking to your mother, Luka had swiftly left the room. He heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and then Luka was back.

“She’s not outside.” Luka said to Robby.

“Where else would she go?”

Tommy and Luka shared a look, Robby looked to and from both of them, “What?” He asked, impatiently.

“Benji’s room.” Luka said, quietly, “She’s probably with Benji. Upstairs, second door on the left.”

Robby nodded, “Thank you.” And headed up the stairs.

***

There was a knock at the door and you removed the pillow from your face. You weren’t sure you wanted anyone else to know you were in here, but judging by the quiet knock and the absence of someone yelling at you, you suspected it was Robby. Still, you hesitated.

“It’s me,” He said finally, “Can I come in, please?”

You sat up and put Benji’s pillow in your lap, “It’s open.”

You watched Robby enter the room, looking around first, before looking to you. You looked a bit like a vulnerable child in here, sitting on the tiny twin bed and legs crossed in front of you. Your eyes were bloodshot and your cheeks glistened wet with tears.

And when your eyes locked onto his, your face crumpled.

He pulled you into his arms immediately and was shocked when you didn’t push him away, but pulled him closer. He didn’t say anything, but rocked you gently and kissed your hair until you quieted.

“I would hope this would go without saying, but your mother was way fucking out of line.” He tightened his arms around you slightly, “But I know you and your tendency to blame yourself. I’ve watched you do it since you were just an intern. And so I wonder if all these years you had thought it was your fault and your mother repeating it back to you almost felt affirming.”

You didn’t say anything for a few moments, focusing on getting your breathing under control. You knew you had to have this conversation with Robby, there was no way to get out of it without losing him. He had seen everything you were so afraid of him seeing, and still he had come up here and held you. He hadn’t shied away from any of it.

“I know that rationally, there was nothing I could have done. But it doesn’t really make a difference. What if I had run a little faster? What if I had been CPR certified when he collapsed? What if—?”

“You’ll kill yourself thinking like that. You were nineteen. You were just a kid.”

“So was he. And every fucking birthday I’m reminded of how much he was shorted.”

Robby’s quiet for a moment, running a hand through your hair and gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, “How do you think Benji would feel if he knew you’d been carrying this around for fifteen years? That you never celebrate your shared birthday because you’re too busy playing the what if game?”

You looked around his room and sniffled, “He’d probably tell me I sound like our mom making everything about me and to get a fucking grip.”

Robby chuckled, “I think I would’ve liked your brother.”

You hiccuped and looked up at Robby, a sad smile on your face, “He would’ve liked you, too.”

He cupped your face in his hands and gently kissed you. The taste and smell of him was so familiar and comforting to you, you were sure your heart rate must have slowed back to normal rhythm while he kissed you.

When he pulled away, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I think we can get out of here now, what do you say?”

You balked, “Seriously?”

He nodded, “Yeah, is Chili’s open on Christmas Eve? I think you’ve earned a five dollar margarita.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s Happy Hour anymore, but it’s the thought that counts.” You laughed, “You’re sure? You were really adamant about coming here.”

“Yes,” He nodded, “and it resulted in you smoking, slicing your hand open, shotgunning at least four beers, and hysterically crying all in under two hours. Not to mention, I’m not going to force you to be polite to your mother after she blamed you for Benji in front of everyone.” He sighed, “I wanted you to let me in and you have. I’m sorry that I pushed so hard, I didn’t think—“

“No, it’s okay. You were right. I would’ve just kept pushing you away and then I would’ve lost you. So thank you, for pushing.” You took a deep shaky breath, “I’ve never spoken to anyone about Benji dying, what it felt like. Not even my brothers. I was always afraid it would be… too much.”

Robby shook his head and pressed more kisses to the side of your face, “Not too much. Never too much. I’m honored to know you, every piece.”

You inhaled shakily, “Well, you ready to go tell them we’re leaving?”

He allowed you to climb out of his arms and rise to standing, “I have no issue telling them exactly why we’re leaving. I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise.”

You huffed a laugh, “Yeah, well, you underestimate my mother’s ability to gaslight and manipulate, then.”

Sure enough, as they went downstairs to gather their coats and things, your mother waxed poetic about all the food she had made that would go to waste and how she never got to see you and how could you leave so early?

You had warned him, but Robby was still shocked at the way your mother pretended to have no idea why you could be leaving. To position herself as the victim in this scenario. She hadn’t even tried to apologize since you had padded back down the stairs.

“Thank you for inviting us, Deb, but it’s pretty clear that there’s a lot of open hostility between the two of you that is not conducive to the holiday spirit.” He grabbed your coat and helped you into it, rubbing down your arms soothingly once it was on, “I’d rather not see a physical fight break out between my girlfriend and her mother on Christmas Eve.”

Your mother looked at him incredulously, “Are you talking about earlier?” She laughed and playfully patted your arm, “Oh, that was nothing. We have little tiffs like that all the time. Or we used to, when she made time for us. Isn’t that right, Ace?”

You were staring silently at a spot on the wall and Robby noted that it seemed like you were dissociating. The more minutes that passed, the worse he felt for forcing you to come here, “If that was ‘nothing’ to you, then that just affirms my decision to remove us from the circus,” Robby said, forcing a smile and reaching behind the two of you to open the front door, “I would say it was lovely meeting you, but I’m not a very good liar.”

Once outside in the frigid night air, you immediately fished out your pack of cigarettes. Robby decided once you were home, he would toss them in the trash. Maybe buy the both of you a pack of nicotine gum for the foreseeable future. Just that one drag earlier coupled with the hectic nature of your childhood home had him craving a smoke.

“Hey, Robby!” It was one of your brothers who ran out of the house after the two of you. The older one, Luka, if his memory served him correctly.

