#AND GRIEF AND ANGER INSIDE HIM THAT HE WORKED THROUGH

[literallypyro]

How about a scenario where all of the mercs react to you being in a coma/waking up from a coma? I'm in the mood for angst!

(insert that one scene from the princess and the frog when prince navine and his servant accept the deal with Dr Facilier)

Also.... LOKI PFP SPOTTED‼️🫵

This can be read as platonic or pre-relationship for any of them!

I'm honestly excited to write this one! I hope you enjoy!

I will wait for you

They never expected it. They didn't know about the enemy Redmond had made in the process of trying to take down his brother. None of them knew who they were, and none of them even noticed something was wrong until they had seen the shadow sneaking away from their base.

Nothing was missing, at least they couldn't find any evidence of anything missing. Everyone was suspicious, some more than others. However, with nothing evidently wrong, nobody did anything.

The moment they realized the figure wrapped in the darkness of night had nearly doomed them was in the middle of battle. You had been shot. When you crumpled to the ground instead of getting sent to the respawn room, your team panicked.

The BLU team almost didn't listen until their Heavy— the one who had shot you— forced them to stop firing.

It seemed as if your body knew something happened to the respawn room. It clung to consciousness, but it was quickly getting worse.

Your vision was blurred and you could barely process anything you heard.

"What the hell happened?" You could hear Scout with the most distraught tone he ever had.

"They should have respawned by now!" Soldier shouted with an uncharacteristic amount of worry.

"You don't think I know that?" Medic hissed with a venomous tone. You could see him kneeling over you, blocking out the sun and making it only slightly easier for you to see. "Ach, this does not look good. Someone carry them to the med bay. I need to go prepare my things."

°•'~ᴗ͈_ᴗ͈~`•°

Medic rushed off to the med bay with a look of fearful urgency on his face. No one had ever seen him sprint quite like he did then. Scout was the one to pick you up and follow right behind Medic, an obvious choice because he could get you there the fastest.

The entire team could feel a weight in their hearts. For the first time in a long time, everyone grasped how mortal you were, and none of them liked it.

Medic wouldn't let anyone in the room while he operated on you. He needed to be completely alone. He needed to concentrate fully. He spent hours removing the bullets. He was more stressed than ever when his medigun could only patch up the holes but not bring you back to normal.

°•'~ᴗ͈_ᴗ͈~`•°

The team could barely look at you at first while you were hooked up to all those machines. It had been so long since any of them had gotten this close to death.

Sniper felt as if his lungs wanted to quit when he saw you. He could only tilt his hat to hide his face and leave the room. He knew others would stay there with you while he processed everything. He could barely process the emotions he had. They were so strong he physically felt them. He spent a lot of time watching Scout when the little ball of angered grief was outside.

Scout felt a surge of anger when he saw you. The kind of anger that makes your organs feel too big to fit in your body. The kind of anger that can only be let out through violence of some sort. Running like he was chasing that bitch who broke the respawn machine, breaking something, using Heavy's punching bag, you name it. Engineer even gave him some old useless machines to break with his bat.

Speaking of Engineer, he seemed to be taking it relatively well on the outside. On the inside, though, he wasn't taking it well at all. He lost all motivation to work on his machines. He turned all of his attention to the respawn machine. He spent many sleepless nights looking for what was wrong with it. When he finally fixed it, he spent a good portion of his time drinking with Demoman or asking for updates on you.

Demoman was one of the people the rest of the team went to when they needed comfort. Although he was usually teetering on the edge of being blackout drunk, he always wanted to help his teammates settle their minds. Although he didn't feel very optimistic, he would spend time thinking of good things to help the others.

Heavy was another one people went to when they needed reassurance. He was one of the people handling it the best. He had seen tragedy and hardship his whole life, and while he was still worried sick, he knew how to get through it. He helped the others and gave them some genuinely useful coping methods that fit for each of them. He also asked for constant updates on any progress you made and used any good news to help the team feel better.

Spy was seen even less than before. He didn't let it show around anyone else, but he was one of the ones taking it the hardest. He was going through his packs of cigarettes faster than ever before, and would have three or four glasses of whiskey rather than the one, maybe two that was normal for him. He did the bare minimum to take care of himself, and sometimes, not even that much.

Pyro was also hit devastatingly hard by the situation. They often dissociated. Their most common state was sitting completely still and staring at nothing. Their breathing was barely visible, their chest barely moving from how shallow and slow it was. It was almost impossible to break them out of it, their name having to be called several times before they turned their head towards the source. Heavy nearly had to force feed them just to make sure they were eating.

Soldier was only somewhat himself. When he wasn't standing guard at the door, he was pestering the others to try and find who sabotaged the respawn machine or just sitting in his room and trying to process his emotions. He was actually surprisingly good at handling the emotions of sadness and grief. He may not be smart by anyone's standards, but he actually has a specific type of emotional intelligence that not many quite understand, which helped him a lot while you were in a coma.

If it weren't on Medic's shoulders to keep you alive and heal you, he would be a complete wreck. When he wasn't changing your IV bags, checking your vitals, and maintaining everything you were hooked up to, he was searching for some miraculous cure for your situation. Papers, books, and personal experiments littered his desk. He was rarely seen doing anything but working. He had to fix this.

Nobody wanted to admit it out loud, but they were losing hope after several months of nothing. They all felt the weight of your absence in their daily activities. The base was unusually quiet all the time. The team rarely had the energy to manage anything above a whisper or a mumble.

°•'~ᴗ͈_ᴗ͈~`•°

"Whuh...?"

Scout was the first to find out when he came to check on you. He ran through the halls, shouting of your return to consciousness like Paul Revere. A few of them almost didn't believe him. However, they couldn't deny how all the anger he had was gone and was replaced by subtle tears in the waterlines of his eyes.

The team burst into the room to find you talking with a shaken Medic.

Soldier was the first to step forward, falling back into his usual personality. "How DARE you scare us like that, maggot? The team was falling apart! I've never seen such a sorry display from what is supposed to be an elite group of mercenaries!" Heavy put a hand on Soldier's shoulder to calm him down.

Pyro had to be reminded that you weren't fully better yet so they wouldn't crush you with a hug. You could feel them shaking and hear their sobs finally come out after so long of being completely static.

Scout wiped his eyes, laughing slightly at himself. "Look at me, dude. You got me crying like I ain't done since I was a little kid! Man, I'm just glad you're back."

Some of the team— Sniper, Demoman, Spy, Engineer, Heavy, and Medic— stayed silent and let the others talk to you first. They had the patience. They knew you would still be there when the others were done indirectly fighting for your attention.

It took a little over an hour for them to relax and let the others have their turn to talk to you.

Demoman seemed to breathe easier than he ever had before. "I tried to keep the team morale up, but I don't think I did a very good job. They'll be feeling a lot better now that you're awake. I know I am." His voice shook slightly as if happy sobs were fighting tooth and nail to be set free.

Engineer place a hand on your shoulder. His goggles were gone, and you could see how he was tearing up similarly to Scout. "I damn near can't believe my eyes. I was starting to think you wouldn't pull through. Maybe when you get to feeling better, you can come help me out in the workshop? I've fallen way behind."

Spy could barely even think of what to say. "Maybe now that you're getting better, things can return to normal." Though his words would seem underwhelming to anyone else, you knew him well enough to hear the hints of relief in his voice. You understood how he was and could hear how grateful he was that you pulled through.

Sniper had taken off his hat by this point, gripping it as if to ground himself in the moment. "We should probably work on your dodging skills, yeah?" Even though he didn't say much, you could feel the weight of his words. You could see how his face was lit up like it only did when he was completely filled with joy.

Heavy was quick to agree with him. "Da, team would be devastated if this repeated. We cannot express happiness enough you are better."

Medic waited until everyone left for his turn to speak with you. He sat down in a chair next to the hospital bed in which you laid. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and rested his elbows on his knees. The exhaustion he had was more than obvious. You could tell from the bags under his eyes that he worked tirelessly for you.

He looked up at you with furrowed brows and a weak smile. "You know... I don't think I have ever had a patient so difficult. It was challenging, but I... I'm glad I was able to help you."

"I think you need to rest." Your voice was soft and empathetic. You couldn't imagine how stressed he must have been. It was clearly enough to make him seem almost completely sane, after all. "Thank you so much for keeping me alive."

"You are right." He sighed and stood up with a stiffness in his bones. "I will check on you in the morning."

You smiled gently. "Sleep well."

[shrinkthisviolet]

oh wow!! So not only was Mr. Miyagi a thief who had to change his name and flee to Okinawa, he ALSO fought in the Sekai Taikai and it was BLOODY!! Great!! I love this!! / s

[littlepeach-world]

The Midnight Misunderstanding

Pairing: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Summary: You give in to your late-night pregnancy cravings and slip out quietly, leaving your husband, Hwang In-ho, to wake up in a frenzy when he finds you missing.

Warnings: Angst, Fear of losing someone, grief, pregnancy, cravings, gun, slight fluff, soft-Inho.

Late into the night, you stretch quietly in bed, your mind drifting through sleepy fog and growing sharper with an insistent craving. Turning to your side, you see your husband, Hwang In-ho, sleeping peacefully beside you. The chill of the night air sends shivers down your spine, but the thought of satisfying your craving warms you with determination. The clock reads 2:47 AM.

Knowing how hard In-ho has been working and how much rest he needs, you decide to slip out discreetly, believing you can make it back before he even notices. You pull on a warm coat, gather your essentials, and tiptoe out the door, careful to close it softly behind you.

Hours seem to pass in what feels like minutes. In-ho stirs awake, reaching out to find your side of the bed cold and empty. He blinks groggily, thinking you might be in another room. "Y/N?" he calls softly, expecting a quick reply or the distant hum of your voice.

When no response comes, he rises slowly, the initial calm giving way to a creeping unease. He checks the adjoining bathroom, then the kitchen, and each empty room sends another pang of worry coursing through him. The house feels eerily quiet, and with each step, the calm facade he tried to maintain begins to crack.

As he makes his way through the silent hallways and finds no sign of you anywhere, panic floods through him instantly. Memories of losing his first wife surge into his mind, and the dread of facing the same heart-wrenching loss with you engulfs him like a tidal wave.

Terror grips his chest as he moves more frantically now. "Yeobo?" he calls out again, his voice slicing through the silence like a knife, but only the echo of his own voice answers him back. His heart races uncontrollably as he grabs his phone, his hands shaking with a mix of fear and urgency.

"I can't find my wife," he says, his voice quivering as he speaks to his guards. "Search the building immediately," he commands, his tone rigid and leaving no room for delay. The icy fingers of fear grip his heart, the stakes now higher than ever with the thought of losing you and the baby—his entire world teetering on the brink of uncertainty.

As he listens to the hurried replies of his guards springing into action, he pulls open the drawer beside his bed and grabs his gun, the cold weight of the metal feeling reassuring in his hand. The transformation is swift—his usual calm demeanor gives way to the steely resolve of the Front Man.

He methodically sweeps through the apartment, each shadow and creak heightening his anxiety. Has something sinister befallen you? Could Gi-hun, that determined Player 456, have somehow found you? The uncertainty gnaws at him, each tick of the clock echoing louder in the eerily quiet apartment. His thoughts race wildly, the sense of impending dread building with each passing second.

Just as his mind threatens to overwhelm him, the soft click of the door breaks the silence. He pivots sharply, raising his gun, only to freeze as you step back inside with a small stack of snacks and an apologetic smile. The weight of the moment crashes over him, the relief almost too much to bear.

"In-ho," you start, but the torrent of emotions inside him is already surging to the surface. He lowers the gun, his hands trembling.

"Where were you?" His voice is a mix of anger, relief, and lingering fear. He steps forward, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, ensuring you're really there and unharmed.

"I... I couldn’t sleep," you say softly, holding up the snacks as a peace offering. "I thought some comfort food might help. I’m sorry if I worried you."

He releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading. He pulls you into a fierce embrace, holding you as if you might disappear if he let go. The feel of you, warm and real in his arms, does more to calm his racing heart than anything else.

"I thought..." his voice breaks, unable to finish the sentence. The memories of his first loss are still too raw, the pain too fresh.

You pull back slightly and cup his face in your hands, your eyes filled with understanding and love. "I'm here. I’m not going anywhere," you reassure him, gently stroking his cheek.

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. When he opens them, there's a new resolve mirrored in their depths. "Next time, wake me," he pleads softly. "I can't... I won't lose you and the baby. You both mean everything to me."

You nod, your heart aching for the pain he’s been through. "I promise," you whisper, and he takes a deep breath, slowly finding his composure again.

With his arm protectively around you, he leads you back to the bedroom. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm, reassuring light on your path. 

With measured steps, he walks over to the dresser and slides the gun back into the drawer, locking it firmly to ensure it’s secure. The sight of him putting the weapon away brings a greater sense of calm to both of you.

As you reach the bed, he gently guides you to sit on the edge before kneeling in front of you.

His eyes soften as he places his hands on your growing belly, the life inside a beacon of hope amidst his fears. He leans in, tenderly kissing your pregnant belly, a silent vow of protection and love to both you and the unborn child.

"We’re in this together," he murmurs, his lips lingering on your skin. You smile down at him, your hand resting on his head.

Under the covers, he keeps you close, one arm wrapped protectively around you, his hand resting gently on your stomach. The snacks are forgotten on the bedside table as sleep finally takes over, but this time, it’s a peaceful sleep, secure in the knowledge that you’re safe and by his side.

[filmstarved]

i can fix him and fuck him.

18+ [logan x female!reader]

nobody can break through logan's walls with ease like you can. and he actually lets you, welcomes it even. he needs it to breathe and when he's ready to walk out of the gifted youngsters door, there you are again.

word count: 5,737

logan sulks. he’s so devoid of love and compassion that he sulks. he’s confused most days, too. unsure of who he is and what he even wants. the people who are somehow closest to him can’t even find their way past the fire breathing dragons that guard the drawbridge to his heart. (scott jokes that he doesn’t have a heart and that the adamantium replaced it and he’s fully pumping cold, hard metal).

logan is a man who answers to himself and doesn’t give people even the slightest chance to ask him a dumb fucking question because he’s not in the fucking mood. he’s never in the mood…unless you put him in one. usually a good one.

you earn a smile from logan as easy as the sun makes it seem to rise every morning and the moon to take its place at night. it leaves the team dumfounded. they believe if you weren’t here, logan would have left a long time ago. they’re right. logan used to search high and low for any excuse to leave. he never knew where he’d go, he’d just…go. but you didn’t dare let him out of your sight. not ever since the professor had brought you to what you call home a little over a year ago now.

deep down, he wanted reasons to stay. somewhere deep inside that metal frame…he wanted things to be right again. he’d find it tiring most days to carry around his grief and anger. but you gave him reasons to stay just one more day.

“so we’re working on that thing for charles together tomorrow right?” you asked on a wednesday, standing so cutely in the threshold of his door that it was almost annoying to him.

“so we’re catching that movie downtown with ororo and hank tomorrow right? it starts at 6!” you asked on a thursday.

“heeyyy, lo…do you possibly, maybe think you could sub for scott’s morning classes tomorrow? he has a dentist appointment…,” you shyly asked on a very late sunday night. (logan heard scott’s jokes about his heart so he made you ask. logan was the only one available.)

but behind his stoic stature and intimidating glare fixed on his face accompanied by knitted brows, he’d always say yes…to you. you were his reason for staying. he knew it but would never admit it. you knew it but played the oblivious part well. and the rest of the team would gossip about it when you two weren’t around. but as long as you were here, logan has nowhere else to be.

although as of late, you’ve been busy. much busier than usual. charles has you creating plans for a mission happening soon. when you’re not teaching mutant ethics 101 to freshmen, you’re hauled up in the lab or library; sometimes darting back and forth between the two multiple times a day leaving very little time to worry about logan.

tonight, you brought your work back to your dorm. as you cleaned up a rough draft of an exit strategy, rain began to tap lightly on the window. you had lit candles littered around the room as well as grouped on your table, a small desk lamp illuminated the surface further. as you reached up to stretch your aching back muscles, you were startled by the sound of a throat clearing.

your eyes shot to the sound at your door where logan stood, leaning against the frame; arms crossed and still like he had been glued to the spot. 

“hi lo,” you say. “y’scared me, heh.” you aren’t used to logan greeting you often, especially not this late. he’s over 150 years old, of course he’s grumpy and an early bird. you’re usually the one at his door with requests and invitations to social events he assumes can be nothing short of insufferable. he sighs, his stare dropping to burn holes in the ground. “logan, are you-“

“i think i’m gonna get out of here, bub.”

those words felt like an arrow hitting the bullseye in your chest and then another splitting the first one right through the center.

“wha-what do you mean?…you’re leaving?” you asked, confusion and frustration trembling in your voice.

“it’s too hard being here.”

with that, you stood up from your chair, beelining to him. “c’mere,” you say hushed, pulling on his leather clad arm, trying to unfold them and get him out of the door frame. he doesn’t budge and you pull “the look” that you know he can’t say no to. “come sit with me please, lo.”

he unfolds his arms which allows you to grab his hands to lead him to take a load off on your bed. your bare feet pat on the hardwood floor as you quickly go back to close the door.

you walked back over to him, assessing his body language. ever since he let you use your mutation to “read him” a few months ago, you told him you’d never do it again without his permission. one gaze into his eyes and a touch of his skin and you could feel everything wracking around in his head. anxiety, rage, hate but love, pain. it was hard to feel just for a moment and your heart cracked knowing he was riddled with those feelings constantly.

but right now you couldn’t help it, he was slouched on the edge of the bed, his head dropping to rest in his large hands, and apparently ready to walk right out of the door. your powers are amplified with a touch and even more when you can look into their eyes. from a distance, you could feel a sense of unease and something else… a pressure…built up in your stomach as you surveyed your friend. it didn’t feel bad though…it felt familiar. a good familiar. you stopped reading him and did your best to shrug off the aching stomach feeling and care for your disheveled logan.

he wasn’t emotional, like ever. he hid all that, only showing you what you wanted to see; what he believed you wished him to be — happy, whatever that was. but that couldn’t’ve been farther from the truth. sure, you want him to be happy but also just whatever he wanted to feel, you wouldn’t suppress it or try to change it to fit some ideal of who people on the outside want him to be. yes, he was one of the meanest motherfuckers you had ever met but he was your mean motherfucker. (whatever that means because nothing has ever really been clear between you two).

you walked closer to him, forcing yourself in his diabolical bubble. you stood between his legs, removing his hands from his face to wrap them around your waist. you scooped your hands under his scruffy chin, pulling up to get a look into his bloodshot eyes. oh, he’d been crying.

“lo…,” you muttered. “why were you crying, wolv?” you slide a thumb across his cheek where tears had stained the skin. “why do you want to leave?”

he pulled his face away, breaking his stare with you. he dropped his head forward to rest on your stomach, wrapping his arms around your legs so his hands rested on the back of your thighs. he began to slowly rub the exposed skin of them that your very short night shorts didn’t cover. he lifted the hem of your shirt slightly to press his hot face into the soft, cool skin underneath. he hummed into it, allowing you to feel the vibration.

“logan,” you softly moaned his name under your breath. his fingers press firmly, inching closer to the crease in the skin where your ass meets thigh.

“is this okay?” he asks lowly, when he looks up for confirmation to keep going, you’re already looking down at him nodding. “say it’s okay for me to touch you like this, bub.”

“yes, keep going, logan,” you said curtly. in your voice there is a hint of need. you hadn’t been touched like this since jean’s christmas party, tipsy off spiked egg nog in the garden with a guy whose mutation was a very wet, long tongue. flirting with him seemed intriguing in the moment, but five minutes later, it rendered itself utterly useless due to user error. the sexual tension between you and logan is so potent it usually clears out a room. aside from accidental brushes of hands and quick looks at each others lips mid conversation, neither one of you has acted on it.

his hums turn to growls and soft whimpers as your hands ran through and tugged his hair. your fingers found their way to his nape, splaying out to grip the hair there in your fist. he managed to place a single kiss on the skin right above the elastic of your shorts before you pulled his head back to scrutinize his face.