He looked over Robby’s shoulder at you, lighting a cigarette, before focusing his attention back on Robby, “I just, um, wanted to say thank you for having Ace’s back in there.” He said softly, “I wish it was me who had the backbone to stand up for her.” Luka’s eyes shone with unshed tears in the moonlight, “Benji always took care of her and I think all the time how disappointed he would be that I don’t. It’s hard, with how our mother is to… to stand up to her sometimes. It’s stupid, I’m an adult now, but. She’s still my mom.”

He sighed heavily, “Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling, I just… Ace has brought a lot of men home over the years. Never more than once. They tend to disappear after seeing what a mess we all are. None of them ever had her back like that so I hope you stick around.” Luka smiled then and clapped Robby on the back, “Take care of my baby sister, please?”

Robby nodded and gave Luka a small smile, “Of course.”

Luka nodded back and then walked towards you, still smoking a cigarette a healthy distance away, “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hi,” You said as you exhaled cloud of smoke.

“I’m sorry about what mom said. She didn’t mean it, she’s drunk—“

“Don’t defend her.”

“I’m not.” Luka sighed and scratched his head, “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe I am. Whatever. The point is, it’s not fuckin’ true. Any of it. You did your best when Benji died, we all did. You were just a fuckin’ kid who took on way more than you should have. And I’m sorry that I never helped lessen the burden. I should have. As your older brother, I should have protected you.”

At this, you looked up at him and gave him a watery smile, “Thanks, Luka. But just so you know, I never blamed you or Tommy. For any of it.”

“I know.” He said, and pulled you into a one armed hug, kissing the top of your head, “Let him take care of you. Robby. You deserve to be taken care of for once.”

A tear slid onto your cheek, “Okay.”

He released you and started backing away from both you and Robby, “See you next year?”

At that, you laughed, “Only if you’re paying for my therapy bills.”

He laughed and then waved before turning back towards the house, hands in his pockets.

***

Back at Robby’s house, full of too many Southwestern Eggrolls and margaritas, you sat at his kitchen counter with your wounded hand unwrapped and cradled in both of Robby’s hands. You watched as he carefully sutured you, filled with so much tenderness for him after the night you’d had, you thought you might burst with it.

“Luka mentioned that the boyfriends you've brought home tended to leave after meeting your family.” Robby said as he worked, “Was that why you were so afraid to bring me?”

“Yeah, that was a big part of it. I also just didn’t think I was ready for you to see all of me, like that.”

He finished up the last suture and cut the excess. Then began wrapping your hand again. “You know, when you first started your residency, I used to talk with Adamson about how you were the only resident I ever met who never, ever seemed phased by anything that happened in the ER. You never had that adjustment period everyone else has, of figuring out how to adapt to the chaos. You operated like the chaos was all you’d ever known. I wish I could tell him that I finally figured out why.”

You chuckled at that, “I think he knew, actually.”

Robby looked up at you, “Really?”

You nodded slowly, “Well, I had to tell him about Benji when the anniversary came up so that I wouldn’t be scheduled that day. But, early in my residency, there was one day I kept getting repeated calls from my mother. He overheard when I picked it up. I don’t even remember what she was upset about, just that I had to spend a few minutes talking her down from the ledge. The way a parent would to a child. And when I hung up, he said he didn’t know I had kids.” You laughed now, recalling the memory, “Anyway, when I explained, humiliated, that it was actually my mom calling, he didn’t really say anything. But he had that look on his face, you know the one, when he’s finally solved a puzzle he’s been working on for weeks.”

Robby smiled fondly. It was lovely to see him reminisce about Adamson in a joyful way. He had had to work really hard for that, you knew. You hoped you’d get there one day yourself.

He gently patted your hand after a moment, “Well, wound is taken care of. You ready for bed?”

You yawned, “Yes, please.”

You crawled into sheets that smelt like Robby and curled up into his side. You felt a bit silly now that you had ever been afraid of him meeting your family. You had watched him manage an emergency room for years, near flawlessly. To him, your mother was just another irritable patient. And he was really, really good at managing irritable patients.

“Thank you,” You said softly into the dark, “For taking care of me.”

He hummed and lightly scratched at your scalp, “Of course. I’ve got you,” He murmured, “Always.”

[author-by-night]

Like, seriously though. This is where I tap the sign about antecedent control.

In behavioral psych, antecedent control is the practice of influencing behaviors by manipulating environmental conditions. Essentially it’s a formal study of “why are people doing this in the first place” and then changing that up instead of addressing the behavior head on. One of the most famous case studies was about trying to reduce park litter, and basically what they found is that no amount of signage or penalties had a significant impact on littering… but putting accessible trash barrels in dramatically reduced the amount of litter. Turns out that when people had an easy way of throwing trash out they just did it.

The idea that, scientifically, berating or punishing or shaming someone does precisely jack shit to actually change their behavior is my Roman Empire. If you’re at all serious about changing the world for the better, understanding why someone’s doing the thing you don’t want them to do isn’t just an abstract ethical “right way to be” about it: it is also factually the only effective way.

How this applies to Chat GPT use in school is that we need to look at why students are more concerned with just getting through it than they are with learning from it. Without having done an actual study, I’d guess that the reality is that school is too stressful, too debilitating, and that in our industry landscape it’s become too much of a checkbox for being able to financially support yourself. Under those circumstances, of course students are taking the path of least resistance.

The US school system is two incompatible things at once: an actual vehicle for education and a gristmill to shape children into wage slaves. Without going through school it’s nigh impossible to find decent work, without finding decent work everything from housing to healthcare to having the time and energy for leisure goes out the window, and that’s not to mention that the more higher education becomes a requirement (even when I graduated in 2012 I had restaurant managers talking about wanting a college degree to wait tables, and I’ve been seeing articles lately about how a Master’s is the new Bachelor’s which is honestly horrifying) the more it becomes necessary to enter massive inescapable debt. Wanting to learn things is great, but it’s on the opposite side of Maslow’s Hierarchy than everything else schooling leads into.

Tools change, behaviors don’t. Before Chat GPT there was copypasting Wikipedia, there was copying off other kids, there’s always been something. While I think Chat GPT is more dangerous and worse in a number of ways I know that we’re never going to get rid of it in schools by browbeating people who use it or threatening academic punishment, and we definitely won’t get rid of it by glorifying the soul crushing grind most students go through. We’ll only get rid of it when it stops being a release from overwork, massive stakes, and burnout.

i completely understand & agree with the backlash against students using chatgpt to get degrees but some of you are out here saying "getting a degree in xyz means pulling multiple consecutive all-nighters and writing essays through debilitating migraines and having severe back pain from constantly studying at your desk and chugging energy drinks until you get a kidney stone and waking up wishing you were dead every day, and that's just part of the natural process of learning!!!" and like. umm. i don't think that any of us should have had to endure that either. like maybe the solution for stopping students from using anti-learning software depends on college institutions making the process of learning actually sustainable on the human body & mind rather than a grueling health-destroying soul-crushing endeavor

[strangersatellites]

I owe you a black eye and two kisses

933 words | idk M adjacent I guess

The interviewer’s name is Brooke. Steve isn’t sure who she’s with, he wasn’t paying that much attention.

She seems like a nice girl. Really, she does.

Steve is a little distracted though, trying his best to be earnest when he answers her questions.

“How did it feel when Jeremy told you he wrote the character specifically for you?”

“What was the most meaningful scene for you to film?”

“What was it like working with Nancy Wheeler? She’s my favorite.”

He thinks he does a pretty good job all things considered.

Well- considering that all he can hear is “Eddie! Over here” from the wall of paparazzi to his right. As kind as Brooke seems, he would much rather be hanging off his boyfriend while the crowd screams his name and begs for autographs.

Dating another famous person is all fun and games until work calls you both at the same time.

He looks over his shoulder between questions and catches Eddie throwing him a wink. He’s stood on the red carpet with the other Corroded Coffin boys and they’re all joking and laughing and acting like they don’t have a care in the world.

Steve knows that’s not true. They were all but shaking in their boots on the car ride over while their manager threatened them each on their lives to behave themselves.

He laughs under his breath and tears his eyes away.

“Okay! Now for some rapid-fire fan questions!” she says.

Perfect, this will be a good distraction until Eddie’s done being a goddamned model behind him.

Steve claps his hands together and furrows his eyebrows.

“I’m ready, let's do it.”

“What’s your favorite cereal?”

“Frosted Flakes, obviously.”

“When was the last time you went to the dentist?”

He snorts a laugh. “Uh, about a month ago actually. I chipped a tooth on set.”

“Yikes.” She looks down at the card in her hand. “Who is your most played artist on Spotify?”

He smiles, doesn’t need to pull out his phone to know the answer to that one.

“That would be my boyfriend.”

Brooke smiles at him and leans in conspiratorially, “If he isn’t really, I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughs. “He really is! If you wanted some juice though, Sabrina Carpenter is my second.”

She laughs and nods. “That’s perfect. I so see it. Okay, last one, what is your favorite snack to eat in bed?”

Oddly enough, he doesn’t really have to think to answer this one either.

“Pretzels, easy. We’ve been watching “How to Get Away With Murder” before bed every night and I’ve probably been through three bags this week. Honest.”

Brooke breaks her professional character to laugh and it spurs him on.

“It’s one of those things, I probably haven’t thought about a pretzel in three years and now that I’ve remembered they exist, I cannot put them down.” He notices now that even the camera guy is nodding and laughing. “You know when I was a kid, I used to love dipping a pretzel in my Coke can and hearing it fizz. That shit-”

He cuts himself off with a smile when he feels a warm hand slide around his waist.

“Hey hot stuff,” he giggles.

Eddie smacks a dramatic kiss to his cheek and squeezes his hip. His pretty smile taking over his face once he gets a good look at the blush that paints his cheeks.

“Hey babydoll. What’re you guys talking about?”

Steve’s head whips back around to Brooke. “Ooh! Ask him! I want to see if he says the same thing I did.”

She smiles and points the mic towards Eddie.

“What’s your favorite snack to eat in bed?”

Eddie puts on a faux contemplative look, puts a hand on his chin. He hums.

“Hm. That’s a tough one. God, I just don’t-”

Steve cuts him off, wraps his own arms around Eddie’s frame and gets in his face with a laugh.

“Oh come on, I know you’re thinking it! I want to be right!”

He makes himself giggle into Eddie’s shoulder thinking back to a few nights ago when Eddie had stuck two pretzel rods in his lip and pretended to be a walrus. So his confusion as to why Eddie isn’t answering only grows when he sees the filthy smirk on his face.

Eddie leans back far enough that he can see the mic flag.

“Who did you say you were with again?”

“E! News.”

Oh good. Steve had wanted to know that.

Eddie chuckles and Steve figures out what’s happening as soon as he feels Eddie’s hand shift. He can’t move his own fast enough.

“Well, Brooke from E! News, my favorite snack to eat in bed is my baby,” he punctuates it with a smack to Steve’s ass, “what else?”

Steve buries his blushing face in his boyfriend’s jacket and rushes to smack a hand over Eddie’s mouth before he can get out a, “Have you seen his-”

“OKAY, that’s enough out of you,” he looks back toward Brooke who is laughing hysterically, “I’m so sorry. He’s an animal.”

Steve is going to beat him up. Really, he is.

Eddie grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away from his mouth and settles it over his chest, bare under his studded jacket.

“Can you blame me? Look at him. Never tasted anything better.”

Okay, he’s done for real this time. He grabs Eddie’s arm and pulls him away, back toward the boys and more importantly away from the cameras.