“you don’t have permission to read me,” he groaned. before you could ask how he even knew that’s what you were doing he said, “you get this serious, focused look in your eyes. i can feel you in my head.”

“logan, what are we doing?” you ask, releasing his hair and stepping out of his bubble. 

his hands drop from the absence of your thighs onto his lap and his sighs frustratingly. 

“what do you mean?” he asks, admiring your body in the dim light with a semi pressing on the denim of his jeans through his boxers.

“i’m…not doing this with you…if you’re just gonna disappear from my bed before the fuckin’ sun comes up. i’m not doing this,” you said, with your hands on your hips.

he pressed his hands into his knees to push himself up to tower over you. he took two big steps forward and stood in front of you. his hand raised up to brush the back of his fingers across your cheek to cup it and rub his thumb over the warm skin. 

he pressed his lips to yours, skillfully allowing his tongue access to it. you let him. “i give you permission,” he moaned in your mouth. “read me. feel how i feel about you…how i’ve always felt about you.”

he welcomed the hesitant slip of your hands past his jacket and under his shirt, shivering and chuckling “mm, cold” into your mouth. you rested your cool touch on his hips and with his mouth obsessed with yours, you read him. 

your head dizzied instantly and the hair on the back of your neck stood up. you had never felt anything as strong as this. you could almost taste the colors in logan’s head. your heart dropped to your stomach like you were on a rollercoaster, feeling sick from adrenaline in the best ways. and then, returned that good familiar feeling. this time buried even deeper in your stomach, moving it’s way lower…and lower until logan was swallowing the noises escaping you. before you literally passed out, you dropped your hands and took back ownership of your lips and tongue. breathing heavily, you moved away from him to collect yourself.

a beat of silence followed by a heavy sigh and a “well, say something” from logan passed and you opened your mouth to speak before shutting it again.

that…was the best thing you had ever felt. no drug could compare to the euphoria that a minute of kissing logan could bring. you could practically feel yourself lubricating and your upper thighs unconsciously squeezed together as you scrambled to find thoughts.

there were none. your mind already dumb and wanting more of him…more of the feeling. your fists planted firmly on both your hips as if you were grounding yourself to the floor to avoid buckling. you eyed the ground, looked back up at him and forwarded with another heated, taking-in-each-others-breath kiss. your hands found their way to the same place gripping the hair on his nape to which he praised the tug with a moan. he supported your balance as your whines got more whiney and needy and your hands held onto him like life support.

“lay down,” he said into your kiss. it wasn’t really a command, more of a warning because he tossed you on the bed like unfolded laundry.

he stood over you as you collected yourself, darting your tongue out to taste the spit he left behind. you propped yourself up on your elbows to get a look at the man casting a shadow over you. without the sounds of pleasure exclaiming in each others mouths, your ears absorbed the comforting sound of the battering rain. a tree branch smacked the window as thunder rumbled outside.

logan took a moment to admire your presence. starting at the top, he gazed upon your hair that he associates with vanilla and roses and the times he’d touch himself wondering how it’d feel being wrapped around his hand and pulled.

as he removed his leather jacket, he took his time mentally undressing you. feeling even more pressure build in your clit, you bore your hips down into the mattress, rolling them in circles to stimulate the swollen nub. he beheld your tits, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip at the sight of your hard buds under your very thin, white tank top. he threw his heavy jacket to the side, letting it thud in a ball on the ground.

“you look so beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, deeply enthralled by your scantily clad figure laid out in front of him. unable to stop staring, you could see the bulge in his pants get larger and it ridiculously turned you on. with you making eye contact with the crotch of his jeans, he effortlessly unfastened his belt buckle. the metallic buckle clanked to the floor as his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles. 

he stroked himself while he looked upon you. it was like you could read his mind, because you began to touch yourself. the twitch of his lips and darkening of his eyes validated your teasing. letting yourself drop back on the bed, you caressed your body for him. one hand occupied by cupping your tit and pinching and twisting your nipple while the other is exploring the wet spot left on your panties. not being able to handle eye-fucking you any longer, he dropped to his knees on the edge of the bed between your legs. logan hooked his arms under your knees, pulling you close which in your intoxicatingly lustful brain you found funny, so you laughed.

logan spread your thighs open so he could fit in between them to leave wet, sloppy kisses all over your skin. he nibbled here and there, earning soft hisses and hums from your parted lips.

kiss kiss nibble hiss mmm kiss hum nibble nibble bite kiss suck

he spent about a minute just doing that, leaving warm welts in his mouths wake. “i need these off of you, princess.” once he had kissed his way up to the elastic of your shorts, he snapped it. you nodded and he did the honor of pulling them down and flinging them across the room like he was opening presents on christmas morning. 

he let out an amused scoff as he ran his trembling hand down his face, caught between ecstatic disbelief at the sight of your black lace panties with little black bows adorning the seams. you mentally thanked your past self for slacking on doing laundry and only having your “special occasion” panties left to wear.

“d’you know how pretty you are,” he said. his eyes traced over every inch of you in excitement like you were artwork he stole from the louvre and made out like a bandit with.

his hand disappeared to slickly stroke himself, his mouth watering in anticipation for your taste. his chest heaves as he takes in the sight of you, studying every curve prettily laid out before him; thinking about every position he wants to see you in and every way he wants to please you. without another groan inducing thought, he lunged forward to press a kiss to your lips, his tongue demanding attention. you drink his breath like liquor becoming completely intoxicated by him. he needed this, he needed you.

“need…to taste…you,” he breathed in between kisses. with this mouth obsessed with yours, his hands caress your tits, his thumbing circles on one of the nubs while he’s pinching and pulling on the other. your head falls back and your neck rolls at the sensation, earning profanities from your pretty, swollen lips. your tit misses the hand that he proceeds to run down and up your thigh to locate the spot in your panties you were playing with a moment before. as he parts from your kiss, he’s hooked two fingers under the elastic, pulling those off swiftly.

you yelp when he pushes your torso down. you stare up at the decorative ceiling as he savors you, kissing and massaging your thick thighs. he’s enjoying playing with you as much as possible before allowing himself any pleasure. he wants your juice to cover his face…his neck…his arm…the bed…the floor too when he gets you to pop like a water balloon.

“logan…please, please,” you beg, pawing at his hair. you lift your head to watch the man between your legs taking in the sight and smell of your pretty, wet pussy. even in the dim light, he could see how much you ached for him. he not so secretly got entertainment from watching you lightly buck your hips up to his face and he would’ve let it continue but your pheromones became overwhelming for him; engulfing his head in it’s enchanting aroma.

like fresh pie on a windowsill, he was drawn into you. logan opened wide to swipe one flat tongued lick up your slit. he had one goal — to knock all sense out of you, to fully engulf you in pleasure. he wants you dumb and begging for him to stay right where he is — at the mansion and also all over you. 

logan audibly sucked and popped your clit in and out of his mouth, teasing the most sensitive bit. he’d suck and pop and then lick up your slick, repeating the act. one of his big hands reached up to cup your tit, pinching and twisting and circling. from his hair to the tit he wasn’t playing with, you clawed at whatever would ground you. being eaten by logan felt like floating above the stratosphere.

your wet soaked his beard and it only made him more horny, his cock dripping and throbbing in his fist. tasting you, inhaling you, winning pretty sounds from you, knowing he’s the one making you buck up and fuck his nose only made his appetite for you insatiable. he let go of himself to push his pointer and middle fingers into your needing pussy. you hissed and cursed. the thrill of him devouring you began to reach its peak. his fingers pumped relentlessly into you, curling them to stimulate your g-spot. moans, curses, the gushing of your wet cunt, his sucking and popping and vibrating moans mixed with the rain and thunder grumbling outside filled the dorm like mozart’s symphony no. 25.

he wanted to kiss you, so he did. with his fingers still coaxing an orgasm out of you, he shared the sweet taste. he got back on the bed with you, sliding his free hand under your back to push you up to further to see the mess you were making on the sheets.

“look at how good you’re taking my fingers,” he groaned, inching closer to your ear so you could hear his dirty language loud and clear. “you can come for me, baby.” he peppered a few kisses to your forehead, removing his hand from behind you so he could press it into your stomach. this only heightened the overwhelming wash of pleasure coursing through you.

“lo…logan, i’m-“

“fuck my fingers, baby. use them…oh that’s it…that’s it…i feel that clenching, c’mon you can do it for me. go big baby, make me happy.” his dirty mouth and sporadic clit circling and pumping in and out of you with his tireless wrist pushed you over the edge. you cowered into his neck, pulling on his white tank top and biting the salty skin below his ear as your pussy obeyed, erupting with your juices. out of breath and fucking dumb already, you could feel the wet soak the sheets under your ass.

logan pulled his fingers out of you, landing a light smack on your pussy before licking you clean off of his digits. you fell back on the bed, your arms above your head as you heaved and saw stars.

“‘m not done with you, princess.” he slid off the bed, still delighted by your taste and engulfed in your aroma.

“fuuuck,” you groaned. the pulsing lightning feeling spread throughout both legs as an effect of your rocking orgasm. logan was wicked with his tongue, a devious magician with his fingers and you were his sole audience member wondering about his tricks for sleight of hand.

he quickly tossed his tank, that had tug marks from your attempt to ground yourself, to the side, his muscles flexing under his skin. as he let your post orgasm, cock-dumb brain fog clear, he spit in his hand to fuck his fist. his saliva mixed with the pre-cum leaking from the head, he groaned and sighed heavily at the feeling of giving his dick some sort of relief. you, needy for another hit of him, propped yourself up on your elbows to watch the most delectable creature pleasure himself.

just the sight of him illuminated by candles and flashes of lightning outside as he gets off to how fucked out and dumb you look was enough to have you open up again and play with yourself. the sensitivity from your swollen nub required a delicate touch but your pussy ached, clenching around nothing. his knitted brows relaxed, eyes darting from your pretty face, to your tits, to your fingers rubbing circles where his mouth resided moments ago back to look longingly into your eyes.

“you’re gonna stay,” you said. your hand reached your mouth, your tongue swiping a lick up your middle and ring fingers, wrapping your lips around them to coat them in your saliva. “tell me you’re going to stay for me,” you elaborated. your wet fingers found your aching center.

“there’s no where else i want to be,” he answered. he paced closer to the bed where you laid, his dick basically making eye contact with you as he stopped a few inches away. “you’re mine, you know that?” he noticed your hand slow, “keep going,” he commanded. logan reached out to cup your face, tilting his head to get a look at you obeying his every request. “your face…your mouth…,” his thumb swiped across your lips as he spoke. “your body…your cunt.” he leaned down to kiss your mouth, leaving a string of spit attached to your lower lip. “your laugh…your heart,” he said kindly, his hand massaging your scalp. moans earned from his praise escaped you. “you’re all mine. is that okay with you, baby?”

you’re so bewitched by his aura and his subtle touches make your heart race so fast that you can’t do anything but try to maintain his torrid eye contact and nod.

“use your words, honey.” his thumb returned to the softness of your parted lips.

“i’m yours, logan,” you said, taking his thumb in and closing your lips around it. “if you’ll stay with me, i’ll be yours forever,” you breathed around his thumb, speaking from a mix of eager lust and the terrifying need for him to not to be an asshole, just once.

“i’m not going anywhere…i promise,” he said matter of factly before leaning back down to hungrily devour your kiss. “i need to…fuck you…now,” he cursed in between swallowing moans. 

“do what you want…i’m yours,” you said just clearly audible over the storm rumbling outside. you two shared eye contact so intense that you noticed his dick twitch from your peripheral. you took his dick in your drooling mouth, reaching up to squeeze the base of him. it twitched from the warmth, pressure and tongue swiping rhythmically around his angry, red tip. you kept yourself enveloped around his length, bobbing your head to hit your gag reflex. the added lubrication drove him crazy, his abs twitching under the toned skin of his abdomen. you moaned around him purely from the enjoyment you got out of having him stretch the corners of your mouth, feeling the sting from it. 

logan reached down with both hands to hold your head steady while he sped up thrusting into your throat. your gags and gasps for air, his praise and the storm filled the room beautifully. 

“fuuuck, baby, keep that throat open for me please,” he begged. his hands left their position to find a new one — one supporting his thrusting hips, the other petting your head. “oh, you look so fuckin’ pretty with my cock down your throat…you’re taking me so good, sweetheart.”

he pulled his dick out of your mouth to smack it on your face, complimenting how gorgeous you look. he kissed and licked the mess off of your mouth.

“mm, baby i need to know how good you feel.” with that, he rounded the bed to lay down. “c’mere, baby.” you turned around, crawling on all fours to obey him. his cock in its usual place to be, in his fist, leaks pre-cum in anticipation for you to smother it with your warm, clenching pussy.

“lay down,” he said.

“damn, yes sir,” you say, jokingly annoyed with all of his demands. you lay down next to him, your knees instinctively parting slightly. he lays on his side, resting his hand on your stomach, rubbing his large hand in flat circles.

“d’you know how long i’ve thought about this moment with you?” he asked, leaning in to kiss and suck the skin in the crook of your neck. you lustfully sighed at the sensation of his hot breath. his hand finds its way between your legs again, tickling and tapping at your slit. “i want you to read me the whole time i’m inside…can you do that?”

“are you—“

“yes i’m sure, i feel so fucking good right now and i haven’t even felt you. i want you to feel that and more,” he explains, pulling your chin in to taste the desperation on you.

before he came just from your kiss and rutting against the sheets, he hovered above you. his lips stayed attached to your chest, kissing lower and lower to suck a tit into his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue then biting softly on the nub. his hand disappeared from the side of your head to grab hold of his shaft, flicking his tip against your clit. his head dropped as he watched and listened to your slick coating his cock. he quickly swiped up and down your pussy trying to savor every fold and feeling. his brows furrowed, not being able to resist your warmth, he lined himself up with your hole, using his hand to guide just the tip into it.

“oh…fuck,” he groaned in excitement. he pushed in just a little more which caused you to hiss. his head shot up and eyes scanned your face for any sign of regret or unsureness. “are you okay? d’you want to stop?”

“no, baby,” you giggled, lifting your arms rest around his neck, one hand always finding a way into his dark locks. “just been a while…keep going, i’m okay.”

with your permission, he pushed in a little more. he let out a deep groan at the feeling of you stretching to form perfectly around him. you gasped, pressing a hand into his chest, feeling a similar sting to the one you felt in the corners of your mouth earlier. against his want to start thrusting his whole length into you, his went slow, watching your demeanor for cues to keep going.

“you feel…fuck…like it was made for me,” he said which caused the butterflies in you to flutter their wings even faster. “are you okay?” his chest heaved and his breath fanned your face.

“fuck me…please logan,” you said. your hands reached his hips, pushing them down onto you. without wasting another minute, he did. 

he bent your knee more to press it into your chest as his hips repeatedly slammed down hard, his balls smacking your ass. with one hand giving him better access by positioning your leg higher, the other cupped and squeezed your bouncing tit.

“oh my…fucking god,” you moaned. you had let the walls of your mutation down, allowing yourself to be flooded by not only your pleasure…but the love logan feels for you plus the absolute sheer euphoria that he was experiencing deep inside of your pussy. it coursed through your body like a steam engine leaving the station. it had felt like you had been brought to five earth shattering orgasms before the one that was bound to shake you again soon.

“you know you feel so good, look at that fuckin’ fucked out smile. can you feel it? can you feel how good you make me feel, baby? don’t stop readin’ me, princess. it’s all for you,” he praised for you to hear every word.

“holy shit…mm fuckin’…ahh!” your hands couldn’t help but find their way above your head, subconsciously reaching for the bed post for something to ground you again.

“here, baby, hold onto me.” logan grabbed your wandering wrist with his free hand, slapping your hand on his chest which you pressed into as if you were pushing him away. before your cock drunk mind could register what happened, he had flipped the two of you so you were on top. 

logan looked so fucking pretty under you. you took a second to breathe and take in the view before bending your knees to put yourself in a squatting position on his cock. you placed your hands on his heaving chest for support as you started to bounce your ass on him. ‘oh this is so fun’, the thought making you giggle in elation as you drilled down your hips, rocking them back and forth to feel him stimulate the deepest parts of you. his thumb bored into your clit, drawing circles on it. 

as you kept bouncing your wet pussy on him just how he liked, logan lifted his knees up behind you and pushed you back onto them. he moved his hand away from your clit and picked his head up to watch his dick disappear deep inside you. then, he spit. his saliva landed on your pussy and stomach. he went back to stimulating you, fully realizing how much that turned you on from the tight clench around him and the extra juice running down his ass onto the sheets under you two.

he, still playing with your clit, summoned your face closer to his with the middle and ring fingers on the other hand. once closer, he grabbed your neck to kiss your fiercely. 

“you’re my good girl, huh?”

‘mhmm’ was all you could muster with his hand around your throat and his hips still ramming his cock into your stretched out hole.

“use those words for me, baby. are…mm, fuck…you my good girl?”

“ye…sss, baby i’m your…good…oh my fucking…girl!!”

“open your mouth.” he fucking spit in it. you moaned tasting him again and feeling it on your face. “good…fuckin’ girl,” he complimented, kissing you and then squeezing your cheeks to spit on your tongue again. 

your body started to go limp and your eyes were practically glued together. you could feel the searing hot orgasm burning up inside. you could feel logan in a way that you never thought possible. everything. 

his love, his passion, his longing, his fear, his anxiety, his lust, his heart…everything was yours in this moment. high on his feelings, you let your head fall back coming undone on top of him.

“oh you’re so pretty…that’s pretty, baby, keep…fuck…use me, it’s all for you.” his words took you further and further into ecstasy. it was a really good fucking trip that you never wanted to end. the pain of his cock fucking you out and his grip clutching your skin like he’d fall off earth without doing so made you moan so intensely that not even the thunder outside could compete.

he could tell you were a few fucks away from collapsing but so was he. 

“baby…you keep clenching around me like that…i’m gonna fuckin’ fill you,” he said. you kept bouncing on it, wanting him to even feel a fraction of how he just made you feel. he closed his eyes trying to last as long as possible in the heaven that he found in you. his thumbs bore into your hips as he used them to ground himself.

“i want it, baby…fill your good girl up.” you leaned down to speak into his ear and then carry on kissing his neck, letting him claim your moans as trophies. 

“fuuuuck…fuuuck,” he moaned as his thrusting became sloppy and you weren’t bouncing as much anymore. his abs twitched again along with his face. 

SNIKT!!

you hissed at the cool metal of his claws against your skin and the feel of him throbbing severely inside you as he let himself paint your walls. you thanked him in pleased moans before falling on his chest. still semi-hard inside, he kissed the top of your head to which you looked up and he gave you a proper kiss. he let himself twitch out a few more dribbles of cum inside you before pulling his claws back in to carefully rub your back.

a few beats of silence went by as you listened to each others hastened breaths and the rain tapping the glass. 

“…i love you, logan.”

“i think you know how much i love you, baby,” he said, smugly remembering how you looked coming on his dick, further escalated by his letting you read him.

you two snuggled naked under the covers and as you laid on his chest and listened to his light snoring, you read him again. 

ease and silence…and love.

[socialobligation]

Hihi!! U said ud like to start doing more writings rather than smaus, so I thought I’d leave u a writing request this time! Okay so picture this, it’s post-war with bakugou x mia!reader who was presumed dead but apparently was just stranded in the middle of nowhere (this part is kind of a plothole but if u could figure out something that would be sososo amazing!!) and after like 6 months finally reunite post-war?? Ofc take ur time and stay healthy author !! Love ur work !!<3333

six months too late | k. bakugo

bakugo thought you were gone. for six months, he lived with that weight. but fate had other plans—and now, you're standing right in front of him.

bakugo had never been good at dealing with grief.

anger? sure. fear? he could mask it. pain? he lived with that shit daily. but grief? real, soul-crushing loss that settled deep in his bones and refused to leave? that was different.

and it was eating him alive.

you had been gone for six months.

the war ended, but not without casualties. the city was rebuilding, heroes stretched thin trying to repair the damage. civilians were starting to feel safe again. life was moving on.

but bakugo couldn't.

because you weren't there.

no body. no trace. no closure.

just... gone.

they'd looked for you. he'd looked for you—refused to stop even after the others tried to tell him it was no use. rescue teams had combed through the rubble, searching collapsed buildings and debris for any sign of you. but all they ever found were reminders of how brutal the battle had been.

a boot. blood on the pavement.

but never you.

bakugo had stood there, watching as they cleared the wreckage, hands clenched into fists so tight his nails left crescent moons in his palms. he didn't speak. didn't move.

he didn't cry.

because if he did—if he let that crack form even for a second—he wouldn't survive it.

he stopped saying your name after the first month.

it hurt too much.

everyone could see it. he wasn't the same.

bakugo still trained with the same intensity, still went through the motions of being a hero-in-training, but the fire was gone. his explosions felt duller. his anger, less controlled.

the dorms were quieter without you. your laugh used to echo through the hallways, bright and infectious. you'd tease him relentlessly, calling him out on his bullshit with that signature grin he pretended to hate.

now? silence.

even his friends had stopped trying to get him to talk about it. they didn't ask how he was doing anymore—probably because they knew the answer.

shitty.

he was doing shitty.

bakugo didn't sleep much anymore.

every time he closed his eyes, he saw you.

not the way he wanted to remember you—smiling, happy, calling him an idiot when he tried to act cool.

no.

he saw you in that moment.

the war. the smoke. the chaos.

"get out of here!" you'd screamed, shoving him back, your eyes wide with desperation. "go, bakugo!"

he didn't listen. he never would.

but then—the explosion.

a flash of light. a deafening roar.

and you were gone.

bakugo woke up most nights with his heart pounding, breath ragged as he reached for something—someone—who wasn't there.

his bed was cold. the dorm was quiet.

and you were still gone.

he should've been there. should've done something. should've protected you.

bakugo had played that moment over in his head a thousand times, wondering where it went wrong. how he let you slip away. how he—of all people—had failed to save the one person he couldn't live without.

six months. that's how long it had been.

life didn't wait for grief to pass. UA moved forward. class 1-a graduated and stayed on as provisional heroes to assist with the rebuilding efforts. the dorms weren't as chaotic anymore. they were quiet. colder. bakugo still trained like his life depended on it. he threw himself into work with relentless determination, trying to drown out the ache that never went away. his body was exhausted, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness that gnawed at him from the inside.

kirishima watched him with worried eyes. mina tried to get him to open up, but he brushed her off. kaminari—even kaminari—stopped cracking jokes about "grumpy bakugo" because this... this wasn't just grumpiness. this was grief. and no one knew how to fix it.

bakugo didn't say it out loud, but he had given up. he stopped checking the reports. stopped listening when the search teams gave their updates. stopped hoping. because hoping hurt too much.

it was a random afternoon when everything changed. the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the UA campus. bakugo was heading back to the dorms after another grueling training session, his body sore and his mind numb. he was used to this feeling by now—the hollow ache in his chest that never fully went away.

but then—

"bakugo." the voice was soft. almost too soft. his brain didn't register it at first. it couldn't.

"katsuki."

that voice. his heart stopped.

slowly, like he was afraid moving too fast would break the fragile illusion, he turned around. and there you were. standing a few feet away, looking tired, worn, and a little worse for wear. but alive.

alive.

bakugo didn't move. didn't breathe.

"hey," you said, voice barely above a whisper, like you weren't sure he'd even want to see you.

bakugo's knees nearly gave out.

"holy shit," he breathed, his voice cracking as his feet finally moved. he stumbled forward like a man possessed, eyes locked on you as if he was afraid you'd disappear again if he blinked.

you didn't move. didn't speak. and then—you were in his arms.

bakugo crushed you against his chest, arms wrapped around you so tightly it was like he was trying to make sure this was real—that you were real.

"you're..." his voice broke, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it would anchor him to reality. "you're real."

"i'm real," you murmured, your voice trembling as you clung to him just as desperately. "i'm here, katsuki."

bakugo's body shook. "where the fuck were you?" his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "do you know how long i—"

"i know," you whispered, pulling back just enough to cup his face in your hands. "i know. i'm so sorry, katsuki."

his eyes were glassy, filled with too many emotions to name. anger. relief. pain. love.

"i thought..." his voice trailed off, and his grip on you tightened. "i thought i lost you."

"you didn't," you smiled, pressing your forehead against his. "i'm here now. i'm not going anywhere."

"swear it." his voice was barely audible, but the desperation in it was palpable.

"i swear."

bakugo's lips crashed against yours. it wasn't gentle. it was raw, desperate—a collision of lips and teeth and everything he'd been holding back for six long months. he kissed you like he was trying to make up for every second you'd been gone, like he was terrified this was still a dream. but you kissed him back just as fiercely.

and for the first time in six months, bakugo katsuki could breathe again.

you didn't talk about it right away. the first night, you stayed curled up in his bed, wrapped in his arms like he was afraid to let go. bakugo didn't sleep—just held you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of your breathing. he didn't ask where you'd been. didn't ask how you survived. because right now? none of that mattered.

you were here. that was all that mattered.

days passed before you could bring yourself to tell him. about how the explosion had thrown you so far, so fast, that no one thought to look beyond the city. how you'd been buried under debris, barely clinging to life, until a group of villagers in a remote area found you and nursed you back to health.

how you'd spent every waking moment after that trying to get back to him.

"i tried, katsuki," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you sat on his bed, hands trembling in his. "i tried to come back."

"i know."

bakugo's thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch gentle despite the storm in his eyes.

"i didn't mean to leave you."

"i know."

his jaw clenched, and he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. "you're not leaving again."

"i'm not."

"swear it."

"i swear."

bakugo kissed you again, slower this time, softer—like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. and for the first time in six months, he wasn't holding onto a ghost.

you stayed by his side after that. bakugo didn't sleep alone anymore. every night, he fell asleep with his arms around you, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. and every morning, when he woke up and saw you there—he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay again.

it wasn't easy. some days were harder than others. but you were there.

and bakugo?

he wasn't letting go this time.

not now. not ever.

[luveline]

Hi Jade ! I loove your sunshine!readers, could I request one for Carmy ? Maybe someone calls her to get to the restaurant when hes feeling anxious to calm him down idk if thats good lol love ya !

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.4k

Is it The Beef or The Bear? In your head, despite the wishes of everyone who works there (except for Ebra, who seems to have mixed opinions), you always call it The Beef. But the sign brags otherwise, and when you push open the doors, nothing inside is left to remind you of the old restaurant. It was a total gut. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” says a familiar, warm voice. 

You almost walk straight into her table, distracted looking for brown curls through the kitchen door’s little window. “Hey, Tina.” You grin at your second favourite chef. Your most favourite Sous. “You taking a break?” 

She offers you a round butter cookie from a sleeve of them. Her cup of coffee billows with steam. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hiding from a meltdown?” you ask, taking a cookie, fingers oily with butter, sugar grains falling to the floor. 

“It’s not like that,” she says. 

Well, what is it like? you think. 

Richie’s text wasn’t exactly descriptive. Need ur help with the little Bitch, he’d said. Then, when you didn’t answer, ASAP!!!!

You figured it must’ve been another rant. He’s prone to these… episodes of anger where he doesn’t realise he’s spinning out and hurting people who really care about him. You try to bring him out of it, but he’s a Berzatto. They’re all the same, sort of. Everything that’s wrong with them has been stamped into them a long, long time ago. 

He’s been better since Nat steel armed him into AA, but still. You tilt your head to one side, sugar cookie between your fingers, listening for the goings on in the kitchen. “Sydney’s here?” you ask. “I thought she was sick.” 

“Sydney gets sick, but she doesn’t take sick days,” Tina says with a loving shrug. 

You smile at her in brief goodbye for now and make your way to the kitchen, where you push in quietly. All their ‘Behind!’ and ‘Corner!’ and ‘Hands!’ makes you laugh, and you can’t take it seriously so you don’t, but you’re not trying to be dangerous in there either. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

Sydney and Richie look up from a cramped notebook at the table nearest to the door. There are employees you're unsure of prepping vegetables along the wall, but Carmy isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“Fucking finally,” Richie says, before rubbing his face regretfully. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I texted you an hour ago, babe, you’re letting me down.” 

You laugh. “Sorry, babe,” you tease. “I have a job, just like you.” Your hands are cold where you tuck them under each armpit, crossing your arms. “Hi, Sydney. You feeling okay?” 

“No. He’s stressing me out.” 

“Which one?” 

“Both of them.” She looks like she might rub her face too. “I need him to be in here right now, he should be doing this, but he keeps walking away and– and not saying where he’s going.” 

“He is stressful,” you agree, though usually Carmy’s stress tends to bounce right off of you, “I’m gonna find him and strap him down for you.” 

Sydney just frowns. 

“I’ll see what’s up,” you say more seriously. “In the office?” 

“Out the back,” Richie says. “Smoking like his mother. He’s a fucking steam train lately.” 

It’s like they want to worry you. You give them grateful nods, sorry nods, and start to make your way out of the main kitchen, past the dishwashers and the dessert station to one of the back doors. Carmy isn’t your responsibility. You don’t have to apologise for him, you don’t have to mother him, he should commit to his responsibilities all on his own, but… it’s hard. You like apologising for him because his behaviour isn’t always on purpose, and he struggles with commitment for similar reasons. There’s this aching, stagnated grief in him that’s reawakening, there’s the stress of the restaurant, his business, the scars of the last ten years, and before that. You know it isn’t your job to come here and make him feel better, but isn’t it? When you love someone, it’s half the deal. 

Carmy shouldn’t yell at his friends, or employees. He shouldn’t chain smoke, and he shouldn’t be sitting on the low wall by the dumpsters shaking so hard with his head so low that you can see the first notch of his spine in his shirt. 

“Carmy?” you ask. 

His head ducks further down. You can hear him breathing, not too hard as to alarm you, and yet unrelaxed. 

You smile without thinking. You hate seeing him like this, but looking after him is a pleasure. “Hey, Carmen. Can I sit with you?” 

He forces his face up. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Trying to make sure he doesn’t tear another chunk out of Richie. “It’s my lunch break.” 

You perch on the wall beside him and snap your nearly forgotten cookie into two pieces, one side bigger than the other, which you offer him. 

Carmy takes it. Looks at it without expression, though that slowly turns to a dry ire you’ve felt directed your way a hundred times. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Cookie.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Could you just eat it?” You put your own half in your mouth in its entirety, all aligned to your teeth. It shatters into sweet, soft crumbs between your teeth. You talk with a hand over your mouth, “It’s not gonna kill you.” 

Carmy looks at it for a long time before he eats it. 

You watch him. He’s more tan than you’d think, that Italian gene kicking in, skin clinging to whatever sunshine it finds. He spends enough time inside that you’re surprised it can muster the energy. He looks better with it though, his curls look gold toned under the sun, and his clenched jaw doesn’t seem so harsh. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask eventually. Almost conversationally. 

“Nothing.” His hand shakes on his thigh. He turns his palm down to clasp his knee. 

“You sure?” 

“No.” 

“That one’s my favourite.” 

“What?” 

You poke toward a tattoo on his hand. It’s a simple flower, same style as most of his tattoos. “I like it ‘cos it’s just a flower.” 

“My least pretentious,” he guesses. 

“Something like that.” 

He tips his head back. 

“Richie texted me. He thinks I’m gonna… like, I’m gonna calm you down, I guess.” 

“You always do,” he says. 

You give him a long, smiley look. “So you’re in love with me?” you ask warmly, pushing up into a knee to wrap your arm behind him, hugging him before he can move away. “You’re totally fucked for me, Berzatto, that’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs. 

You rub his arm, his skin hot in your hold. He touches your waist very, very lightly. “What am I supposed to do, anyway? I can’t cook. You and Syd are on your own.” 

“You already… already did enough.” He grabs your waist where you wobble on the brick wall, grit biting your knees, his hand comparatively soft. 

“Such a crush on me,” you tease in a whisper, his hair crushed under your cheek. 

You’re tempted to kiss his temple, but affection with Carmy is like oil and water sometimes. You give him a last protective squeeze and sit yourself down again. 

“Carm,” you say, “you know you can call me, right? Like, if you don’t feel okay.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Or text me. If that’s easier. It’s hard to say hard things out loud.” 

He laughs again. “Sorry.” 

“I know, I don’t– I don’t seem like I know what you’re talking about, I get it, but I do understand. N’ even if I didn’t, I don’t mind listening. Or laughing at you.” 

“What’s that about?” 

“The laughing?” you ask. “You tell me.” 

His hand slides behind your back in half a hug. “Guess it’s funny.” 

“Can I change my mind about the tattoo?” 

“The flowers not your favourite?” 

“No. You know which one I like best?” 

His thumb rubs into your back. “The snail.” 

“Absolutely the snail. You’re so fucking silly sometimes, I’m supposed to take you seriously when you’re yelling and red in the face with a snail on your arm?” 

You can’t see his face with your cheek to his shoulder, won’t know that he’s smiling at you with a rare aura of peace. Can’t see the wanting, either. 

[pervertwhore]

LEON'S GUILTY PLEASURE

SIREN IS TYPING . . writing debut! :33 this is my first ever leon fic, so please be nice! 3: i accidentally went a bit too far and made the word count 9.4k words..um..enjoy! reblogs and replies are really helpful & help me stay motivated so if you have any kind words to share, please do! i would love to hear them! i’m sorry for the really long delay in posting this but UHHH!!! idk ;(( my bae 3k helped me with the plot for the call & i hope i tagged everyone ^_^ i did my best to proofread so hopefully it’s good!

CONTAINS: older man leon! x pornstar! reader — age gaps, alcoholism, mutual masturbation, leon is co-depended with your content, he adores you, hinted erectile dysfunction, leon is lonely and sad, reader is there to put on a show for him, video call sex, dildo use, etc!

SYNOPSIS: a lonely man copes with two things, alcohol and porn, one night he comes across a video that catches his eye, pushing him down a spiral of coping through you. he adores you and your work, his only want in life is to get closer to you, and when you make a contest and offer the winner a chance at a one on one call with you, leon jumps at the opportunity.

slumping down onto his bed, a drunk leon kennedy, sat back.

a small groan left his lips as nausea swirled around inside his stomach, he didn’t have food in his system, and his stomach was full of whiskey.

aerial shoot, his favorite.

but, fuck. he overdid it, throughout the whole evening he had been nursing a new bottle of the bitter whiskey, drinking it down like it was water, not caring about the way it burned his throat. by now it was empty, the drug seeping into his system like a blanket, making his body feel hot.

slipping down onto his bed, leon stared blankly at the roof, the room was dark and quiet.

he wasn’t tired, he was drunk, but not tired. another groan came from him, his large calloused hand moving to his face. he rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing sensation in his head. he had always been tolerant of alcohol, but tonight his body couldn’t take it anymore. he thanked a higher being for not being insanely nauseous, he wasn’t in the mood to spew up the alcohol.

he let out a deep breath before he reached out and grabbed his phone.

hitting the power button, his eyes shut immediately as the blinding light of his phone hit his eyes. “jesus, fuck—“ he grunted, quickly turning down the brightness.

looking at the screen, he wasn’t surprised when he was met with an empty inbox. no texts, no calls, no emails.

a sigh left his lips, the reminder of his loneliness brought a heavy weight inside his chest. looking to his side, there was an empty spot next to him, the bed was cold.

he was lonely.

despite what he tried to tell himself, he craves romance, he craves stability. the idea of living a happy married life was something he dreamed about when he was younger, before 1998, before he became what he is now. now he scoffs at romance because deep down, he knows no one would want to be with an alcoholic old man. his prime is gone a distant memory. he feels like a shell of himself, he doesn’t have much to live for now.

the cycle of self-hatred and self-loathing was part of his daily routine, at night, he gets lost in his thoughts.

he can’t go a day sober, it would kill him. at least that’s what he thinks.

the memories of the people he had lost haunt him, no matter how much time passes, the vacant space he has in his heart doesn’t go away. no matter what he does to try and get rid of it.

the dating scene wasn’t for him, not anymore, not at this age.

he could go and pay for hookers and prostitutes to fulfill his sexual needs, but it was never enough. the pleasure was temporary.

he wasn’t happy.

leon hasn’t been happy in a long time, so long in fact, he doesn’t remember how it feels.

his gaze focused on his phone, he wanted to stop thinking. he needed to forget everything, his grief, his anger, his loneliness. that’s why he relied on alcohol, but tonight he didn’t want to drink himself to sleep.

so, that left him with one more option.

opening the internet on his phone, his dull eyes focused as his fingers typed.

pornhub.com

this was pathetic, leon thought to himself. he was pathetic, and he knew that, but that didn’t stop him from pressing on the top link.

his thumb tapped against the glass screen, entering the website.

he was quickly met with the thumbnails of various sexual acts. from girls with a cock shoved down their throats, to girls getting folded while a man is on top of them. leon was uninterested.

he never liked porn videos made with high production, it was fake, unappealing. the bright lighting, the obnoxious moaning, and the stupid faces the girls make. it was ick worthy, leon always preferred amateur porn. it was charming when a video was poorly produced, with bad quality, and crooked angles. he liked that over other porn videos.

opening the search bar, he typed the word amateur. after clicking search, he scrolled down various videos before he found one that caught his attention.

it was a masturbation video, the title wasn’t crazy either.

college girl masturbates solo :)

it was cute, the little smiley face felt so out of place on a site like this, but it piqued his curiosity. in the thumbnail your hands were between your thighs, and the position of your phone was up — like you were taking a selfie. he didn’t see much of your face, by the angle he could only see your soft lips as you bit your bottom lip. you were wearing a cute set of lingerie, too.

there was something so cute about you, from the cutesy title and your pretty lingerie, his curiosity lead him to click on the video.

the video loaded and the first thing he saw was your breasts as you adjusted the camera down. you were holding it yourself, the camera facing you. as the camera moved down, he saw your hands slipping down to your panties.

he couldn’t see your face, seems like you were shy.

he watched with anticipation as your fingers pressed against your clothed cunt, rubbing slow gentle circles on your clit. turning up the volume of his phone, he heard the way your breath hitched. he could see as your tummy moved up and down with every breath you took.

leon’s stomach tightened as blood began to rush to his cock, his hand moving to palm against his pants as he got hard.

after a minute of teasing, you put the phone down against your bed, leon heard fabric shuffling. after a few seconds, you grabbed the phone again. the angle stayed the same, but now he could see your pretty pussy.

it was slick, glistening.

his mouth went dry as he took in the sight, your manicured fingers gently pressed against your perky clit, your touch was light, and you were savoring the pleasure.

leon heard a soft moan leave your lips, his hips squirmed as he grabbed his cock through the fabric of his pants. his hand moving to slowly grope himself.

he continued to watch with eager eyes, his hand moving to unbutton his jeans and unzip his pants. eagerly, he slipped his hand under his underwear, his hand pulling his cock out.

it was standing tall, pre-cum leaking from the slit.

he shuddered, he hasn’t been this hard in what felt like forever. he genuinely thought he lost his spark, he was in his late thirties after all.

his hand wrapped around his cock, a shaky breath left his lips as he squeezed it. his cock was thick, it wasn’t the biggest there was, but it would leave girls dumbfucked. or well, it used to. he hasn’t gone that hard in a while.

his cock was pretty, his tip was reddish, veins adorned it. the ones that made the girls mushy and whimpery.

the mental image of the girls he’s shoved his cock into filled his head. truthfully, he doesn’t really remember faces, but he remembers how they reacted. their bodies trembling and loud moans.

oh, how he missed it.

as he stared at your pretty pussy, all he could think about was shoving his cock deep inside you. have you whimpering and gasping his name as he kept you folded.

his cock twitched, fuck.

you were getting him so hard, he didn’t even think it was possible given his track record in the last few years. biting the inside of his cheek, he let out a breath, he was this hard over a girl on a porn website, but he couldn’t get this hard when he was balls deep inside a hooker’s cunt. god, this was pathetic.

pathetic, pathetic, pathetic..

you’re pathetic leon.