“Thanks so much Brooke, you’re a gem, I am so sorry, again.”

Eddie cackles behind him and he just knows that they’ll never live this one down.

(He doesn’t really want to.)

[angelx]

Say It Again

cw: nsfw: brat tamer!katsuki x fem!reader, taunting, brat taming, punishment, spanking, edging, fingering, dirty talking, degradation, praise, mention of safe word, hair grabbing, rough sex, penetrative sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex, long intro my bad

You'd been needling him all damn day.

Snide comments under your breath. Passive-aggressive digs over dinner. Calling him “perfect little pro hero” with that sarcastic lilt he hated. Not flirting. Not playing. Just pushing.

And he took it. Took it like the man he was—stoic, tight-lipped, jaw clenched. But he wasn’t stupid. He saw the way your eyes sparkled every time you poked the bear. You wanted him to break.

You just didn’t think he actually would.

You were sprawled across the bed now, scrolling your phone like you hadn’t just spent the last hour using your words like knives.

“You gonna glare at me all night, or are you finally gonna grow the fuck up?” you muttered.

Katsuki didn’t answer at first. He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Breathing steady. Too steady. You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, say something. You’ve been pouting like a kicked puppy all day.”

Still nothing.

You smirked. Dangerous. “What, you don’t like it when I treat you the way you treat everyone else? Sucks being on the receiving end, huh?”

That’s when he stood up. Slow. Deliberate. Like he had to manually suppress the urge to snap your phone in half.

“You done?” he asked, voice low.

You shrugged, feigning boredom. “Not really. But I’m getting there.”

He took one step closer. “You think I won’t put you on your fuckin’ knees for that mouth?”

You looked up, defiant. "I think you’ve gone soft, Bakugou. You used to fuck the attitude out of me. Now you just sulk like a little bitch.”

That did it. That broke him.

His jaw ticked. His eyes narrowed like he was calculating how hard he could wreck you without breaking the bed frame. “What the fuck did you just say?”

You sat up, tossing your phone aside. “Oh, now you’re listening?”

He grabbed you by the jaw so fast it made your breath catch.

“You really wanna test me tonight, princess?” he growled, thumb pressed against your lower lip. “You really wanna see what the fuck happens when I stop being nice?”

“I’ve been waiting,” you bit back, lips curling into a grin. “Or maybe you’re all bark now.”

His hand dropped to your throat—not choking, just holding, reminding you he could. His voice dipped into something darker than anything you'd heard from him in weeks.

“You’re not gonna walk tomorrow.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Then maybe I’ll shut up for once.”

He threw you down on the bed. Clothes? Ripped. Panties? Torn off with one brutal yank. His hands were everywhere—manhandling, pinning, flipping you over like you weighed nothing.

You pushed him too far this time. The smart mouth. The taunts. The absolute disrespect. You wanted to piss him off. Needed him to remind you who the fuck you belonged to. And unfortunately for you?

He finally decided to indulge you. So now you’re naked—thrown over his lap like a spoiled little brat—squirming while his calloused palm delivers sharp, deliberate smacks to your ass, each one hotter and rougher than the last.

“You think this is a game?” SMACK.

His hand cracked against your skin with a force that echoed in the silence.

“You think you can mouth off, act like some insufferable little brat—” SMACK “—and I won’t do something about it?”

You gasped, legs twitching, body jostled forward with every hit. But you didn’t apologize. Not yet. Not when your pride still clawed at your throat.

“Go on,” he spat, towering over you, chest heaving with restraint stretched to its breaking point. “Keep fucking pushing me. Keep pretending you don’t know who the fuck you’re talking to.”

Another smack, harder, and you choked on a moan.

“I’ve been patient. I’ve held back. I’ve let you snap at me, mock me, bite every goddamn hand that tried to love you.” His fingers dug into the curve of your ass, nails biting into your skin. “And you think I won’t remind you who the fuck owns this body?”

Two more hits. Sharp, punishing. One to each cheek.

“By the time I’m done with you,” he growled, voice rough, dangerous, “You’ll be begging for mercy. You’ll forget every word except my fuckin’ name.”

You whimpered, eyes already burning. He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back just enough to see the panic-glazed lust in your eyes. You were already dripping, thighs twitching, biting back moans like it wouldn’t betray how much this punishment turned you on.

“Tch. Look at this pussy,” he sneered, fingers running between your soaked folds. “You get off on this shit, huh? Act like a bitch all day just to get your ass beat.”

He shoved two fingers inside you suddenly, and you gasped, hips jerking, grinding down on them—until he pulled them out.

“Ah ah. That’s not how this works,” he growled, dragging you off his lap and tossing you on the bed like you weighed nothing. “You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

He tied your wrists to the headboard. Loose enough to be safe, tight enough to make your heart race. You whined, tugging against the restraints. Even when he's rough, he still makes sure everything is safe. He will stop if she says she wants to stop, especially when she uses her safe word.

“Katsuki—”

Slap. Not hard, just a sharp sting against your inner thigh.

“Don’t talk. Not unless I say so.”

He dropped to his knees, pulling your legs apart. “You want my mouth?” he teased, breath ghosting over your soaked cunt. “You think you earned it?”

You said nothing. He didn’t move.

“Answer me.”

“…No,” you mumbled.

“What was that?”

You swallowed. “N-No, sir.”

His grin was dark. Proud. Predatory.

“Damn right.”

And then he started—tongue lapping at your clit, slow and lazy. Teasing. Fingers spreading you open while he circled your swollen bud, humming like he was savoring dessert. You gasped, back arching, thighs trembling. But just when you were about to fall over the edge—He stopped. You screamed.

“KATSUKI—!”

Another slap to your thigh. He stood up, licking his fingers slowly, watching you fall apart. “You don’t get to come until you’ve learned.”