even as the words repeated in his head, his hand was still working on his cock, jerking and tugging on his shaft. his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips parted slightly, keeping his gaze on you, he watched as you rubbed your clit faster.

he could hear your small shaky moans, you were close and so was he.

his balls were tightening, his breathing was heavy, small pants leaving his lips as he rubbed his cock raw. chasing for a high he hasn’t felt in years.

a choked groan left his lips as he came, cum spurting out of his tip in amounts he hasn’t had since he was in his twenties. his cum was milky and thick. he continued to gently jerk his cock as he rode out his orgasm, another groan leaving his lips as his head leaned back.

his eyes fluttered shut as he felt his cock softening in his hands.

holy fuck.

his mind was fuzzy, he had almost forgotten about his phone until he heard a moan come from it. he moved his gaze towards the screen and watched as your hand stayed between your thighs before they slammed shut and you began to ride out your orgasm.

leon watched with eager eyes as you rode out your high nicely.

he squirmed and let go of his flaccid cock, his cum staining his hand, his stomach, and his pants.

he moved his hands and they gripped his phone again, he tapped on your username and watched your profile. your profile picture was a shy picture of your chest, a different set of lingerie holding your tits up.

looking at your bio, he shuddered as he read your information.

your name was pretty, it suited you. he saw your age listed, twenty-one, he just had the cum of his life to a video of a twenty-one-year-old? a feeling came to him, he didn’t know how to feel. staring at his screen, his mind still processing that information, should he be disgusted? guilty? ashamed?

he sucked in a breath and gulped.

him, a man in his late thirties, almost forty, just came to a video of a twenty-one year old girl.

it felt wrong, right? she was almost two decades younger than him, when the racoon city incident happened you weren’t even born yet. this had to be wrong.

but it wasn’t, and he knew that.

sure, the gap was questionable, but it was legal. yet, he felt so..wrong.

the worst part was that even after he realized this, he still watched your other videos.

choked moans left your glossy lips, your eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed up in pleasure. your mouth was slightly agape, forming an ‘o’ shape. leon’s cock slamming down into your cunt, his hand was placed on the small for your back as he held your upper body down and kept your ass up.

he let out small pants, his eyes shutting in bliss.

your walls were warm and snug, sucking his cock back inside your cunt with a wet squelch. you were so wet, your cunt practically drooling. it was driving him mad.

his free hand was gripping your ass, holding onto the fat like his life depended on it, his dull nails digging into your skin. he let out a guttural groan as he felt your pussy tighten around him, squeezing, milking him. he didn’t have the self control he had back then, he was edging himself to try and last longer.

it was hard, his balls were heavy with cum, cum he wanted to stuff deep inside you.

his eyes shut tightly, he bit down onto his bottom lip, his thrusts got sloppily — fuck, fuck, fuck. “s-shit—“ he choked out, his head leaned back as a whimper slipped past his lips. his cock throbbed no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, his cum spurted out of his tip.

he shook as it spurted in waves, his eyes fluttered open and he panted. “sorry—“ he said, feeling bad for not letting you cum first and filling you up without any form of protection. you hummed in reply, your ass still in the air as he pulled out. his cock getting softer, his lidded gaze watched as his cum slipped out of your puffy pussy, falling in glops onto his sheets.

he felt hot as he watched it, he was about to say something when—

his eyes opened and a shaky breath left his lips, it took a moment for him to adjust to his surroundings. quickly sitting up on his bed, leon was met with the saddening realization he was alone.

you weren’t sleeping next to him, his bed was cold.

not only that, but his pants were wet. he pulled the blanket off his body and groaned when he realized he had cum inside his pants. rubbing his forehead, he slipped off his bed groggily.

it was still dark out, his bedroom was completely dark aside from the natural light of the moon that entered through his windows.

leon hastily took his pants and underwear off, throwing them across the room to where he thought his laundry basket was. he walked to his cabinets and dug into his underwear drawer before he put them on, stumbling a bit before he finished.

running his hands through his hair, he stalked over to his bed and laid down.

reaching out for his nightstand, he grabbed his phone, this time he was mindful of the brightness so he adverted his eyes and quickly lowered it before staring at the screen.

no new messages, he frowned, except an email. it was an advertisement.

he scrolled through his apps and found one, the one you’re most active on.

instagram.

leon was rather clueless about social media, but the only reason he had it was to stalk your account. he opened the app and saw that you had uploaded a new story. he quickly tapped on the bubble and watched through your posts.

you were out that night, you took photos and various videos of the night. wearing a little black dress, your tits were practically spilling out, one wrong move and your panties would be exposed. you looked beautiful though, he adjusted himself in his bed and stared at the picture you captioned ‘fit check! :D.’ he couldn’t get over how cute your little captions were, it was humorous. a cute little emoticon at the end of a text while the picture behind it was you in the sluttiest outfit you could find.

biting the inside of his cheek, leon took a screenshot of the story and continued to scroll by your posts.

you looked so happy, so pretty. leon loved the way you smiled, all teeth, it all seemed so genuine. you were with your friends in the videos, giggling and dancing along to whatever song the club was blasting.

after he finished going through your story, he clicked on your account, no new posts. a deep sigh left his lips as he put his phone back on his nightstand and turned to his side. pulling the blankets up, it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep once more.

leon wasn’t sick.

he wasn’t a bad man, he wasn’t a freak, he was just lonely.

he was lonely and desperate, that’s what he told himself. he had this lingering guilt that manifested in the back of his head, you’re a sick man, leon. that’s what it repeated, every night, while he re-watched your videos and looked through the photos he had saved, it spoke.

sick. you are sick.

leon swore he wasn’t, he was just a broken man. one that found solace in you.

the age gap was eating him up inside, he had never thought of himself as someone who would find girls in their twenties attractive. yet, where he was.

he didn’t want to imagine what people would say if they found out he jerked off nightly to the thought of you. not just your videos, but the thought of you. he found himself daydreaming about you, not just in sexual situations, but romantic ones.

at the store he finds himself looking at the flower display, thinking about getting you flowers, trying to guess what flowers you would like the most. in public, when he saw couples, a bitter swirl churned in his stomach. jealousy, he was jealous that he couldn’t do the same with you.

this was developing into more of a followership, it was slowly seeping into the realm of obsession. delusion was his best friend.

occasionally, you participated in live streams.

it was cute, you were more talkative there, and you interacted with your followers happily. he was a quiet supporter, he didn’t use the chat room. you were too intimidating, he didn’t want to say something that could make you uncomfortable. he mostly gave you gifts, sending in money for you, he didn’t say much when he donated. occasionally he would type a small message for you to read with each donation, but it was rare.

that didn’t matter though. being able to hear you say his name, albeit his username, made him happy.

in these live streams, he’s been able to learn a lot about you. he knows you’re a college student, he knows you’re studying literature, he knows you’re a good student, he knows your favorite food, your favorite animal, how you like to spend your time, and much more.

he knows more about you than the people he knows in his life.

tonight, you had scheduled a livestream. posting about it on your instagram story.

‘i’m gonna be live tonight at 8 p.m. come by to talk, and i have a surprise too! >_<’ leon was curious, a surprise? so, of course he entered the stream after you started it. he needed to know what you were planning, maybe he could be part of it.

you sat in front of your camera and greeted all of the people coming in.

leon stared at you, you were so pretty, he thought. god, he felt like a teenage boy.

get a fucking grip.

your eyes focused on the screen where the chat box was opened, he watched as your eyes lit up, “welcome back, kennedy!” you said, looking back at the camera. looking straight at him.

his mouth went dry when you addressed him.

he clicked on the chat box, looking through to see if there was another kennedy, he didn’t want to jump straight to conclusions and embarrass himself. but there was no one else with the display like that.

SKENNEDY001

okay, he wasn’t very good at making usernames. he stared at his screen, unsure of what to do. you addressed him, should he say hi back? he’s never spoken in the chat room before. what if this went wrong?

slowly tapping on the keyboard, he replied with a simple. ‘hello, how are you?’ — best he plays it safe, right? his face feels hot, and he feels embarrassed. he’s always been more of a silent admirer, honestly, he never expected you to actually notice him. all sorts of different thoughts filled his head, from negative to positive. what would people think, what would you think if you found out that the biggest reason you’re paying your bills was because of some man in his late thirties who watches your content like it’s the news.

but what if you were into that? he’s heard stories about girls thinking older men were attractive, were you that type?

“i’ve been good!” you replied, snapping him out of his flood of thoughts. “i’ve seen you around, i think you might be my biggest fan.” you winked.

leon’s heart was practically beating out of his chest, he knew you meant it like a compliment, but it felt like you were pointing out how much of a lonely loser he is. “i just wanted to say thank you, your donations really help.” you said with a smile, that same pretty smile that drove him crazy, the smile he adored.

he didn’t know what to say, if he wanted to, he could write a detailed essay about you and how much he admires obsesses over you.

‘you’re welcome.. i like to support you.’ he typed back, after hitting send, he squirmed. did that sound weird? staring at your face intensely as you read through the chat, you let out a small laugh. “thank you, kennedy.” you replied, looking back at the camera. seeing how full the stream was getting, he decided that this was the end of the conversation.

his chest felt fuzzy, a feeling he hadn’t had in years, a feeling he had completely forgotten about.

he was obsessed with you.

the stream continued smoothly, you teased the camera, showing off your body and tempting the men, like him, who watched. by now he needed to rub one out during your streams, who would he be if he didn’t?

the stream was coming to a close, but before you spoke. “oh! the surprise from earlier, i almost forgot.” you said with a small laugh as you leaned back against your chair.

“basically, i was thinking, why not have a little contest.” you said, smirking at the camera. “imagine this is an auction,” you said, “the highest bidder gets to have a private, on one, video call with me.” you said, looking at your camera. “who knows, maybe that call can lead to something else.” you hummed, winking at the camera as you slid your hand down your chest.

leon blinked, a call with you? it was a dream come true. the only thing this lonely man could ask for.

you continued on, opening a gift box for anyone who wanted to get a chance with you.

he ignored how this could lead to poor financial decisions, he needed that call. he needed you for himself, he needed you to address him — to talk to him, he needed your attention like a lost puppy.

the gift period was only open for about fifteen minutes, first come first serve type of thing.

luckily, unlike the other people in the stream, he’s a government agent. with that title comes money, so as a way to secure that call, he sent you thousands.

he watched as you read the screen, your eyes widening as you saw the notification come in that you had received a few thousand dollars from your shy admirer. “holy shit.” you gasped, “okay— we have a winner! we have skennedy001 that donated over a thousand dollars!” you said, stammering as surprise filled your bones. “i’m closing the bid, that’s way too much money!” you said, giggling as you shut the bid off.

the people in the chat were going crazy, some were taking the loss like losers while the others congratulated the mystery man.

not too long after the stream ended, leon shut his phone off and stared at it. a deep breath left his lips, he didn’t know what to expect after being called the winner, but when he got a notification someone had messaged him through the streaming app, he opened it.

what he didn’t expect was to have a message from you in his inbox.

‘hey, kennedy! omg, that donation was insane! i didn’t expect that much money, please let me give you some money back! i really don’t deserve that much!! :,,)) you’re so sweet, and i appreciate it sososo much!!’

leon stared at the screen, double-checking that it was really you that had contacted me, his face got hot, did he overdo it? was that too desperate? oh, definitely it was, but still.

running his fingers through his hair, he began to type back, trying to brainstorm what to say, but after a solid five minutes of debating his options, he finally replied.

‘hello, i’m glad you appreciated it, but no. it’s okay, you can keep all of it. that’s the reason i donated it. spoil yourself.’

he typed back, his icy blue eyes hyper focused on the screen, he watched as in the span of a few seconds a small text bubble popped up as three dots bounced around. you were replying.

‘aww! are you sure? like, a 100% sure? i’m just making sure!! i just don’t wanna feel like i’m stealing from you, or something LOL!’

your text was cute, lighthearted, and warm, you were so considerate. he liked that, and his thumbs began to type out a reply.

‘no, no. it’s okay, really. just enjoy yourself.’

he replied he was trying his best to not seem uninterested. he has been told many times before that he was very “dry texter” — he had been told how uninterested he sounded with his texting habits and how it could make someone want to stop replying, and he didn’t want that. he just wasn’t sure what to say.

‘omg i am so grateful for your kindness! i’ve seen you in my streams a lot, i have honestly wondered about you. i’m glad you won the bid, tbh i wanted you to win LOL it gave me a reason to talk to you!’

oh my god. leon’s eyes widened slightly at your text, you were bold, is this how it feels like to get butterflies? he blinked, how was he supposed to reply? he’s never texted a girl in her twenties, what do girls like? what will keep you interested?

‘oh, yeah?’ he replied, reverting back to his usual dry texts, but you were lively, you knew how to keep the conversation going.

the conversation was sweet and lengthy, you ended up suggesting you move to your instagram messages so she could talk to him more often.

leon’s heart was practically going to explode out of his chest, he was giddy yet nervous. you had told him that you guys could arrange the video call for the next day at night after you finish some college work.

he was stressed, leon wasn’t sure what to expect. he’s seen your pretty face, but you haven’t seen his. his instagram profile is of an old landscape photo he took a while back, what if the camera isn’t flattering for him? he did warn you that he was in his late thirties? he didn’t want you to get your hopes up for a younger man. maybe he should just keep his camera off.

nonetheless, that night, he went to sleep happier than he has been in a while.

≻ the next day, leon was practically counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he got to see you. in the morning, he had been excited — the people around him noted his giddy attitude, but when asked why, he didn’t say anything.

he couldn’t expose himself.

but as the clock ticked and the hours passed by, leon found himself much more nervous than he’s ever been. he doesn’t want to fuck this up, in his delusion. he thinks that if this goes well, maybe, just maybe, this could evolve to something more.

you were so sweet to him last night, but the more he thinks about it, perhaps it was flattery.

he hadn’t thought about it now, this might just be all an act. something to keep him wrapped around your pinky finger, but he decided to push those thoughts down so he wouldn’t spoil his night.

once he reached his place, leon was angsty, the sun was slowly going down. the sky was a beautiful mix of warm colors: orange, red, and yellow. he could also see a hint of blue mixed in as the night sky began to slowly settle.

entering his apartment, he slipped inside the door and shut it behind him. locking it, a person could never be too safe, right?

he kicked off his shoes and slipped off his jacket, he haphazardly threw his jacket on his sofa before he made his way over to his room. he plopped down onto his bed and slipped his phone and flask out of his back pocket. opening the flask, he raised the metal container up to his lips and took in a quick shot of whiskey.

he couldn’t go into this sober.

letting the flask rest on his lap, he opened his phone and opened instagram. he looked at the messages he had with you. oh, he forgot to reply to your last message a few hours ago. he pursed his lips, fuck he feels bad, leon wasn’t an avid texter, so it was easy for him to forget.

‘sorry for the late reply, i was working.’ he hit send before he could register how “dry” that sounded, he quickly scrambled to text a bit more, so he didn’t seem too boring. ‘i’m nervous for the call.’

why would he say that?

leon shut his eyes, he was really bad at this.

after a few minutes of leon anxiously waiting for your reply, a ping came from his phone. quickly looking down at the screen, he saw that you replied.

‘aww, don’t be nervous! i don’t bite, unless you want me to ;)’

he let out a breath at your words, it felt like you always knew what to say, the number of times you’ve said something sly during the conversation that had his chest fuzzy must be over ten in the span of twenty-four hours.

leon started to type back, but he stopped mid-sentence. he wasn’t sure what to say, he was fumbling over his words, and no sentence he tried to type up made sense.

he saw your text bubble pop up, you were typing.

‘what? did i make you nervous? ;p’ — yes, yes you did.

he felt like he was in his early twenties, stumbling and stammering when a pretty girl gave him attention. jesus, has it really been that long since he’s felt something like this? god, that’s so sad.

leon ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his dark hair back, ‘yes, i don’t know how to behave when a pretty girl is talking to me.’ now it was your turn to blush, leon leaned against his headboard as he stared at his phone.

‘ohhh? is mr. kennedy getting bold? ;)) i’m excited for the call, just give me one more hour ♡’

‘take your time.’

during that hour, leon decided to try and freshen up, at least a bit. he knew he wasn’t going to turn on his camera, but maybe getting refreshed would make him feel more confident in himself.

he changed out of his work clothes and took a quick shower, he slipped on some comfortable sweatpants and a black compression shirt that he typically used when he was working out. as he looked at himself in the mirror, he noticed the eye bags that hung under his eyes and the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin.

moving his hand up to his face, he ran his fingers through his stubble and sighed as he felt the facial hair scratching his skin. should he have shaved this morning? he didn’t know, he hadn’t been bare-faced in a few years now, as he aged the clean look he used to have didn’t fit him anymore.

reaching over for his flask that he had left on the bathroom counter, leon quickly took another swing of his flask and then sighed as he put it back on his counter.

he was so fucking nervous and for what? he’s been face to face with death before, he’s encouraged over thousands of zombies in his lifetime and yet he’s so nervous at the idea of talking to you.

feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, leon scrambled to take it out before looking down at his screen. it was you.

‘okay! i’m ready, are you? ;)’ — no, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be, but he replied, ‘yes. how does this work?’ he replied, unsure of what you were planning.

he watched as the text bubble popped up from your end as you typed again, ‘its suuuper easy! i’ll set up a voice chat and send you the link, then i’ll turn my camera on so you can see me!’ biting his bottom lip, leon moved out of the bathroom and sat down in his bed, his back resting against the headboard as he stared down at his phone.

‘okay, i’ll wait for you.’ he replied as he tried to relax, letting out a deep sigh, leon shut his eyes for a few seconds before he felt his phone buzz again.

looking back at the screen, you had sent him a link.

‘here it is! ;)’ the text said, his thumb hovered over the screen as he bit the inside of his cheek and hesitated before quickly tapping the link. the link opened up another website, the same one you use for streams. it took a few seconds for it to load, but he could tell his camera was off and his mic was muted.

okay, good.

eventually, the screen loaded and he saw you, you were wearing a cute tank top of a band, he’s seen the band name around before. it was popular back in the early 2000s, you didn’t have any sexy clothes on, it was actually cute. it made you feel even more real.

“hi!” you said as you waved at the camera, “let me know if the camera and audio are working properly, sometimes the app gives me issues,” you said with a smile as you stared at your screen. leon went to open the chat box, but he realized that if he wanted to make the most out of this call, talking to you would better.

taking in a deep breath, he cleared his throat and unmuted his microphone. “..it works,” he said, his face feeling hot as he spoke.

leon had always been rather charming and talkative in real life, so why was he so shy? it wasn’t anything like him, did his loneliness really ruin him? your eyes lit up when you heard his voice, surprised he spoke.

he watched as a smile curled on your lips, “i’m glad!” you said, leaning in closer, giving leon a full view of your cleavage, he noticed a black lace bra underneath your shirt. tilting your head to the side, you hummed, “soo..how was your day?” you asked curiously as you stared up at the camera with a small smirk. leon hated how quick it was for him to feel pressure growing in his pants when it came to you.

why was it so easy to get hard for you?

“it was good..you?” he asked softly, his hand slipping down his body to grip his cock through his pants. your smirk turned into a smile, “my day was good too! thank you for asking,” you hummed, “so, what do you want to do?” you asked, leaning back against your chair as you moved your hand to hold your tit, squeezing the mound playfully. “it’s just you and me, no need to be shy.” you winked.

leon squirmed in his bed, “..i don’t know actually,” he muttered, “i never got to decide how i wanted to approach this.” he said, squeezing his bulge and sighing. “..i wanted to just talk and get you know you more, but..” he trailed off, unsure if he should tell you that his cock was hard at the mere sight of you.

you seemed to get the hint when you heard the shaky breath that left his lips, “got too excited, didn’t you?” you teased, biting your bottom lip as you batted your eyelashes to the camera. “it’s okay, let me help you.” you offered, that pretty smirk of yours coming back to your lips.

leon’s eyebrows furrowed as he felt his cock throb inside his pants.