The edging didn’t happen once. Or twice. He edged you four times. You were sobbing by the end of it. Voice hoarse. Body thrumming with heat. Eyes glassy. Your thighs wouldn’t stop shaking.

“I need it—Katsuki, please, I’ll be good, I swear I’ll—”

He grabbed your face. “Say it again.”

“I’ll be good,” you hiccupped. “I’ll be so good for you, I swear, Katsuki, please—!”

That’s when he undid the restraints and flipped you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up to meet him. You barely had time to breathe. He didn’t even prep you. Just spat into his hand and stroked his cock once before shoving in, thick and unforgiving, dragging a broken moan from your lips.

You screamed.

“That’s it,” he growled, fucking into you like a man possessed. “Now you remember who owns this fuckin’ pussy. Who you come to when you’re desperate. When you need your bratty ass put in check.”

You tried to squirm away, gasping, but he pinned you by the hips and slammed back in, making you cry out.

“Not so smart now, huh? Where’s all that fuckin’ mouth?” He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back to whisper in your ear. “Say some shit now. I dare you.”

You couldn’t. Not through the breathless moans and hiccupped cries. He fucked you rough, mean, brutal like punishment. Your legs shook. Your body curled in on itself. He pulled orgasm after orgasm from you until your voice was gone, your mascara was running, and your defiance was just gone.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Only cry and moan and thank him, even when your orgasm hit like a truck—violent, involuntary, and so intense you thought you might black out. He didn’t stop. Not when you clenched. Not when you whined. Not when your legs gave out.

“I’ll tell you when we’re done,” he hissed. “You come when I say. You stop when I’m satisfied.”

When he finally came—deep inside, growling through his teeth—he didn’t pull out. He leaned over you, breathing heavily, his weight keeping you caged beneath him.

You were shaking, panting, ruined—but when he pulled you into his chest afterward, kissing your forehead and whispering “You did so fuckin’ good for me, princess,” it was almost enough to make you cry again.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

[writing-for-life]

Exactly this. I’m not on Discord because it’s not the platform for me (I honestly find it clunky and it gives me a headache to try and follow conversations, but maybe I just don’t get it), but I’ve started a community to foster what used to be normal:

COMMUNICATION.

I’m still putting everything (my own stuff and reblogs of other creators) out on main too because I honestly prefer fandom to be open to everyone. I’m fairly old, so I know what fandom used to be like. And with all that social media has to offer in terms of interaction, it honestly shouldn’t be like this. But it is. I would have never contemplated a community if I didn’t believe that human interaction is the heart of fandom. But even the word COMMUNITY is something that most people don’t seem to get. The majority still treat it like, “Oh, there’s admins, they do the stuff and we sit and wait to read it.”

I’m extremely grateful for the small core community that is willing to interact, but that doesn’t change the facts:

Fandom isn’t dying because of Discord. Fandom is dying because people treat it like Insta and TikTok. Because the majority of people only hit like (sometimes not even that) and don’t share anymore.

Because the majority stopped talking and all they want to do is consume without interaction. THAT is the death of fandom.

Gifting culture has been replaced by only wanting content.

It’s unfortunately not dissimilar in communities. It’s the same five people who work their socks off to keep people engaged and bring new stuff into the conversation while the other 200 just “lurk”. And occasionally hit a reaction button if they feel generous.

THAT’s what kills fandom: Total unwillingness to meaningfully interact.

The very word “community” derives from “shared by all”. And yes, that should include open access to fandom spaces. But it also means that if people are only taking but never giving (and sharing/reblogging/commenting is giving), they are not upholding their part of being in a community, whether that rubs people up the wrong way or not. If you want to be part of a community, you need to participate in some way, whether you like the idea or not. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk, but then consider sharing?

And yes, of course people can interact in any way they like, that includes not interacting at all. No one gets forced to do anything, it’s everyone’s prerogative to do what they like. But to say it quite frankly: I can then also absolutely decide to take my writing and my art and my thoughts someplace else where I feel they are appreciated, and people who never gave me their time of day in the shape of a simple reblog or comment have no right to moan about it.

If people can’t get themselves (or don’t want) to interact, they can’t act surprised if the people who want interaction seek it somewhere else. Or if people quite simply give up. Because for the ones of us who are on the creator side, no human interaction is torture. And no, “just create for yourself” is past the point because we should NOT normalise the notion that art is a one-way street where we vomit out our soul because “that’s what artists do, no matter if no one cares.” That’s starving artist bullshit. Art is, and always was, communication. If people don’t get that, we’ve already lost.

So the notion that Discord and communities are the great end of fandom seems simplistic. The problem runs a lot deeper than that:

Discord and communities are the symptom, not the cause…

imo a discord server should be like a breakout room for fandom. like the place to run your wips by your besties or discuss your otp in more detail with a few people who were insane about it on your post or organise events with a handful of trusted mutuals etc etc. if it’s where ALL the fandom activity is going to happen it will inevitably foster a cliquey environment where the fandom is divided into “those in the server” and “those who aren’t”, lurking is disincentivised if not made outright impossible, people who feel uncomfortable joining in conversations and would rather interact with fandom through reblogging etc are largely excluded because there’s no repost mechanism, and the fandom itself becomes an enclosed space so new fans are limited in how much content and meta they can access without having to make the plunge into Joining The In Group, there’s limited scope for interaction between different communities within the same fandom, god it’s just an altogether dogshit stupid idea. what if we moved all fandom activity to really massive private groupchats. STUPID

[sugurouge]

── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note:  I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now. 

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter. 

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart. 

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again. 

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones. 

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving. 

Though he remained in his realm. 

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires. 

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within. 

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger. 

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you. 

The moment is peaceful until it isn't. 

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him. 

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant. 

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms. 

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows.  But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him. 

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion. 

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground. 

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms. 

At least to his calculations. 

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future. 

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours. 

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded. 

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down. 

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals. 

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew. 

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips. 

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight. 

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be. 

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum. 

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay. 

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will. 

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld. 

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus. 

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure. 

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors. 

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun. 

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine. 

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest. 

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own. 

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze. 

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate. 

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him. 

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood. 

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus. 

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you. 

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for. 

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls. 

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities. 

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin. 

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you. 

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself. 

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return. 

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing. 

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal. 

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control. 

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles. 

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin. 

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now. 

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him . 

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways—doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive. 

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you. 

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace,  with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home? 

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you. 

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips. 

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you. 

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months." 

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure. 

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring," 

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise. 

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now. 

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting. 

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones. 

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened. 

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles. 

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him. 

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone. 

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him. 

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates.  "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response. 

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand. 

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld. 

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps. 

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you. 

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.  

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow. 

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld. 

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further. 

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him... 

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'. 

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention. 

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth. 

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits. 

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek. 

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back. 

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck. 

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone." 

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust. 

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it." 

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap. 

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow. 

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful." 

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour. 

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient. 

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes. 

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to." 

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all. 

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva. 

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent. 

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong. 

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love. 

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler. 

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention. 

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness. 

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do. 

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud. 

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you. 

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering. 

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight. 

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits. 

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks. 

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire. 

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest.  "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you. 

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound. 

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside. 

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands. 

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids. 

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect . 

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests. 

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession.  "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure. 

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw. 

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies. 

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired. 

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again. 

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me." 

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone. 

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union. 

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now. 

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

[mattslilies]

Attitude Adjustment - M.S.

"drop the attitude. now." or, the one where matt's so called "mattitude" carries from the car video into your home, and you don't appreciate it. warnings: tw; pegging (don't like don't read!!), strap sucking, brat tamer!reader, bratty!sub!matt, use of handcuffs/slight bondage, degradation, an appearance of mean!dom!reader, mentions of oral (f receiving) word count: 1.07k

the fans may love matt's attitude, but it wasn't something you stood for. ever.

matt knew better than to get snippy with you, and on days where you knew he'd had it rough, you would let it go, offer him compassion, but today? he wouldn't be that lucky.

you'd given him multiple warnings. you'd shot him glances, sent him texts, tightened your grip around his wrist and pulled him closer to you to speak to him, and nothing. he'd continued to keep his sassy attitude, backtalking you every time you politely asked him to do something, just being bratty in general, and you were done with it.

so, you'd decided to fix it.

you dragged him into your shared bedroom, shutting the door behind you and immediately forcing him down onto his knees.

"i'm sure there's a better use for your mouth than snapping off at me, don't you think?"

he didn't say anything, deciding it was in his best interest to be quiet, staring up at you defiantly. it only served to piss you off more. you crouched down, tightly holding his chin.

"answer me when i talk to you."

his eyes still showed fire, but he knew he was in for it, so he didn't push you any further by being silent.

"yes. there is."

you hummed, standing back up and walking away from him. easily stepping into the harness on your strap, you tightened it, moving back to stand in front of him.

harshly lacing your fingers into his hair and tugging his head backwards, causing him to gasp and crane his neck up at you, you smiled, though it had no kindness in it. watching him swallow nervously, excitement stirred in your stomach.

it was always so satisfying breaking his attitude.

"well go on. you know what you're supposed to do."

you loosened your grip on his hair to allow him to move, and he immediately obeyed, closing his mouth around the tip before hollowing his cheeks and moving down.

"that's the first thing you've done right all day."

the menace in your voice made him flinch, and you could slowly see his bratty resolve cracking. you pushed his head down, causing him to gag around you.

“that’s the only sound i want to hear coming from you, you understand? i’ve had enough of you mouthing off at me. if it’s not your safeword leaving your lips, i suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

you didn’t give him the opportunity to speak, forcing him to deepthroat you, making sure that there were tears in his eyes before you released him.

"that's better."

pulling him off after you were satisfied, you pushed two fingers into his mouth, forcing his jaw open. leaning over, you spat in his mouth, forcing it closed afterwards.

"swallow."

he did, immediately, his eyes staring up at you as if desperate for your approval. however, you were still pissed, so you didn't give it to him, instead continuing to order him around.

"get on the bed. all fours, face the headboard. you don't deserve for me to look at you while i fuck you."

he moved quickly, not letting a single word slip out, for fear of rougher punishment. his attitude had been broken by this point, and he was plaint to your wishes, letting you shove him around however you please.

you were going to take full advantage of it.

you prepped him, not sparing him the normal kindness, kissing, and sweet talking that you would have had he behaved, instead making sure he was open enough to take you, before stopping.

"i would've made you cum just from my fingers, but you just had to go and disrespect me today, didn't you?"

a needy whimper left his lips at the thought of an orgasm and the loss of your touch, and you noticed it immediately.

"i thought i told you to be quiet. do i need to gag you?"

he furiously shook his head, silently voicing his disapproval at your suggestion. his body trembled as you pushed into him, not giving him much time to adjust before picking up a quick, punishing pace.

"and just think, baby, i was going to take such good care of you tonight. i was going to make you cum from my mouth and my fingers before i fucked you, giving you as many orgasms as you wanted, but you lost that privilege, didn't you?"

he nodded, his arms struggling to hold him up as he started to slump into the pillows from the overwhelming pleasure he was receiving.

letting out an annoyed sigh, you paused your movements, reaching to grab a pair of handcuffs from the nightstand drawer. grabbing his arms, one at a time, you handcuffed them behind his back, forcing his back to arch perfectly as you used them for leverage to fuck him.