“..a-are you sure? i don’t want to ruin the call.” leon murmured, his voice uneven as he tried to resist the urge to slip his hand under his pants' waistband.

a small laugh left your lips as you shook your head, “of course not,” she said playfully, “you won this call, you get to choose whatever we do.” you said, “what’s your name?” you asked, moving to press your arms together to have them push up your tits.

leon let out a sigh and watched with a hazy look in his eyes as you pressed your chest together. “it’s leon.” he replied quickly, now eager to have you say his name.

humming, you smiled, “okay, leon. should i take off my shirt? i have a new pair of lingerie just for you.” that whole sentence could’ve made leon cum right there without any friction. the way you said his name, it was smooth, like honey. you were hot and you knew it, “y-yes, please.” leon mumbled out pathetically as he stared at his screen intensely.

you nodded and reached down for the bottom of your shirt, slowly pulling it up and discarding your shirt to the corner of your room. once your shirt was removed, leon got an eye full of your tits being held up by the new lingerie, it was a push up bra. your tits were rounded and plush, the black lace that surrounded the fabric was real pretty.

“do you like it?” you asked softly as you adjusted your bra strap, leon gulped and shuddered. “yeah, it’s pretty..it suits you.” leon said, you were so fucking hot. he wanted to jack off and cum right there, but that would just show how much of a pathetic man he is.

you only took off your shirt and leon came? embarrassing.

so, he edged himself. deciding to play it safe with palming himself through his pants. his hand moving slowly to not get too eager and fuck it up.

“you think so?” you mused, looking at the camera as your hands moved to squeeze your tits and push them closer. fondling yourself for his pleasure.

leon groaned and nodded, he knew his camera was off and that you couldn’t see it, but he couldn’t help it. “mhm, black suits you.” he said, shifting in his bed to adjust his position. “want me to take it off?” you asked curiously, looking at the camera with an amused smile. “i think my tits are pretty, it would only be fair for you to see.” you teased as you squeezed your mounds.

leon’s throat felt dry, he felt parched.

“yes,” leon shuddered out, looking down at the screen. you laughed and stood up, you adjusted your camera for it to catch your body as you stood. leon saw you were only wearing some cute little panties that brought out your ass.

turning around, your back faced the camera before you moved your hair out of the way and moved your hands to the clasps of your bra.

you were quick to unclip your bra and take it off, throwing it off to the side, to a place the camera can’t pick up. by where you threw your shirt, leon assumed. your movements were always so smooth, hypnotic almost. leon was convinced you were perfect, made with no flaws.

turning around, you held your tits up in your hands before you stepped closer and let your mounds drop. leon got a screen full of tits, you let out a laugh and moved your body in a slow sway, your tits moving around as you did so. “like ‘em?” you mused playfully before reaching up and squeezing your nipple.

leon’s head leaned back as a small groan left his lips, his hand moving down to grip his dick through his pants. “yes, fuck.” leon said with a pant.

you moved back from the camera and sat down onto your chair before adjusting the camera stand so leon could see you better.

“are you jerking off?” you asked, smirking at the lens, leon let out a small whine. “no, n-not yet.” he mumbled, his voice straining as he tried to sound level headed, but of course it didn’t work given how he stuttered. leon cursed at himself mentally, he sounds like a fucking pussy right now.

you let out a small laugh at his stutters, “what? you don’t wanna jerk off to me? you’re hurting my feelings.” you said softly as she tilted your head, leon’s eyes widened. oh shit, no, that’s not what he wanted to do.

“wait, shit—“ he tried to explain, “i didn’t mean it like that..i just want to savor the moment.” he said, shutting his eyes in embarrassment.

you smiled, “yeah? why not savor it while jerking off? i have my tits out just for you.” you teased, pouting as you did so. leon paused, you were right, your tits were out and you were willing to do anything for him and he was just edging himself?

a small groan left his lips, “yeah..okay.” he mumbled, his hand slipping under the waistband of his pants before he gripped his cock. his large hand wrapped around his shaft, his cock throbbing again due to the pressure, leon put his phone down and used his other hand to shimmy his pants down. once the waistband was wrapped around his knees, leon leaned back against the headboard and sighed as he gripped his dick.

reaching out for his phone, leon fumbled with it with one hand before finding the right position to hold it. unbeknownst to him, while he fumbled with the phone, he had pressed against the camera button.

his camera turned on and he had no idea.

you, on the other hand, were met with the sight of the mystery man that had been supporting you the most.

he was hot.

like really fucking hot, your interest on this man peaked after you saw his pretty face. he was resting his phone on his thigh was he held it up, you could see the stubble on his face, his dark black hair. he was older than you expected, but if anything it added to the appeal.

this man seemed to be seasoned, he was staring down at his phone with his eyebrows furrowed as a small sigh of bliss left his lips. he was jerking his cock, you noticed by the way his body moved, there was an arm that wasn’t getting picked up by the camera that worked on rubbing his cock raw.

you noticed how his icy blue eyes focused on you, staring at the screen of his phone with a lovesick look on his face.

he looked so pathetically hot, it wasn’t something you thought you’d find attractive, but seeing how desperate this older man was for you made you unbelievably horny. you squirmed in your seat before your hand slipped down, you moved and slipped your hand under the fabric of your panties. letting out a sigh, you felt your middle finger gently toy your clit.

“leon?” you mused, leaning your head back and spreading your legs for the camera to pick up how your hand was shoved under your panties. you reached over to your desk and grabbed a dildo, showing it to him. “wanna watch?” you offered, moving the silicone cock in a playful manner.

leon’s eyes widened in surprise, but nodded.

he gulped and you watched as his adam’s apple bopped up with the swallow.

leon watched as you slipped off your panties and grabbed a bottle of lube. you quickly coated your pretty pussy and dildo with the thick cream and leaned back once more.

your pussy was on full display as you pressed the tip of the dildo against your puffy folds. “ready?” you asked softly as you bit your bottom lip.

this whole scene that was unfolding in front of leon felt like it was going to kill him. he’s seen your pussy before, he’s seen you fuck yourself before, but there was something different this time. it was all dedicated to him.

only him.

“yes,” he shuddered as he gripped his cock tightly, you smiled at him and slowly slipped the dildo inside of you. a soft sigh left your lips as your warm pussy sucked in the silicone, leon watched eagerly. like a kid in a candy store, he would kill to be the one inside you.

your squirmed and rolled your hips against the dildo, looking into the camera as your free hand moved to grip your tit. “oh, leon.” you moaned out, smirking as you watched your screen to see his reaction. “you feel so good..” you teased.

leon’s eyes widened when he heard you moan out his name, were you pretending it was him fucking you? did you want to send his heart into cardiac arrest?

this cock throbbed against his hand, begging for attention, pleading for leon to let it cum.

leon’s balls were heavy with cum, it was unbearable to keep teasing, but he couldn’t help it.

a small whine left leon’s lips as he slowly stroked his cock, watching as you fucked yourself with your dildo. “you think so?” leon replied back, his face felt hot as he spoke, he’s never done dirty talk through the phone. he was embarrassed, was he doing it right?

you nodded, smiling hazily at the camera, “mhm..” you trailed off as a small gasp left your lips, the dildo focused on fucking your pussy. your eyes fluttered shut as you savored the filling feeling of your dildo, the silicone ridges and fake veins pressing and molding your walls. your pace was steady, your head leaning to the side as you continued.

leon was getting the perfect view of your pretty face and your stuffed cunt. he could hear the soft squelches coming from your cunt as it sucked the dildo back inside eagerly. he watched as your pussy glistened with slick, his body aching, he wanted to be there with you. he wanted to feel you.

but the world was cruel towards leon, and all he could do is watch and pretend he was the one fucking you.

“you’re so big.” you babbled softly, watching your computer screen, watching his reaction. he shuddered and trembled, moving on his cock slowly.

leon shut his eyes and grunted, his head leaning back desperately as his body ached. he occasionally looked back at the screen, looking at you with such admiration behind his gaze. like he was admiring a beautiful painting.

he was so cute.

“y-yeah,” he groaned, his body feeling hot, it was overwhelming. he felt the thinnest sheet of sweat coat his body, a swirling feeling coming to his lower tummy, it felt like a tight pressure. “—am i making you feel good?” he whispered out, his eyes shutting as his hand continued to jerk his cock.

each jerk felt like a rush of electricity went through his veins, an electric shockwave whose only purpose was to bring pleasure.

you moved your hand down and gently began to toy with your clit, pressing on the puffy bud as you fucked yourself. “no one has ever made me feel like this, leon.” you teased, moaning out his name softly. it was like music to his ears.

he couldn’t take it anymore, he physically couldn’t hold back, he should’ve gotten a cock ring to try and make him last longer.

“m’gonna cum, i’m sorry—“ he babbled, feeling bad for cumming so fast, he just didn’t have the self control he used to have on his prime. his hand began to jerk his cock in a fast, sloppy pace. his chest was rising and falling rather quickly, unable to catch his breath as he chased his orgasm.

leon moved his phone, he kept it by his lap, but by the position you could see his aching cock.

“it’s okay, baby.” you mumbled out, watching as he neared his orgasm. his dick was pretty, the size was okay, the thickness was there, and his tip was bright red. his hand gripped his shaft, he had pretty hands. large and masculine, you even saw an expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. you knew he had money, how else would he be sending you such high donations, but something in your stomach fluttered when you noticed.

you continued to fuck your dildo into your pussy, trying to match his sloppy pace. “cum for me.” you hummed, your tone playful and laced with lust.

this was so hot.

leon shuddered and moaned, his hand continued to rub his cock raw, he clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tightly as he focused on cumming.

the pressure in his lower belly was so tight, but after a couple of more harsh jerks, the tight knot inside his stomach burst. his balls strained and tightened as cum began to spurt out of his tip. it was thick and milky, staining leon’s stomach and hand.

while he came, leon’s body trembled, his toes curled, and his back arched slightly as a loud moan left his lips. he didn’t mean to moan out like that, but with the circumstances he couldn’t help it. this was pure bliss, his body felt lighter and his head felt fuzzy. he continued to slowly stroke his cock as it throbbed, he rode out his orgasm, his cum still spewing out of his cock for a few more seconds before his body relaxed.

leon shuddered as his cock began to go soft in his hand, he grimaced as he looked at the cum that stained his hand before wiping it off against his sweats.

panting, leon looked back at his phone, his face was red and his whole body was hot.

“shit, i’m sorry, i wanted to wait for you.” leon said breathlessly, you shut your eyes and continued to toy with your clit as you shook your head. “don’t apologize, it was really hot.” you moaned out, fluttering your eyes open as you looked at the monitor, eyeing him up as he laid back panting.

your clit was puffy and slick, aching for more.

rolling your hips up, your hands continue to work against your cunt, making your legs twitch and tremble. putting on a show for the lonely man in front of you.

biting the inside of his cheek, leon watched desperately, if he was younger he probably would’ve gotten hard again as he watched, but his cock didn’t have enough strength to stand. it didn’t matter, now leon could finally appreciate you, your pretty face, your pretty body, and your pretty pussy.

he loved the faces you made, they were so genuine.

if he was fucking you, would you be making those faces too? god he hoped so.

by now, a specific heat blossomed by your clit as your finger toyed with it. your touch was gentle and light, it felt like your clit was burning in the hottest way as the nerves went on overdrive.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—“ you whined, your voice strained as you focused on breaking the tight knot inside your lower tummy.

leon shuddered, seeing the way your eyebrows furrowed as you bit your bottom lip, you were so cute. leon wanted to say something, but it was like his brain was a blank slate. he couldn’t think, he couldn’t speak, he just watched as your glistening pussy throb.

it didn’t take long for the knot to snap, and once it did, your body jolted as a loud whine of his name left your lips. your thighs clamped together while your hand stayed pressed between your legs, the silicone cock was nestled nicely inside you, warm and sticky.

your body trembled as you panted, your head leaning back against the seat as you regained your thoughts.

god.

leon has seen you cum various times before, sure, but there’s something so different about it here. it was mind boggling and his head felt dizzy, a shiver going down his spine.

this was all a private show, all of this was only for him. no one else was as lucky as he was, he felt like he was getting spoiled.

watching you unravel and cry out his name had leon’s brain oozing, he felt demented, like his brain had melted and he was left as a zombie. he could tilt his head over right now and watch as his melted brain would come spilling out.

metaphorically, of course.

you reveled in the afterglow of your climax, your pussy felt like it was pulsating and throbbing. slowly, your hazy gaze focused back on the screen and you locked eyes with leon.

he let out a breath as he looked at you, it felt like you were really looking into his eyes.

he still had no idea his camera was on and you could see how enamored he looked.

slowly, with a long, soft squelch, you pulled the dildo out of your sticky pussy. you moved the silicone up to your lips and leaned in closer to the camera before you licked off the slick that coated the toy.

your tongue moved slowly, and occasionally you would glance at the camera, making eye contact with him as you cleaned up your dildo and the only thing that ran through leon’s head as he watched was: i wish that was me.

squirming, leon felt like his mouth was salivating at the sight.

eventually, you finished licking off your dildo before you placed a gentle kiss on its head before you put it away, hidden away from what the camera could pick up. “liked that?” you mused, tilting your head to the side with a cute little smile. it was almost funny how cute you looked after you fucked yourself in front of him.

“yeah.” leon said quickly, gulping back saliva as he looked at you so dearly, “um,” he began, clearing his throat awkwardly, “..is it okay to talk more? if you have the time.” leon mumbled, because deep down, he still wanted to talk to you — to carry a conversation with you, to try and charm you.

looking at the time displayed on your monitor, you hummed, drawing it out to tease him slightly. after a few seconds that felt like an eternity for leon, you looked back at the camera and nodded. “of course, i have time.” you said, winking at the camera before you stood up and slipped your panties on. you left the chair for a second before you picked up your band shirt off the floor and slipped it on.

plopping back down on the chair, you smiled and looked back at the camera.

“so, tell me more about you, leon.”

≻ the call ended not too long ago, leon rested his phone down on his bed as he let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead. his chest felt fuzzy and he felt giddy.

the two of you had spoke for a few hours and now that the call ended, leon yearned to hear your voice again.

he felt silly like this, but he couldn’t help it.

he missed your voice, your face, the way you moved your hands when you spoke, the small gestures you made when you talked about something you were passionate about.

he missed you.

reaching over for his flask, leon quickly popped it open and took another long swig. swallowing back his beloved whiskey like he was a dehydrated man drinking water, throughout the call, he hadn’t drank to try and not get drunk and ruin the moment. but now that the call ended and he had time, leon was happily swallowing back the whiskey.

hearing his phone buzz against his bed sheets, he reached out for it quickly, a swirl of excitement coming to him as he saw it was you that texted.

it was two attachments, a photo of your perky tits and another one of your computer screen — that’s where he saw it. he was on the screen.

the photo you had taken was when he had his phone down, getting a good angle of his side profile from the bottom. for the eyes of someone else, it was a good picture and he looked good. his hair was messy in just the right way, his adam’s apple was on display and given the fact his phone was down, the picture also captured his waist, chest, and shoulders. showing off his body underneath the shirt he wore.

it was a good photo, but leon’s heart dropped to the floor when he saw it.

had his camera been on the whole time? is that why there was a small red dot next to his selfie camera? clicking out of the photos, he read your text nervously, but after reading it, his face flushed.

taking back another swing of his flask, he shuddered.

‘you looked really good today ;)) wanna call again tomorrow? <3’

╰ TAGS: @gor3-hound @rigorwhoring @nilpill @ottermarbles @argreion @angelstargel @lysa1201-saucy @dilfsmaid @sweets3rial @doja-rat16 @bababsthings @frillyyyy @nyxxoxo @admirxation @gcldtom @ashrillvenheim @seraphicsuicides @altissia-09 @ghostier0t @biohazard-4ever @leonsgirl-111 @th3lma @squazmine @dakotali @neverg0nnagivey0uup @brblnc @emodanoriddler @v1ccc @dear-satan @skydisneylover @calansic @acidaciruela @vkurtmien @shiawaseorii @fxnfandxmmp4 @valentin78pon @antagonize-me-motherfucker

[arixella]

Hello! First of all– I love your writings sm and how everything is so beautifully written no matter what genre, And second– if you're free and alright with it, may I request an luffy x reader, where the reader ate a devil fruit that made them immortal but luffy had no clue about this and only knew when reader died, then miraculously woke up a few minutes later. Still badly injured, but is alive and not well. Due to the fact that they can still feel pain.

Only if you're fine with this kind of stuff, and thank you for your hard work!

You Died, But You Didn’t

╰┈➤ pairing: Luffy x gn!reader

a/n: sorry I feel like this is bad but I hope you enjoy😭 <3

summary: After watching you die in battle, Luffy is devastated—until you miraculously revive, revealing your immortality from a Devil Fruit, and leaving him reeling with love, anger, and the fear of losing you again.

wc: 1.8k

contains: angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, romance,

The world was spinning.

Your vision blurred, pain painting your every nerve raw. You were barely holding on, barely breathing. And then—

Darkness.

“(Y/N)!”

Luffy’s voice tore through the chaos, hoarse and frantic, louder than the crashing waves and the screams of battle. He didn’t hear the others calling after him, didn’t care about the blood soaking into his sandals, didn’t care that the enemy still stood behind him.

All he saw was you, crumpled and broken on the ground.

His hands trembled as he dropped to his knees beside you, arms wrapping around your body. You were still. Too still.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Come on. Get up.”

You didn’t move.

He shook you gently, then harder. “Hey! Don’t mess around—get up! You’re okay, right?! You always get up!”

There was no response. Blood ran from your mouth, your side, your chest. Too much blood. His hands were stained with it. His voice started to break.

“No, no, no. Not you. Not like this.”

Zoro yelled something from behind him. Chopper was sprinting over, but he already knew—this was beyond even Chopper’s miracle medicine.

You were gone.

He felt like the air had been ripped from his lungs. Something inside him cracked, splitting wide open, raw and screaming.

Luffy didn’t cry easily. Not in front of people. But now he held your body to his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into your clothes, desperate to keep you close. The crew watched in stunned silence—none of them had seen him like this. Not even when Ace died.

“I was gonna tell you something,” he mumbled into your hair. “I was gonna tell you I love you. I waited too long.”

And then— Your fingers twitched.

Luffy didn’t notice it at first. Too lost in grief.

Then your chest rose.

A breath. Shallow. Struggling.

“Chopper!” he screamed so loud his throat tore. “They’re breathing! THEY’RE BREATHING!”

Chopper nearly fell over himself trying to get to you. “What?! That’s not possible! Their pulse was gone! They weren’t breathing!”

But you were.

Your body shuddered, a broken, gasping breath rasping through your throat. Your eyes cracked open. “Lu…ffy?”

He stared at you like you were a ghost. “You—you died.”

Your lips barely moved. “I… I always come back.”

Your voice was hoarse, weak, but real. Alive.

Luffy grabbed your hand, wide-eyed and stunned. “What? What do you mean?”

Chopper was already digging through his bag, frantic. “Don’t talk! You’re still really messed up—we need to stabilize you now!”

You whimpered as Chopper pressed bandages to your side, and your entire body flinched from the pain.

Luffy leaned in close, holding your other hand, thumb brushing over your bruised knuckles. “What’s going on, (Y/N)? You died. You died. I—” His voice broke again. “I thought I lost you.”

You looked at him through half-lidded eyes, full of guilt. “I ate a Devil Fruit… years ago. Before I met you. The Fukkatsu Fukkatsu no Mi.” You coughed, blood staining your lips again. “It makes me… immortal. I can’t die. Not completely.”

“What?!” Luffy’s voice cracked like a whip.

You nodded weakly. “My body shuts down sometimes. When it’s too much. I… I die. But not forever. I always come back. But it still hurts. Everything hurts.”

Luffy looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. “You’ve been through that before?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Chopper was still working, still trying to stop the bleeding, his hooves shaking. “Their vitals are improving. Somehow. They’ll live, but they’re going to be in pain for days.”

Luffy sat there in silence, gripping your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

When Chopper finished and stepped back, Luffy shifted, pulling your battered body gently into his arms. You groaned, but you didn’t resist.

“I should’ve told you,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You should’ve.”