"that's better. you look so pretty like this, tied up and being used like a toy."

his neck was flushed red, but darkened even more at the mix of a compliment and an insult. you knew his body like the back of your hand, and when you noticed him tensing, you knew he was close to letting go.

you drove him right to the edge before stopping completely, pulling out of him and letting his face collapse into the pillows with a broken sob.

"no, p-please-"

you laughed, moving to uncuff him.

"you really thought i'd let you cum tonight? after how you acted earlier? don't take me for a pushover, baby."

tears streamed from his eyes at the rough denial, your cruel words, and the realization that you really weren't going to give his aching dick any relief at all.

you removed the strap off of your body, placing it and the handcuffs to the side, before manhandling him, moving yourself to the top of the bed and him between your legs.

"now. apologize."

he stuttered over his words, desperate to make it up to you.

"i'm so- i'm so sorry-"

you cut him off, lacing your fingers back in his hair, and shoving him downwards.

"i should've been more clearer. apologize with your mouth, since you love to use it so much, and maybe, if you do well enough, i'll let you cum tomorrow."

you weren't going to let him cum tomorrow. after all, he'd been so rude. but while you had him like this, you were going to take full advantage of it.

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[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Quickie In The Elevator » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have a quickie in the elevator.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, slightly possessive!Bucky, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, unprotected sex, elevator sex, quickie, praise kink, slight degradation, pet names

A/N: Enjoy this idea my slutty little mind came up with earlier🥴

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIF MADE BY ME!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

The elevator was packed when the doors opened. You managed to squeeze your way in. You locked eyes with Bucky. He leaned against the wall of the elevator to give you a little bit of room to stand in front of him. You gave him a polite smile before facing the other way. Your breathing hitched when you felt the front of Bucky’s body against your back. He dipped his head down a bit so his lips were near your ear. You could feel his beard lightly scratching your skin.

“Good morning, Miss. Y/L/N.” Bucky whispers softly in your ear.

“Good morning, Congressman Barnes.” You whispered back.

Bucky’s hands roamed your lower body. He pressed your ass against his bulge. You gasped, but made it look like you were yawning. Bucky lightly chuckles at your reaction. The elevator dinging and the doors opening brought you back to reality. Everybody got off the elevator while you and Bucky were the only ones who stayed on it. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Bucky pushed the button that stops the elevator and pinned you against the wall, kissing you sloppily and hungrily. You dropped your bag on the floor and grabbed ahold of his face.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all morning.” Bucky says against your lips.

“Me too.” You say breathlessly.

Bucky moved his lips down to your neck, placing kisses along your neck. You tilted your head to the side to give him more access to your neck. His right hand disappears under your dress. He felt how wet you are through your panties.

“Is all of this for me?” He asks while kissing your neck.

“All for you.” You say breathlessly.

Bucky moved your panties to the side and rubbed his fingers through your slick. Your legs closed shut around his hand.

“Ah uh.” His free hand taps your outer thigh. “Keep them open.” He says softly.

You opened your legs back up. Bucky took his hand out from underneath your dress to unbuckle his belt. You bite your bottom lip as you watched his hands get to work on the button and zipper on his suit’s pants. You licked your lips when he pulled his hard cock out of his boxers.

“You want this as much as me?” Bucky asks lowly.

“So much.” You answered seductively as you pushed his jacket off his shoulders.

Bucky bunched up your dress just above your hips. He picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He wasted no time lining his cock at your wet entrance.

“Bucky…” You moaned softly and leaned your head back against the wall as he slid his cock in your pussy.

“I got you, pretty girl.” Bucky coos.

You felt every inch of him inside of you. His hands held onto your waist as he fucked you. His thrusts are fast, but also loving. You bit down on your bottom lip to keep in your moans.

“Let me hear those lovely moans, babydoll.” Bucky says softly.

You finally let out your moans. It’s like music to Bucky’s ears.

“There you go. Good girl.” He praises.

Bucky moaned your hair out of the way so he has full access to your neck. His beard scratched against your skin as he placed kissed along your neck. He bit down on your skin hard enough to mark you up.

“People will see.” You say.

“I don’t care. Let them see it.” Bucky says against your neck.

You could hear the possessiveness in his voice. You found it hot.

You put a hand on the back of his head. You carded your fingers through his soft slicked back hair. Bucky couldn’t care less if his hair was messy by the time you two are done fucking.

“I can already imagine the looks on everyone’s faces when they see you on wobbly legs as you walk to your office.” Bucky says in your ear.

“Yes.” You moaned.

“Oh, you want that, don’t you, doll face? You want everyone to see the marks I left on your neck?” He says.

“Yes.” You moaned and nodded. “More please!” You begged.

“Oh, I’ll give you more, gorgeous.” He smirks.

Bucky wrapped his vibranium arm around your waist and began to fuck up into you faster. Your hands grasped onto his shoulders, digging your fingers in his button up shirt.

“Oh fuck! Yes, Bucky!” You moaned.

Your moans urged Bucky on. He reached his right his in between your legs and blindly feels for your clit, finding it with ease.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, doll face?” Bucky says gruffly.

“So good!” You moaned.

“I bet you’re gonna cum soon, aren’t you, pretty girl?” He says.

You whimpered softly and nodded. That wasn’t a good enough answer for Bucky. He pinched your clit, making you squeak.

“Use your words, doll. Or are you too cock drunk to use your words?” He says.

“Bucky…” You whined.

“Tell me what you want, pretty girl.” He says.

“Kiss me!” You blurted out.

Bucky smirks to himself before kissing you sloppily. You two breathed heavily against each other’s lips. You went from carding your fingers through Bucky’s hair to tugging on his hair. He moans at the feeling. He loves it when you pull his head.

Bucky’s fingers rubbed your clit faster to bring you even closer to the edge. You felt the coil in your stomach about to snap. Bucky’s orgasm wasn’t too far behind yours.

“Are you going to be a good girl and cum for me, gorgeous?” Bucky asks, panting.