You flinched. “I didn’t want you to look at me different. Or worry all the time. I just wanted to be with you.”

Luffy stared ahead, jaw tight. “I watched you die.”

“I know.”

He looked down at you, eyes wet but hard. “I don’t care if you can’t die. That doesn’t make it better. I still felt like I lost you. You were cold. You weren’t breathing.”

Your lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”

He exhaled sharply, forehead pressing against yours. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I… can’t promise that.”

He barked out a humorless laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Right. You’re impossible.”

You managed a faint smile. “You still love me?”

Luffy pulled back to look you dead in the eye, fierce and unshaken now. “Yeah. I do. I love you, (Y/N). Whether you die a hundred times or never at all. I love you.”

Your throat closed with emotion. “I love you too.”

He kissed your forehead gently, like you were made of glass. “Next time you die,” he murmured, “I’m punching you when you wake up.”

You chuckled weakly. “Deal.”

The night passed slowly. The crew settled down, the battle won but the emotional toll lingering.

Luffy didn’t leave your side.

He sat beside your cot, one hand in yours, the other resting on the hilt of his hat pulled low over his eyes. Every so often, your breath would hitch, or your fingers would twitch, and he’d sit up instantly—just to make sure.

You were alive. Not okay, not yet. But alive.

You’d told him the truth now. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

You were his. Even if death tried to take you, Luffy would always be the one to pull you back.

♡♡♡

© 2025 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 1

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Oral [m/f] Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Chapter Summary: You remember how it all began — a summer day, a camera, and Jeongguk’s steady presence slowly becoming your everything. From stolen laughter to whispered vows, your love once felt infinite. Now your marriage is a quiet ache, filled with the echo of all that’s been lost and the haunting hope that maybe, somehow, he’ll choose you again.]

[Part 1. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Summer has always felt like a quiet promise to you. There’s something about the way the morning light slips through your curtains—soft and golden—that makes everything feel a little easier, even the things you keep inside. The heat never bothered you. It felt like warmth you could hold onto, like being hugged by the world when no one else could see you slipping.

Maybe that’s why summer became your favorite.

Or maybe it was him.

Because it was summer when you met Jeon Jeongguk.

You remember the sun that day—how it blazed unapologetically over the shoreline, how the heat curled around your ankles as you sat in the sand, watching yachts slice lazily through the water like moving sketches on a canvas of blue. The world felt slow, easy.

Until it didn’t.

A few feet away, he was there. Camera in hand, lens pointed right at you. Bold. Unapologetic. Not even pretending to look away when your eyes met his.

“What the hell? Are you seriously taking pictures of me right now?” you’d snapped, jumping to your feet, brushing sand off your shorts with all the anger a sixteen-year-old could manage. “Do you even get how creepy that is? You freaking pervert—”

“Wait—wait! No! It’s not like that!” he had stammered, hands raised like the camera was some weapon he never meant to pull. “It’s for a portfolio—college applications! I swear! I was just trying to catch the mix of people and nature, you just—uh—you fit into the scene—”

He’d fumbled with the camera strap, trying to explain between nervous laughs and rushed apologies.

And you? You were mortified. If the ocean had opened up right then, you would’ve let it pull you under without a fight.

But somehow — between his flustered panic and your still-burning anger — he said something about not even knowing if the picture turned out, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

That was the beginning.

That summer, Jeon Jeongguk became your best friend.

It was a summer night when everything smelled like pavement heat and distant jasmine, and all you wanted was to peel off your work clothes and melt into the couch. The kind of night where even your bones felt tired.

You hadn’t expected the light. Not the soft glow flickering from dozens of candles tucked across shelves and countertops, or the trail of flower petals curling like a secret through the apartment. It felt surreal—like walking into a dream set up by someone who had memorized all the quiet corners of your heart.

And then you saw him.

Jeongguk stood in the middle of the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how to breathe. He looked like a boy caught between fear and flight, only staying because he wanted this more than he feared the fall.

You blinked. Because for weeks—months—he’d been telling you about a girl.

The girl who made his chest tighten. The girl he wanted to impress without looking desperate. The girl he asked you about late into the night, as if your advice were gospel. And you, being his best friend, had answered every question with a brave smile and a cracking heart. You told him what flowers to bring, what not to say, how to read a moment without overstepping.

You played the part. You always did.

You had been there through all of it—those messy college years with coffee-stained notes and shared deadlines, the victory of your first job offers, the tiny celebrations and the quiet disappointments. You watched girls chase him and get turned away, every time.

And every time, he turned to you, his safe space.

“You’re just easier to talk to,” he’d say, kicking at the floor. “You get it.”

And maybe that’s when the lines began to blur.

You weren’t sure exactly when your chest started to tighten at the sound of his laughter. When his name, unspoken in your head, started to feel different. Maybe it was never a single moment. Maybe it was all of them, stitched together into something steady and impossible to ignore.

So that night, when you stepped into that room—into the flickering candlelight and the warmth he’d tried to contain—you thought, she’s coming. The girl he’s been talking about. He’s going to tell her everything.

You even turned to leave.

But then he said your name.

And three words that didn’t belong to anyone else. “I love you.”

At first, you stood frozen, trying to understand. Trying not to hope too hard.

Then he stepped closer, and from behind his back, he pulled a bouquet of tulips. Purple. Your favorite.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

And in that moment, the world quieted. Not in some big, movie-like way—but in that gentle, everyday pause when everything just feels right. Like letting out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You remember thinking, So this is what it feels like. To be chosen. To be seen without having to ask.

That summer, at twenty-one, with candlelight brushing his skin and tulips in your hands, your best friend had become something else entirely.

The love of your life.

The summer you had turned twenty-three, you expected nothing. Life was moving too fast to pause for birthdays.

Jeongguk had spent almost a year working toward a promotion to Creative Director, buried in late nights and never-ending deadlines. You had just quit your job— nervous but determined—to begin preparing for something bigger, taking over Seora. Your mother had wanted to retire, and you, with your heart pounding, said yes to stepping into her place.

That year, you hadn’t made any big promises to each other. Just a quiet understanding. Takeout and sweatpants, maybe a quick kiss over leftovers, and the real celebration could wait until life calmed down.

So when Jeongguk texted you that afternoon, “Leaving work early. Be downstairs in ten,” you hadn’t expected much. You figured he’d forgotten a gift and was making up for it with a last-minute dinner somewhere quiet.

What you hadn’t expected was the way he grinned the second you opened the car door, eyes bright despite his exhaustion, hair slightly messy from the wind. Or the way he said, as soon as you settled in, “It’s going to be a long drive,” like he had a secret folded up in his chest.

You spent the first twenty minutes badgering him with questions, poking at his side at every red light, demanding clues. But he only laughed. Reached into the glove compartment. Pulled out your favorite snacks like weapons in an old, familiar war.

“Here,” he said, placing a candy bar in your hand. “Eat this and be quiet.”

It worked.

And somewhere between city roads and country silence, between the music humming low and the smell of tulips that hadn’t yet touched the air—you stopped trying to guess.

You didn’t expect the garden. Didn’t expect the burst of color in the middle of nowhere. The sunset lighting up each petal like it was meant to happen right then. You didn’t expect the table, softly set under hanging lights, or the quiet sound of your favorite song drifting through the air.

You hadn’t even known a place like this existed.

“Happy Birthday, my love.”

Jeongguk’s voice was gentle in your ear, his lips brushing your temple as his arm slipped lightly around your waist. Two years in, and somehow the sound of his soft nicknames still made you melt, still lit up something warm and tender in your chest. It was proof that the spark hadn’t faded. That time had only made it deeper, more real.

Dinner unfolded like something out of a dream, somewhere between romance and playful banter. You’d barely taken your first bite before launching into a full-on interrogation, bombarding your boyfriend with questions, how he found this place, when he had the time to pull it all off.

Jeongguk only laughed, stealing a bite of your food and shaking his head. “Just eat, baby. You ask too many questions.”

You smirked, leaning in as you wiped a bit of sauce from his lip with your thumb. “Look at you evolving. Feels like just yesterday you were panicking about how to flirt with a woman.”

His expression crumpled into mock outrage. “That was my first time! I was going to declare my undying love for you! Had to get it right for the perfect woman.”

That nervous boy, fumbling with his feelings and petal trails—it was hard to believe this confident man in front of you had ever stuttered through a sentence.

“You’re still so cheesy.”

“And you still love me,” The grin that followed, soft and certain.

“I do,” you whispered. “I love you, Gguk.”

By the time dinner was over, your stomach was full and your heart even more so. You leaned back in your chair, soaking in the breeze, the stars above, the warmth of his hand in yours.

Then came another surprise — a small birthday cake, carried over by one of the garden staff with quiet, careful steps. You raised a brow, laughing softly. “You already fed me dessert.”

“Can’t have a birthday without cake,” he said, already lighting the single candle. “Come on, make a wish, baby.”

You smiled, the flicker of the flame reflecting in his eyes. For a moment, everything slowed.

A safe home. A stable career. A loving partner. A healthy life.

What more could you ask for?

And yet, as your eyes fluttered shut, you wished anyway. Not for something new, but for this—this exact moment, this exact love—to last. And if change ever came, may it be the kind that blooms, never breaks.

You opened your eyes, ready to blow out the flame—

But what you saw wasn’t the candle anymore.

Jeongguk. Down on one knee. A ring shinning between his fingers. Eyes locked on yours, trembling, hopeful, sure.

“That day you called me out for being a stalker?” his voice wavered slightly, his smile laced with nostalgia. “That was actually the happiest day of my life.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It was the day I met you. You were yelling at me, face all red. I honestly thought you were going to explode.” He let out a breathy laugh. “But there I was—sixteen, camera in hand—completely mesmerized by this girl who didn’t even know she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting. Your hair was flying with the wind, and your eyes… they looked like the galaxies. The sun hit just right, and you—” He paused, eyes softening. “You looked like the start of something.”

Your chest clenched, but in the best way. You tried not to smile too hard. Tried not to cry. Tried not to melt under the memory he was bringing to life.

“That day marked the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he added, his voice gentler now. “One I never thought would turn into this.”

Your fingers were damp with sweat; you quietly wiped them on the back of your dress, hoping to steady yourself.

Jeongguk’s words kept flowing, low and sincere.

“You stood by me when I had nothing figured out. When I failed, when I fell short, when I let things get to me—like that time I cried over failing an exam, or losing my camera bag like the world was ending—” he chuckled, and you did too, tears prickling now from laughter and longing all at once.

“You were just always there. You were my calm. My constant.” He looked at you with such deep care it almost ached. “And you cheered me on through everything. Even the small wins—like that two-hundred-dollar incentive I got from pitching that campaign.”

You laughed again, that memory coming back in crisp detail. Jeongguk had burst into your office, practically bouncing, holding up his bonus slip like it was a golden ticket. He hugged you so tight he nearly lifted you off the floor.

Those small wins… they had felt like the peak of the world back then. Not because of the money, but because you’d been in them together.

And just when you thought your heart couldn’t take more—

“You know me better than I know myself,” Jeongguk said, voice steady but eyes a little too bright. “When I can’t figure out which tie to wear, or what shoes go with my pants, you pick them out instantly. And just like that, everything feels easier. You always look after me. Even when you’re tired. Even before we got together, you were already putting me first.”

He reached for your hand then, softly, like he could sense the storm inside you. And oh, how it churned—your stomach tight, your breath uneven.

“I know you think I’ve done the same for you,” he continued. “That I’ve made you my priority too. And I have. Always have. Always will. But deep down…” he swallowed, thumb brushing over your knuckles, “I still feel like I could do more. As your husband. If you let me.”

You froze, your pulse loud in your ears. You told yourself to stay calm—but they gave you away, trembling against his warm hands.

“Today is for your wishes,” he said softly, drawing you closer. “But I have one of my own.”

And just like that, your world shifted.

“I want to be your husband. Your forever partner. To love you endlessly, for as long as time will allow. Will you marry me?”

Tears spilled before you could stop them. Your voice wouldn’t come, not at first. But your body answered for you—nodding quickly, sinking to your knees, wrapping your arms around him like you’d just found the safest place in the world.

He laughed—half breathless, half crying—and pulled back just enough to cup your face.

“W-wait, babe, I need to hear you say it,” he whispered, grinning so wide it almost hurt to look at. “You’re saying yes, right? This is real?”

“Yes,” you finally breathed. “Yes, Gguk. I’ll marry you. I love you. I love you so much.”

Jeongguk threw his head back with a yell of pure, unfiltered joy. It echoed into the tulip fields like a promise. “I can’t wait to call you my Mrs. Jeon,” he beamed. “Or—hell—I’ll take your name. As long as you’re mine forever.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t delicate. It was wild, eager, soaked in love. You tasted it in every press of his lips—every wave crashing into you like a vow unspoken.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured again, forehead to yours, as the tulips swayed around you like they, too, were celebrating.

The sun dipped a little lower, casting gold across his skin. You thought time might stop for you both, just for a while.

And somewhere in the soft drift of laughter and love, you found yourselves in another season, another golden evening—one where the air smelled like grilled food and summer fireworks, and Jeongguk’s hand was laced with yours under a different kind of sky.

The following summer, on the day you turned twenty-four, the world felt still in the best possible way.

You and Jeongguk had come a long way since that quiet birthday dinner in the tulip garden. What once felt like a distant dream—building a life together while chasing your own ambitions—was slowly becoming reality.

Jeongguk had earned the promotion he worked tirelessly for, settling into his new role with newfound ease. The stress that once creased his forehead had begun to fade. And you, with steady determination, took over at Seora, walking the path your mother had gently prepared for you.

Everything started to fall into place. The late nights, the risks, the struggles—they all suddenly felt worth it.

You moved out of the tiny apartment that once held all your early memories and into a house that reflected how far you’d come. It was larger than you needed, tucked away in a quiet compound, but it was yours. Every corner felt like a fresh page.

Jeongguk had picked your birthday for the wedding. “It’s poetic,” he once said, lightly running his finger along your palm. “I get to celebrate the day you were born and the day you chose to stay with me forever.”

And he truly meant it. That choice—so thoughtful and deliberate—wasn’t just romantic. It was the kind of gift you’d hold in your heart always, something only he could give you.

And so, that summer day became more than just a birthday celebration.

It became the beginning of something timeless.

The air smelled of sea salt and lavender as the ocean breeze drifted through the half-open window of the bridal suite.

Your dress shifted softly with each breeze. Light ivory silk with thin layers of tulle that floated like water. The bodice hugged you just right, with lace stitched in soft, wave-like patterns that reminded you of all those summers by the Busan shore. A short train gathered behind you like a memory waiting to happen. Your hair was pulled back in a loose, low twist, with a small pearl comb set gently above your ear.

You had been ready for over an hour. And still… you waited.

A gentle knock broke the quiet.

Hobi’s familiar face peeked into the room, his voice warm. “Ready, Mrs. Soon-To-Be Jeon?”

You tried to smile. Tried. “Hey.”

He stepped inside, practically shaking with unspoken feelings. “You look stunning,” he said, placing a hand to his chest. “Like, Jeongguk-is-gonna-lose-it stunning.”

You laughed, barely. Your fingers kept picking at the hem of your dress. “Hobi…”

“Yeah?”

“What if this… changes everything?”

The question hung in the room like fog. He paused, eyes gentle as he stepped toward you.

“What if we ruin it?” you whispered. “What we had. What we have. We've always been best friends first. What if marriage breaks that?”

He walked over and sat beside you at the edge of the dresser bench. Without hesitation, he took your hand — grounding, warm, familiar. His thumb traced slow circles against your skin.

“You’re scared love might erase the friendship."

You nodded. “Or twist it into something we can’t come back from. What if we lose what made us, us?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with the kind of knowing only someone who had seen every chapter could offer. “You know what I see when I look at you and Jeongguk?” he said at last. “Two people who always find their way back. Every detour, every almost. You always chose each other, even before you knew you were choosing.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you, soft and a little unsteady.

“And listen,” Hobi continued, gently but firm. “Love didn’t come to take the place of friendship. It grew from it. You really think that’s something that falls apart easily?”

You shook your head slowly.

“No,” he said. “It’s the strongest kind. You’re not losing anything today. You’re building something new — on top of everything that already made you strong.”

And in that moment, something eased in your chest. Just a little. Just enough.

You finally smiled. This time, it reached your eyes. “How’d I get lucky with you as my man of honor-slash-wedding planner-slash-therapist?”

He grinned, already misty-eyed. “No idea. But I’m billing you later.”

The sun dipped low not long after, golden light spilling over Gwangalli. Purple tulips arched overhead at the altar, swaying gently as the sea whispered behind them.

A hush settled over the small crowd as soft music started. You stepped into sight.

And Jeongguk — waiting at the end of the aisle — looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His lips parted, eyes wide and bright, hands shaking just enough to make yours start to tremble too.

You walked to him, everything else falling away. He let out a breathless laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

The officiant’s voice faded into the background — because your hearts had already started speaking.

When it was time for the vows, Jeongguk reached for your hands. His grip was warm, steady, even as tears swelled in his lashes.

“I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with you,” he began, voice thick. “Because it wasn’t just one moment. It was all of them. Every inside joke, every late-night walk, every time you looked at me and saw more than I thought I was. Every dumb argument about ramen flavors.” A soft wave of laughter rose from the guests. “You were my best friend before anything else. You still are. And I promise, no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You could barely breathe. Still, you found the strength to speak.

“I never imagined we’d end up here,” you said, voice trembling, “but I’m so grateful we did. You’ve seen every part of me — even the ones I tried to hide — and loved me anyway. I promise to keep choosing you. Even when you leave your ridiculous toe socks all over the house.” More laughter. More tears. “I vow to be your rock, your hope, your home. I’m thankful for every moment we’ve shared and every one we’ve yet to live. I love you — always and forever.”

The officiant didn’t even get to finish. “You may now—”

Jeongguk was already moving, hands cradling your face as he kissed you. Soft. Sure. Fierce with every vow spoken and every one unspoken.

The applause, the waves, the music — all of it disappeared.

There was only you and him.

Still standing. Still choosing.

The night folds around you both like a velvet ribbon — warm, private, endless.

You hardly remember making it to the suite — just bits and pieces. His hand holding yours a little too tightly. The soft thump of your bodies pressing into the door as it closed behind you. The way Jeongguk looked at you like you were his whole world — eyes wide, a little out of breath, his smile unsteady with all the feelings he was struggling to hold in.

You’re laughing when he scoops you into his arms — a clumsy, chaotic lift that has you squealing.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he says, voice rough with awe as he carries you to the bed. The words spill out messy and honest — pure, aching truth. “Finally. All mine.”

He sets you down like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. You’re still laughing, fingers skimming the strong line of his jaw, then the chain of his necklace as it disappears into the hollow of his throat. His pupils are blown wide when he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth — slower this time, savoring.

It feels like the kiss from the ceremony never ended. Like it just melted into this one — deeper, heavier.

“You’re staring,” you tease softly when you pull back, trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Can you blame me?”

His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing small, careful circles against the silky fabric of your dress. He’s trembling slightly, you realize — a tremor in him, delicate and charged, like he’s terrified of doing this wrong.

You brush his hair back from his forehead. “We can go slow,” you whisper. “We have all night.”

His answering smile is boyish, crooked, devastating. “No,” he says, tugging you closer until your noses brush again. “We have forever.”

When you finally pull him down onto the bed with you, there’s a flurry of limbs and laughter — the kind of ridiculous tangle that only happens when two best friends try to be lovers and forget, for a moment, how to breathe.

“Wait, wait,” Jeongguk’s laughing into the crook of your neck as he fumbles with his jacket, then your dress. “I’m doing this wrong. I had a plan. It was a very sexy plan.”

You giggle, breathless, reaching for the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. “We’re not doing plans tonight.”

“No plans,” he agrees, voice low and giddy, “just... you.”

He kisses you again, harder now, a little clumsy from how much he wants you. His hands map every inch of you they can reach — shoulders, arms, waist — like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this time, the stakes are different. Higher.

When he finally peels your dress from your shoulders, he moves slow. Painfully slow. Like unwrapping a gift he’s dreamt about but never thought he could touch. His fingers ghost down your skin, his gaze drinking you in like he’s starving.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear. His voice is thick, frayed at the edges. His hands shake when he cups your face again, grounding himself with your skin.

“You’re not wearing the socks, are you?” The tease slips out before you can stop it.

Jeongguk snorts against your shoulder, biting gently at your skin in retaliation. “Married five hours and you’re already picking on me.”

“I love your dumb socks,” you promise through a breathless laugh.

He hums, trailing kisses down the slope of your shoulder. “Yeah, well. Tonight, I’m wearing nothing but you.”

The teasing fades into something quieter when he lays you back against the pillows, his body covering yours, warm and solid. You feel every place he touches, every place he doesn’t, like they’re marked on your skin. His mouth moves slowly, in awe — kisses pressed to your chest, the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your hips. Wherever his lips go, his hands follow — stroking, coaxing, making you feel it all.

And God, you do. You feel everything.

You arch into him instinctively, a soft, helpless sound slipping from your lips. His breath stutters at the noise, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you — really look at you.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says. His voice is raw, scraped-down, stripped of anything but restraint. “I’ll stop. Anytime. Anything.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper back. You cup his face in both hands, thumb tracing the soft curve of his bottom lip. “I want you.”

A low sound — almost a whimper — slips from him then, and he nods, lowering himself until every inch of him is pressed against you. His hips shift against yours, experimental, a little awkward.

You both gasp.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, burying his face against your shoulder. “Okay. We’re... figuring this out.”

You laugh again, breathless and deliriously happy. You tilt your hips, guiding him, and he groans — grateful, needy.

The first time is clumsy, achingly sweet. There are moments you miss each other, teeth knocking, soft curses murmured between kisses. But there’s laughter too, and whispered encouragements, and the kind of heat that comes from knowing someone so deeply, so completely, that the vulnerability feels natural — like breathing. Like coming home.

“You’re doing so good, baby."

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, “say it again.”

You smile against his skin, wrapping your arms tighter around him. “You’re doing so good, Gguk.”

He moves with you, guided by instinct and the quiet understanding you’ve built over years together. Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky moan feels like a new promise — I love you. I want you. I’m yours.

When you both finally fall apart, it’s not with fireworks or grand declarations. It’s quiet, almost sacred — his name on your lips, yours on his, whispered like prayers into each other’s mouths.

Jeongguk refuses to let you go. His arms band around you, tight and unyielding, even as your skin cools and the room settles into a sleepy hush.

“You’re my best friend,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your chin. “And now you’re my wife. How the fuck did I get so lucky?”

You smile, heart so full it aches. “Guess you’re stuck with me... forever.”

He grins against your skin, already half-asleep. “Good. I never wanted to be anywhere else.”

You reach for the blanket draped over the chair, wrapping it around yourself like a shield — or maybe a memory. A soft, bittersweet smile touches your lips as a gentle warmth fills you.

The laughter that muffled into pillows, the way he used to look at you like the world disappeared when you walked into a room. You think of those tangled nights in bed, when wanting each other turned into something deeper, where you'd both go again and again — not for pleasure, but to prove, in the only language you both spoke fluently back then, who loved the other more.

You close your eyes.

And for a moment, you're back there.

You remember the second you stepped through that door. How everything else had faded away.

The house had felt alive somehow, even in its quiet—sunlight spilled generously through the wide windows, the air tinged with fresh paint and the sea salt that clung to Busan’s breeze. It had been perfect. Everything you two dreamed of and bled yourselves dry to build.

You could see it all—lazy mornings tangled in white linen, coffee still warm in hand as the waves crashed just beyond the terrace. No urgent calls from both your jobs in Seoul. No blinking notifications. Just this. Him. The two of you, in your own little world.

You hadn't meant to cry, but of course you did. A single, stupid tear betraying you the moment the front door clicked shut behind you.

Jeongguk noticed before you could pretend. "My love," he’d murmured, pulling you close, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. "We did it."

You nodded, burying your face against his shoulder, breathing in the comfort you always found there. "We really did."

He kissed your forehead like he was sealing it in—this moment, this house, this dream you’d both chased until your feet bled. For that second, there was no future to fear. Just him, his hand in yours, and a home filled with quiet hope.

But of course, Jeongguk couldn’t stay soft for long.

"You know we have to break it in," he’d murmured against your lips, eyes already dark with intent.

You’d laughed, pulling back slightly to raise an eyebrow. "Already? We’ve been here for five minutes."

He smirked, cocky and shameless. "Five minutes too long. Been thinking about fucking you in this house since the day we signed the deed."

Your fingertips tailed down his neck. “Don’t remember signing up for this version of you.”

“Maybe I’ve been holding back. Maybe you just bring out the braver side of me.”

You remember how you shoved him playfully in the chest, only for him to catch your wrists and spin you against the wall, pinning you there with his hips. You’d felt him, already hard, pressing between your thighs through your clothes, and it set something wild sparking in your veins.

Your breath hitched. That grin—the wicked one that meant trouble—lit up his whole face. "Obsessed," you murmured.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. "With my wife? Always."

You slipped away, dancing into the kitchen with a smirk. Jeongguk followed like a man chasing salvation, jeans already undone, tattoos on display as he stalked toward you.

"You think you love me more than I love you?" you called over your shoulder, hopping onto the counter.

"Baby," he said darkly, eyes trailing over your body like a promise. "I know I do."

"Then prove it."

He’s between your thighs in an instant, hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow—and you want them. His mouth crashes onto yours again, messy and heated, stealing every ounce of air from your lungs. His hands work with urgency, tugging at your clothes, until your blouse and bra hit the floor and his tongue is tracing the swell of your breast like he’s worshipping you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum. “So mine.”

You tug at his shirt, yanking it over his head, nails raking down his tattooed arms. “Still waiting for the proof, Gguk,” you whisper against his jaw.

He growls again. Real. Feral. Sinks to his knees in front of you like you’re something holy. His hands slide under your skirt, shoving it up, baring you completely. The first sweep of his tongue over your core makes you gasp, your head tipping back, hand flying to his hair. He groans into you, like just the taste of you is enough to ruin him.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he rasps against your soaked skin.

You tighten your thighs around his head, breathless. “Make me.”

And he does.

His mouth is relentless, tongue and lips working you until you’re writhing on the countertop, whimpering his name like a prayer.

But you’re stubborn. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you surrender. Not yet.

When you finally yank him up by his hair and drag his mouth back to yours, he tastes like you—filthy, desperate—and you wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against him through his jeans.

“You need me that bad, babe?”

“Need you always,” he pants, fumbling with his jeans, too wild to care about anything but being inside you. When he finally pushes into you, it’s fast, almost rough with need, and you both groan—loud and raw—as he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he hisses, forehead pressed to yours as he thrusts deep, slow, savoring every inch. “No one... no one loves you like I do.”

You moan into his mouth, biting his lower lip, nails digging into his back as you meet his thrusts, desperate to match him, desperate to win.

“We’ll see about that,” you whisper fiercely, clenching around him just to hear him whimper.

And he does—beautiful and broken—and it spurs you both on, the pace rough and messy, your moans filling the empty house like a chorus. By the time the sun dips lower, you’ve christened the kitchen counter, the living room sofa, the hallway wall. You’re both half-dressed, half-wild, bruised and kissed within an inch of your lives.

When he finally collapses onto the bed with you tangled in his arms, sweaty and wrecked, Jeongguk still doesn’t let go.

“You,” he whispers hoarsely, voice wrecked from moaning your name too many times. “You’re it for me. Always.”

You press your lips to the center of his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. “Then you better be ready to spend forever proving it.”

His laugh was ragged, but full. "I’ll spend my whole life proving it."

And you believed him. Of course you did.

Because in that house, in that life—you’d been sure you were winning. Together.

Somewhere beyond the walls of your home, Seoul moves on without you – light rain falling in the garden, leaves moving in the breeze, the faint sound of a gate opening somewhere in the compound. In the distance, you heard a neighbor’s dog bark, a car door close.

But in here, everything was still. Silent.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the quiet ache you didn’t dare name. Either way, your mind slipped, without meaning to, back to another time.

A warmer time.

You could still feel it if you closed your eyes—the sunlight in Busan, the salt on your skin, the weight of Jeongguk’s body against yours, the way he had looked at you like there was no one else in the universe. The way he laughed when you challenged him. The way he kissed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The memory came back easily. His hands on your waist, the two of you laughing, you playfully refusing to let him have his way even as he kissed every bit of you against the kitchen counter.

You smiled faintly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb.

It felt like another lifetime now. Like it had happened to different people.

The quiet pressed heavier on your chest, so you let yourself sink further, slipping into an old memory you hadn’t visited in a long time.

Somewhere in the middle of Seoul, in a small, cozy restaurant he loved because they made the kimchi just like his mother’s.

You had been picking at your bibimbap when Jeongguk put down his chopsticks, cleared his throat dramatically, and leaned across the table with that wide, mischievous grin that always meant trouble.

“Wife,” he said grandly, ignoring the side-eye from the ajumma at the next table.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yes, husband?”

He held out his hand like he was about to make a toast at some royal event. “I have a very important statement to make.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh. “Right now? In the middle of lunch?”

“Very serious. Life-altering.” His eyes were shining. Boyish. So in love it almost hurt to look at him.

With an an exaggerated sigh, you set down your spoon. “Fine. I’m listening.”

He straightened, cleared his throat again—overdoing it just to make you roll your eyes—and then said, with theatrical seriousness. "I do promise you, Mrs. Jeon, that no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw sweetness of it.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. Was just looking at you, like he was falling for you all over again.

Your heart stuttered. Then, quick as a snap, you leaned across the table and flicked his forehead.

“Ow!” He jerked back, clutching his forehead dramatically. "This is why people write their vows once and never bring them out again!”

“You’re lucky you're cute."

He pouted, rubbing at his forehead like you’d truly injured him. “See if I ever get sappy with you again.”

Laughter bubbled up, warmth blooming in your chest, your cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “Please. Nothing’s going to change with you until the kids are running around the house. Maybe even until they grow up. You’ll be that embarrassing dad crying at every school event.”

Discussing children felt natural. Familiar. Without even needing to plan, you both held an unspoken promise that when the time came, you’d face it together, ready to give all your love. Even mundane things—like folding laundry—turned into whispered conversations about baby names, arguments over whose genes would dominate.

Jeongguk groaned like you’d stabbed him. "God, you're right. I’m doomed. Gonna be that dad with the 'I love my kid' bumper stickers all over the car. Jeongguk Jr. or Little Ha-yun will have to live with it.”

"Bet you’re going to come up with matching shirts,"

He pointed his chopsticks at you. "If I ever show up in a 'World’s Best Dad' T-shirt, it's on you."

You laughed until your sides hurt, while he just stared at you, like you were the answer to a prayer he hadn’t known he was whispering.

The memory dissolved as the cold, damp present crept back in.

The rain soaks into the loose weave of your sweater, the tea now forgotten and stone-cold in your hands. The hedges bent low under the weight of water. The petals of the camellias you once planted together lay bruised against the earth.

Absently, you pulled your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up in the muted gray light.

The wedding photo stared back at you. Frozen in time.

There you were, standing with Jeongguk at the altar, laughter bubbling from your lips, his hand linked firmly with yours. His eyes had been impossibly bright that day—full of promises that felt too big, too boundless to ever fade.

You traced the outline of his face on the screen with a trembling finger, wishing you could reach through the glass. Wishing you could fold yourself back into that moment. Hold onto that feeling just a little longer. Maybe if you had clung tighter, believed harder, things wouldn’t have slipped away.

Change is something no one can escape. You knew that well—everyone does.

Still, when it came, it hit hard at thirty, turning you and Jeongguk into strangers.

The rare mornings you find him in the kitchen, he walks past you on the way to the coffee maker. Casual vows exchanged easily over meals, had turned into clipped, tired arguments about who forgot to take out the trash. Whose turn it was to restock the empty egg tray.

You knew when everything changed. You wish you hadn’t.

You knew the exact moment Jeongguk stopped seeing you as the light in his life. When his love for you became a burden, he didn't know how to carry anymore.

You wished you could erase that night. Wished that when he chose you, it hadn't come with the weight of resentment that now lived between you.

Just because he had chosen you.

When the hospital room spun in blinding, sterile white. When the machines screamed warnings and the doctors begged for a decision—he chose you.

He chose you over Ha-yun.

And in some cruel twist of fate, you survived while your daughter didn’t.

You pressed your forehead against your knees, curling tighter on the rain-damp bench. The garden blurred into a smear of color and gray.

The life you had once imagined for the three of you—Jeongguk’s hand around a tiny fist, your laughter filling the house—died the same night she did. And no matter how much he smiled at you after, no matter how tightly he held you while you cried, a wall had already been built between you. Thick. Unscalable. Brick by agonizing brick.

You were no longer his home. You were his reminder of what’s been lost.

It didn’t begin with shouting. It began in the quiet — in the half-finished conversations, the way his hand hesitated before touching your back, the way you stopped asking, just to spare yourself the disappointment.

Then came the nights where he didn't come home at all.

Like that night.

You had only wanted for him to stand beside you. To support you. To be proud of you again. To be that husband who believed his wife would conquer anything if she puts her heart into it.

But even then, you were already losing him.

"Tomorrow’s the contract signing for the Tuan partnership. Hope you can be there. Eomma’s expecting you to," your voice was careful, like walking a thin line that could snap any second.

You wiped your makeup off mechanically at the dresser, your eyes catching his reflection.

His back was turned to you, the bathroom light glowing behind him as he tugged over his shirt.

The distance between you wasn't just physical. It hadn't been for a long time.

"It’s just a contract signing," His tone’s cold, almost bored.

The words stung more than they should have. More than you let on.

Jeongguk knew the weight of this partnership for you. It was more than another business move. It would be a stepping stone to expand your mother’s clothing line to Europe. Tuan Elegante had years of experience in the fashion world. Their reach was global, with a million-dollar-selling line in Italy and Paris. You and your mother had dreamed about this for as long as you could remember.

Yet here was your husband, treating the conversation, like it revolved around what to buy on the next grocery errand.

“It’s not just another event, Gguk.” You held the cotton pad a little too tight, blinking fast to hold back the sting. “I want you there.”

He didn’t turn around. Of course he didn’t.

"And do what exactly?" he muttered, pulling his towel off the hook. "Play the perfect husband? Show off a perfect marriage? Smile for the cameras so they have more to gossip about? Like they haven’t torn our lives apart enough already.”

Your throat burned, but you forced yourself to stay steady. "Could’ve just said no," you mumbled. "I would’ve understood. No need to be such a dick about it."

"I did say no. More than once." The towel hit the floor with a dull thud. "You just never fucking listen."

You whirled on him then, anger rising sharp and fast. “Maybe I was hoping. Hoping that you’d still care enough to show up. That you’d still want to stand by me.”

His laugh was bitter, mocking. "You really think standing next to you in a room full of strangers will fix this?"

"This isn't about fixing anything!" You cried, voice cracking. "This is about you showing up! Being there for once, instead of finding another excuse to stay away!"

Jeongguk’s face twisted, rage flashing for just a second before something else — something worse — flickered behind his eyes.

"You’re not even supposed to be working yet," he bit out. "Yoongi Hyung told you to rest. Told you not to push yourself. But no, you’re back at it again, throwing yourself into work like it’ll patch up everything you lost."

"Don’t," you whispered, chest heaving. "Don’t you dare put that on me."

He shook his head, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. "You never knew when to stop. Even when it meant risking everything."

"Losing Ha-yun wasn’t on me," you said, barely above a whisper. "You had a choice that night. Be a father, or stay my husband. You chose."

Pain twisted across his face, raw and sharp. "If you had just—" he started, voice rising, but he broke off, breathing hard. " If you had just looked after yourself better—”

"Say it," you snapped, fists trembling at your sides. "Say it. Say you blame me."

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t deny it either.

The silence between you was loud enough to drown everything else out.

“If you regret it that much,” Your words trembled, "then maybe you should have let me go that night."

"Never said I regretted it.”

“Yet you can’t even look at me like you love me anymore."

That was what hurt the most. Not the anger. Not the fighting. The absence. The part of him that had once looked at you like you were the sun shined bright on a new hopeful morning.

Jeongguk stared at you for a long moment — then turned away.

“I’m going out,” he said. Cold. Detached. As if you were nothing more than a ghost. Grabbing his wallet and phone off the nightstand, not sparing you another glance, he leaves the room. Leaves you behind.

Sleep was impossible when tears drowned any chance for you to rest. The argument from earlier echoed in your mind, like a song stuck on loop. 1:00 AM. 2:00 AM. 3:00 AM. You stared at the clock, each tick mocking you. Your heart sank every passing hour.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? The silence weighed heavily in the room, your anxiety only growing. Daylight crept through the curtains, a reminder that sleep was futile. You tossed and turned, anxiety gripping you about the big event today. Preparations demanded your focus.

Arguments with Jeongguk had piled up since you both lost Ha-yun. You'd lost track of how many. Yet, he always found his way back home. You lay side by side, even with the chill creating distance. But tonight was different.

You woke up to an empty side of the bed. Cold and untouched sheets lay there, unwrinkled – a reminder of the restless night you had endured. As you prepared to leave for work, Jeongguk returned from a long night. His presence felt heavy. The harsh words from the previous night loomed over you.

Fear gnawed at you. A reality you wanted to escape. You didn’t want this to become your new routine but you knew this was a change you had to bear with from now on.

Stepping back inside the house, your heart sinks at the sight of another untouched dinner on the table. Candles burned low, wine glasses untouched, the dinner you spent hours preparing now rests cold and forgotten under the soft glow of the kitchen lights.

Still, a tiny, stubborn part of you dares to hope.

You glance at your phone. 11:40 PM. There’s still time.

Maybe — just maybe — Jeongguk would walk through the door, the way he used to.

Maybe he’d see everything you put together, maybe he’d smile, call you ‘baby’ in that soft, lazy way, maybe he'd pull you into his arms like no time had passed at all.

Maybe you’d sit together and talk about meaningless things — which coffee you picked up that morning, the weather, the fact that you were both overdue for another Marvel marathon even though you could quote every line.

Maybe, for just a little while, you could pretend the distance hadn’t swallowed you whole.

You set your phone down, pressing your hands against the table to steady yourself.

But hope is cruel when it has nowhere left to go. It eats at you — a sick reminder of everything you've lost. Because if your marriage were still alive, you wouldn't need to hope so hard. You wouldn’t be left pleading to the universe for scraps of what once came so easily.

Years have passed since you and Jeongguk celebrated your wedding anniversary, and your birthday. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated his birthday either. Life has often pulled you both in different directions, especially back when your careers were just starting to build up.

But somehow, even through the chaos, you'd find your way back to each other. Maybe after dancing barefoot in the kitchen, maybe falling asleep mid-conversation, but you’d end the day in each other’s arms

That terrible night was a constant reminder that forgetting these moments was part of the change you didn’t want to face.

The first anniversary after it all fell apart, you got a text. 'Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday.' No ‘love you.’ No pet names. Not even a damn emoji to soften the blow. Just a clinical message from the man who once promised you forever.

Chuseok later in the year came with another lifeless apology. ‘Sorry, can’t make it.’ No explanation, no efforts to make it right. You faced both your families alone that night, forcing smiles, while you quietly fell apart. Scrambled up with excuses to keep them in the dark. To preserve the illusion that their children were still wrapped in that perfect little bubble of an unbreakable love.

Christmas was worse. No calls. No messages. Just a note on the fridge in his rushed handwriting, ‘Will be back late. Don’t wait up.’

And when New Year's came, a foolish hope lit up inside you once more.

Breakfast together — the first in months — and when you asked him to have dinner at Namsan Tower, he said yes.

You clung to that ‘yes’ like a lifeline. You believed.

But belief is brutal when it betrays you.

Because you sat there, alone at a table for two, staring at the unopened bottle of wine and the empty seat across from you.

The fireworks exploded outside the window, showering Seoul in glittering light. The restaurant staff cheered, kissed, laughed.

And you… you cried into your hands, wishing the year could just swallow you whole.