“Mhmm, yes!” You moaned.

“Cum for me.” He whispers in your ear.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came. Bucky praised you as you did so. Then he focused on his own orgasm.

“Fuck…” Bucky moans.

Bucky came inside of you after a few more thrusts. His vibranium arm remained around your waist, holding you against him. His head fell against your shoulder.

“Holy shit…” You spoke after a couple minutes.

“Yea…” Bucky replies.

You unwrapped your legs from his waist and he put you back on the floor, his cock slipping out of your pussy. You two readjusted your clothes. Bucky fixed his hair by looking at his reflection in the sliver elevator doors. You bent down and picked up your bag and Bucky’s jacket, handing it to him. Bucky took his jacket from you and kissed you sloppily and hungrily once more before pushing the button that makes the elevator move. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. You two exited the elevator as people got on it.

“I bet my cum is dripping in your panties right now.” Bucky whispers dirtily in your ear.

“Congressman Barnes!” You softly scolded him in a whisper.

Bucky just smirks at you, proud of what you two did in the elevator moments ago.

“I’ll see you for our lunch break, doll face.” Bucky says, winking at you before going into his office.

Till yours and his lunch break, all you have of Bucky is the hickeys he left on your neck and his cum dripping in your panties.

-Bucky’s Doll

[eldritchdemigodskywalkers]

#i’ve always felt that it’s likely he has some sort of ocd personally #and on top of intrusive thoughts which are likely for him it’s even more likely he’s had consistent homicidal ideation #like he grew up surrounded by such extreme violence that w everything we see i just don’t think it’s possible he didn’t #he has a very real desire to enact violence as much as he’s not proud of it #and the thing is that even that does not make him an inherently bad or dangerous person #most ppl with homicidal ideation don’t even do anything #the issue came with giving this kid a sword and then giving the evil space president full access to him (via @wlwanakin)

#<- prev exactly. like nail right through the point I want this on billboards exactly #he's been soaked in violence since the second he was born. that's gonna have an effect #I feel people do not understand how HI works #like it's this unique thing thats unquantifiable #I think most of it comes down to social structures. suicide is accessible in that you never have to deal with the consequences #homicide is (not unrightfully!) a boogeyman of sorts. but you have to understand that anakin lives in a world where death and violence are #right in front of him all the time. it's accessible its real he does it all the time #the translation of these impulses has to cross a much shorter distance because he's a jedi in a war and his home planet runs on slavery #I'd be more surprised if the visuals and the thoughts weren't there #prev mentioned ocd and I think that's an interesting direction to interpret him but personally I like the idea of slowly growing complacency #not quite the right word but #at some point you stop being able to afford to morally beat yourself up over every thought. it just washes over you and festers and you #wonder where the gut heavy agitation that you cant shake off comes from and its the weight of #running through the sequence of what it would look like to kill the person in front of you and letting it flash away over and over and over #and then suddenly you actually force choked your pregnant wife and its not just in your head <- not attempting to remove his agency in #deciding to do that more so saying that the foundation for that has been there for a While (via @fire-on-fuel)

tbc i dont like when some ppl want to chalk down all of anakin's flaws on being groomed and being manipulated, because first, well, that's very boring and flattening, actually. And second, because flaws are necesary for a good character.

But also, Anakin as a character is so mentally ill that it is hard to tell what's just literal war ptsd intrusive thoughts, literal sithly manipulations, or just him having a jerk moment, lol. Anakin's main flaw is and will always be violence, and we all know from where that violence comes (his upbringing and also being put into a literal war), I can't not imagine Anakin not having violent thoughts at least half of the time, and is interesting to me because discussion about intrusive thoughts in fandom is rarely ever brought up, because a lot of the time Anakin seems to be partaking in really, really disturbing imagery or thoughts (and doesn't act on them) and a lot of these sound like intrusive thoughts to me, and Anakin's capacity to understand when a thoguht is or not his is very low lmao.

See, as someone that deals with intrusive thoughts, these suck bad, they suck a lot, I had a panic attack over an intrusive thought once. I need to avoid certain type of media or things to avoid intrusive thoughts, I still get very vivid imagery and intrusive thoughts from some dumb gore creepypasta I read when I was like 16; the thing with them is that to deal with these you need to be aware that brains are weird and sometimes They Will do That.

Now, case on point, Anakin who at the tender age of 9 years old already had seen so many slaves' heads exploding that he's capable of joking about it, was taught that his lightsaber (a weapon) is his life, lost his mom in the most violent way possible, then murdered a whole village over it, and then went to war for more countless pointless deaths, and who also very clearly shows traits of bpd (one of the symptoms being going from extreme idolization to contempt, and very extreme mood swings), is honestly going to have at least some very disgusting and disturbing ideas from time to time and not all of those can be blamed on Palpatine, at least not directly.

Like sure, ol' Palps takes advantage of those and makes them worse, and yes, of course some of the worst things you can find in Anakin are in fact, because of the grooming; but like, not all of it. And it really takes nuance and some good understanding of these things to not end in the far end of either side of the argument.

So like, yeah, the negative traits can't be downplayed, and the grooming can't be downplayed either, but the mental illness' symptoms shouldn't be downplayed as well, because seriously some of you all will go "Anakin is so bad on the head <3" and then when he does show the Actual Ugly Side of being Mentally Unwell, the reaction is either: "omg that's so crazy american psycho vibes wtf wtf that's not good why no one talks about how evil he is oml" or "that's just because Palpatine".

(and to be clear, I already said it, but gonna say it again, Palpatine IS to blame for a lot of it lmao, just,,,is very complicated, alright, a lot of Anakin's personality was molded both by Palpatine but also Obi-Wan/The Order.

Also, since is technically talked about in the post: Thoughts=/=Actions, not the point but just mentioning it because this is The Internet)