Now, the clock ticks mercilessly toward midnight.

12:00 AM. Another year gone. Another anniversary forgotten. Another birthday abandoned. You pull out a chair and sink down, the untouched meal staring back at you like a cruel joke.

Cruel, how the day you chose him as much as life chose you, has become a reminder of how much you can hold in your heart — and how easily it can break.

“Happy anniversary. Happy birthday to me.”

[bestboiraditz]

I was watching some old clips of Raditz and I realized something interesting about this characterization. Yes, Raditz is immediately interesting because he's Goku's older brother, but he's made even MORE interesting in my opinion thanks to the brief characterization he's allowed to have.

Take his first lines to Goku:

He doesn't immediately berate him for his failure to purge the planet, he takes a moment to muse on how much Goku has grown and how he looks just like their father Bardock. Keep in mind, Bardock wasn't even a spark in Toriyama's mind, so for him to have Raditz say this when he's supposed to be a throwaway villain shows an unusual level of fondness for family, especially considering what we later learn about Saiyans

Raditz, upon realizing Goku doesn't remember him, isn't just annoyed that Goku forgot his mission, but seems distraught that his little brother doesn't remember him.

It's a small detail, but again, cements that Raditz shows an unusual level of attachment to family bonds, especially for a Sayain.

And then (and this is something important to keep in mind) he declares that he will find a way to recover his little brother's memories because Goku is NEEDED.

His priority isn't to get the planet purged or punish Goku for failing, it's to regain the only biological bond he has left, however little of it there may be.

I find it interesting Toriyama wrote this piece of dialogue. It just seems odd he would write such layered dialogue to characterize a villain he always intended to kill off ASAP. I guess it was to play into the whole "subverting the brother trope" but still, it doesn't make the characterization any less interesting

When Raditz tells Goku how their planet was destroyed and how everyone died, he AGAIN emphasizes that this means their parents died too.

Again, Raditz really seems to put value on his family. Note he says PARENTS not just father. Even Vegeta, for as long as we've gotten to know him, never talks about his father King Vegeta that much (if at all? He's thought about him, but not really talked about him) I find Goku's reaction interesting too, as if deep inside, despite not remembering Bardock and Gine, his heart still feels the pain of losing them. (Could it be possible Raditz noticed his reaction and took that as a sign that Goku felt the bond too, hence his following actions?)

Like @masakoxtra said, Bardock's line seems to be unusually empathetic for Saiyans. (He talks about it at 3:30)

Even Raditz, despite living his whole life under Frieza's boot and submitting to the bullying and callousness of Vegeta and Nappa and hardening his heart because of it, hasn't completely lost his sense of empathy, it's part of his nature albeit incredibly suppressed.

Raditz then has an unusually distressed response when he realizes Goku doesn't have a tail.

He doesn't mock him for losing it or immediately gets disgusted by his weakness, he is outright horrified and then gets mad at Goku for letting others just remove his tail (From Raditz's perspective, It would be like if Goku just let his arm get cut off to fit in with a race of one-armed aliens).

For Raditz, he views it as a form of betrayal, not just of his race, but the idea that his own brother would rather pass as a lowly earthling than embrace his own heritage (family being something Raditz clearly values) really gets to Raditz on an emotional level.

Now that I think about it, Raditz kinda goes through 4 out of 5 of the stages of grief for the brief time he's alive.

His first reaction is denial that Goku had forgot him and accepted life on earth, then anger that he would rather live as an earthling than be with his Saiyan kin, and then he starts the bargaining phase, trying to entice Goku with the idea of fighting saying that he's a Saiyan and it's in his blood.

When that bargaining doesn't work, he resorts to a different form of bargaining.

Blackmail.

Raditz steals Gohan trying to force Goku to join him. He tells Goku to kill 100 humans by tomorrow as proof of his submission, but pay attention to the wording:

Raditz says "when you decide to join us, and you WILL decide to" that's how much confidence he has in Goku's devotion towards his son EVEN THOUGH Goku's a Saiyan.

Raditz doesn't have a shadow of a doubt that Goku will do everything in his power to protect his son, even if he is a weak crybaby. Saiyans don't typically care much for their kin as shown in several flashback material later on (in fact it's later explained that they'll completely disown and abandon babies that are too weak to be considered useful. They have a very Spartan-esque society).

But Raditz knows he can use Gohan as leverage because Raditz actually understands emotional connections between family members, something he would've likely valued all the more being considered weak himself.

A lot of times people are able to use emotional manipulation because they either understand or were a victim of similar manipulation.

He then warns Goku that he might as well comply because everyone is going to die anyway, the earth being scheduled for purging. He hammers home the point that Goku's defiance is pointless and he really doesn't have a choice anyway so he may as well submit.

But what Raditz is doing here is almost an act of compassion (for a Saiyan). The way he sees it, Goku will die if he doesn't comply, so joining them is the only way he'll be able to survive. If he didn't care about Goku's life, why warn him? Why give him a chance to prove himself?

In fact, why would Raditz need Goku to prove himself when he was willing to take him without that before?

This is just an idea, but could it be...because of his scouter?

Remember, his scouter was open the entire time so Vegeta and Nappa are listening in. If Vegeta was listening it, after hearing about Goku's weak power level and his defiance and kind-nature, Raditz probably knew Vegeta might just dispose of Goku when they returned, considering him a disgrace to the Saiyan race. So Raditz has to have Goku prove himself by killing a bunch of humans to show Vegeta he's worth keeping alive.

It's horrific in Goku's eyes, but to Raditz, the lives of a few humans is inconsequential compared to his brother. This again is why Raditz says Goku has no choice, Vegeta won't give them a choice.

This also might be desperation on Raditz's part. If we are to consider the opening of Dragonball Z: Kakarot canon, Vegeta and Nappa mock him, Nappa going as far as to declare it's why he's called "Raditz the Runt", apparently a knickname he's saddled with in the Frieza force.

Raditz, instead of responding angrily or protesting as most Saiyans would, bows his head and pathetically apologizes, promising things will be different next time, showing that not only is this bullying common, but Raditz has just accepted it at this point. The way Raditz treats Goku when meeting him may stem from this treatment, he's trying to sway his brother the only way he's seen, through brute force and intimidation.

But Vegeta, getting sick of Raditz's weakness, promises to kill him if he screws up again, and if Vegeta promises death, you know it's coming. Raditz, panicking as his self-preservation instincts kick in, mentions his brother, saying he can help make things easier, but really Raditz just doesn't want Vegeta to kill him. Even then, Vegeta scoffs "The fact that he's YOUR brother doesn't exactly fill me with confidence" It's possible that Raditz did actually forget his brother and it was only in his panic, scrambling mentally for any way to save his life, that in that moment of desperation he at last remembered Kakarot.

Again, if we are to consider this conversation canon, Raditz needs Goku to survive to better the odds of his own survival, it's only after he's in a pod heading to Earth that he has time to think about Kakarot and wonder why he hasn't tried contacting them after so long.

But back to the OG manga, After Raditz gives Goku his ultimatum, he says this:

Again, he could've stopped at "I hope you don't disappoint me" but to follow it up by emphasizing it's for both his and Gohan's sake is noteworthy.

And even though Raditz clearly doesn't have much of a connection with Gohan as he does with Goku, I find this bit particularly interesting:

He barks at Gohan to stop crying and states that he possesses the proud blood of Saiyans. Yes, he is annoyed by Gohan's crying, but he also feels that he's better than that since he is still a Saiyan and wants him to be strong.

I like to imagine that Raditz is repeating something Bardock told him when he cried as a child, it feels like a very Bardock thing to say.

I particularly like the english dub of this scene, Justin Cook gives such an interesting and tender delivery of the line.

Also I really like how Raditz pauses to look at Gohan before walking away in the anime, I like to interpret it as Raditz seeing a bit of himself as a child in Gohan, but quickly burying those feelings.

There's a little fancomic I found that really drives that idea home.

When Goku and Piccolo show up, before they even fight, Raditz says this:

Again, why warn Goku? This feels more like Raditz is still in the bargaining mindset, he's trying to get his brother to give up and now must resort to brutally beating him to get his point through.

And then followed by this.

Remember, his scouter is open, so it's entirely possible he's acting ruthless and declaring they'll die so he won't look soft to Vegeta. I mean, he'd kill Piccolo without a thought, yeah, but Goku...? It may still be a bluff.

Plus, if he was serious about killing them, why stand around and let them plot instead of finishing them off?

The tail scene is where we see Raditz's cowardly nature on full display. But I think this moment really enhances his character because most Saiyans probably wouldn't beg for their lives, at least not to the degree Raditz is doing, they're too proud a race.

Raditz starts rambling about how he'd never actually kill his brother and his death threats were just bluffs.

Yes, we know it's a ploy to get free, but could there be an iota of truth in there? The fact he could've cut off his tail but was waiting for Piccolo to fire off his second Makenkosopo shows that Raditz is a quick thinker and very calculating.

Plus he probably didn't want to have to lose his tail unless he absolutely HAD to.

Goku was NOT stupid for letting go.

After Goku releases him, Raditz mocks his softness stating that he, a Saiyan-warrior wouldn't hesitate to kill their own brother, only to confusedly ask if Goku wants "a demonstration".

Like, if he wouldn't hesitate to kill his brother, why is he hesitating to kill his brother?

He's not killing him, he's torturing him, he could easily end it.

Remember that Double Sunday he shot off with ease earlier?

And of course after Raditz and Goku get turned into donuts, Raditz says one of the saddest lines in retrospect:

Like, he is relying on Vegeta and Nappa to save him, believing that they'll value him as a Saiyan and bring him back because HE HAS NO ONE ELSE TO RELY ON.

Right before he dies, he's in a sort of stage 4 depression where he can't believe this is how his life is going to end, dying alone and disgraced on some backwater planet at the hands of his own brother, their family line coming to a miserable end. He's never allowed to come to stage 5: acceptance (which is often where the change in a person's perspective/character tends to happen) because he dies and is forgotten.

Another thing that makes me sad Raditz didn't survive is cuz he's the perfect medium between Goku and Vegeta.

Goku rejects his saiyan heritage while Vegeta clings to it, but Raditz feels like he could easily straddle both worlds. He'd cling to his saiyan heritage out of love and respect for his parents (He'd still call Goku Kakarot, not because "it's a Saiyan name" like Vegeta, but because it's the name Bardock and Gine gave, his reason a much more personal one).

However, Raditz would have plenty of things NOT to like about Saiyan society, especially with how he and his father were treated as low-class warriors.

Being on earth, surrounded by kind people who don't belittle him and show basic kindness and respect would quickly endear Raditz to earth (remember, Bardock's kin are unusually empathetic for Saiyans).

Plus, being around Goku, who'd no doubt encourage and be proud of Raditz whilst training, would do a lot to boost Raditz's confidence (Goku looking like Bardock a way to ease his yearning to prove himself to his father) and further make him enjoy earth.

I like to imagine that, while Goku always wears a training gi from earth and Vegeta always wears some semblance of saiyan armor, Raditz would probably have a saiyan breastplate resembling Bardock's (as a kind of tribute to his dad) and go with loose pants like Goku which is good for training, visually symbolizing his willingness to find the balance between two worlds.

If Raditz had survived in the canon, this could've played even further into Vegeta's sense of isolation post-Cell arc. During his whole Majin Vegeta vs Goku fight speech, he could've said something like "And imagine the frustration I felt, when the only other pure-blood of my race left, your brother, that low-level trash who'd trembled for years under my elite warrior might, not only obtained the power of a super saiyan, but deemed me, ME the prince of all Saiyans UNWORTHY of his time! UNWORTHY FOR HIM TO FIGHT!"

Oh, and...

Must run in the family.

[fallow-hollow]

five stages of grief

…ft! kabru x gn! oblivious! reader

…tags! pining, confession, kabru is a bit of a freak about this, oblivious reader, reader is an adventurer

…word count! 2671

…notes! spreading my kabruganda to the masses!!! kabru is my me so I very much enjoy writing him

denial

At first, Kabru was so convinced that there was something behind your happy-go-lucky exterior.

You were so skilled in the dungeon, able to make it down to floors that even he hadn’t traversed yet. So you must have a good grasp on tactics, not only in battle, but also when socializing! Yes, maybe you read people expertly when they’d respond in kind to your friendly behavior…..

During the stage where you’re acquainted but don’t know much about each other personally, he spends so long crafting theories about what’s going on inside your head.

His party members get sick of hearing about it halfway through the second week.

Once you meet again in person, he’s ecstatic to have an opportunity to take a closer look at your inner workings. His words and mannerisms are calm and purposeful, but there is a certain spark in his eyes, almost trying to illuminate your thoughts and feelings with its shine.

Over the course of the conversation, Kabru starts getting a bit confused at his lack of new findings about you. It takes you saying something particularly damning for him to finally reach the dreaded conclusion.

“I don’t usually run into you in places like this.”

Kabru had encountered you one evening after exiting his room and seeing you and a few party members at the bar. It was nothing short of a strike of luck, and most certainly not him deliberately staying home that evening because he’d overheard your plans to go out.

“Hm?” You perked up, looking at him with a blank expression that was quickly replaced with a kind smile. Even trying to look closely, he couldn’t find anything present in your face except for a simple joy.

He would approach you with long strides, placing one hand on the back of your chair as to be friendly and intimate, but not so intimate as to make you recoil from a touch. The wink he gave you was with the eye facing away from the others on the opposite side of the table, ensuring most of them wouldn’t notice his flirtatious gesture.

“Want me to buy you a drink?”

Immediately, you raised one hand in polite refusal, your smile turning into more of a sheepish one. “Oh, I don’t know if I’d be able to pay you back. I wasn’t going to splurge much tonight anyway….”

As you talked, Kabru pulled up a free chair and sat down, a gesture that cemented himself in the conversation and setting. He noticed when he sat down in the middle of conversation, it made people less likely to turn him away than if he were still standing.

“No, no.” when he shook his head, his dark curls did a swishing movement. Once he looked back at you, he gave a half-lidded smile, only a tinge sultry in hopes you’d pick up his hints. “Your company is more than enough payment for me.”

Your party could only stare on with absolute pity as you waved your previously raised hand dismissively, giving what Kabru could only assume was a reassuring nod. Why did you think he needed reassured….? What did you think he meant?

“It’s completely fine, no need to be polite! We’re beyond such niceties at this point, I’d say. After all, I consider us to be at least a little bit friends, right? You don’t need to buy me a drink just to hang out!”

For a brief period, Kabru felt as if his whole world was spinning around him, before then shattering at the unknowing sledgehammer of your words. These statements and mannerisms suggested something far more than just a passive rejection…… no, it was something much darker.

You truly were as dense as a brick wall.

anger

Kabru doesn’t always react….. too calmly when people defy his expectations.

He’s able to keep a smile on his face just fine, but on the inside he’s screaming.

What do you mean there isn’t more? Where’s the scheme? The ulterior motive? The familiar secrets he can unravel and use to his advantage? Is it so bad that he wants there to be more?????

I’ll be honest, the man experiences his fair number of homicidal thoughts about you. In a strangely romantic way!

You’ll be chatting away with him, each remark and flirtation absolutely flying over your head, and inside his mind he’s just going I should gut them right here and sort their bones and vitals by size if they won’t let me dissect them the mental way.

And then seconds later he’ll go haha what was that! Anyway yes tell me more about the cute bird you saw last week.

I think Kabru does a lot of journaling, so he has a fair number of notes about you. Sometimes they’re drawings of you with notes about your appearance and physical mannerisms, other times he writes more free form about his thoughts regarding you. When he gets particularly frustrated, the writing can became scratchy or heavy handed to the point that it’s unreadable or nearly tears the paper.

The silence and solitude of the night was briefly interrupted by Rin rolling over in her sleeping bag. She was just beyond the range of the firelight where Kabru was still writing, and he could only barely see the way she squinted at him through her own tiredness.

“What are you scribbling about so late at night?” The mage would try to start another sentence, but be cut off by a yawn. If she was trying to be intimidating, it certainly wasn’t working. “Go to bed, Kabru, or else you’ll wake up to being sprayed by an undine if I have anything to say about it.”

That was a rather unpleasant thought….. even if the threat wasn’t legitimate, Kabru recognized that he’d probably spent far more time writing than intended. It was embarrassingly easy to get distracted when it came to you….just another thing that irked him about you. Yes…..’irked’. That’s most certainly the word.

“I’ll wrap it up soon, sorry to disturb your sleep, Rin.” With a grumble, the girl rolled back over, leaving Kabru to glance at his notebook for just a brief moment more before closing it. The writing was near illegible, but he still knew the words by heart:

‘I wouldn’t mind if they were scared of me. Maybe, if they sat on the other end of my sword, trembling and wide-eyed like human prey, I’d get to see a truly untouched side of them.’

bargaining

After the shock and rage subsides, Kabru tries to make you realize his feelings through pretty much every method imaginable except for confessing.

It feels like the man always appears at your side, always claiming he ‘happened to be in the area’ or something similar. And you never even question it, infuriatingly for him.

Your party members often tell you that something is up with the guy, that he’s hanging around you a suspicious amount but never being fully transparent, but you’d feel so bad about being suspicious of him when he’s done nothing but inquire about you and even offer gifts on rare occasions!

Kabru isn’t exactly the richest of adventurers, so gifts or treating you isn’t a regular occasion, but it’s certainly something he resorts to as a last ditch effort to try and get you to realize that he’s interested in you romantically.

Once he even tried to offer you a flower, but you still didn’t take the hint.

When you saw the flower in Kabru’s hand that day, your first thought was being so flattered that he remembered your conversation about which ones you both liked.

“Oh, Kabru!” You exclaimed with pure joy, causing the man to become embarrassingly excited that perhaps you had finally noticed the meaning behind all his gestures. Were you finally moved and wowed by his considerate, perfectly planned gift.

Clapping your hands together, you would beam and say, “You liked my favorite flower so much that you wanted to get one for yourself?”

A fly could’ve soared down Kabru’s throat in the time of that pause, but you paid it no mind, instead eagerly awaiting his reply.

The look on Kabru’s face was a completely blank smile, his bright blue eyes seeming to have almost burned out like a pair of oil lamps. Then, as he regained his composure, those lights flickered back on again, albeit wavering slightly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take it yourself? If you like it so much, I’d be happy to let you take it home.” Poor Kabru, he should have learned by now that hints have no effect against the impenetrable fortress that is your cluelessness.

Your grin was the nail in the coffin, letting him know you had something in your head that was absolutely not anything he could anticipate from anyone else. “But why not use it as some decoration? Your party members always talk about how sparse your room is, and it could even remind you of me when I’m away! Here—“

You ushered him closer, a hand now on the small of his back giving him sparks that teetered between pleasurable and painful. The free hand gestured to the plant he held so delicately, pointing out different features like the petals, stem, and so on. “I can even tell you some facts about it; that’ll help you enjoy it that much more deeply whenever you see it! And you’ll remember our conversation!”

The way you could be so resistant to his advances yet so sweet to him could be nothing short of torturous sometimes.

depression

For a while, something fairly rare happens to Kabru: he falls into a slump.

He spends a long time in the dungeon, slashing away at monsters as if it might help him clear his head. His teammates notice that he can get more aggressive in combat than usual, but never really ask him about it.

He also becomes more spacey during mealtimes, and while some peaceful silence is nice, having Kabru of all people be so uncharacteristically quiet for so long.

It comes to the point that something similar to an intervention happens one day after dinner.

“What’s up with you, Kabru?” Mickbell wasn’t one to beat around the bush, immediately starting his line of questioning while looking at his teammate, void of mischief or amusement. “You’ve been all broody and silent all week. Can’t just expect us to not ask about it.”

“What Mickbell said,” Kuro concurred almost immediately after.

The tallman did his best to blink away his tiredness and offer a more confident look that he usually used when trying to rally his team under an idea or calm them down. “I didn’t mean to make you guys worry that much about me. It’s just something I’ve been personally interested in, so it’s not something you guys need to worry about.”

“A personal problem?” Rin cocked a brow. “If I know anything about what interests you, it’s probably a person.”

“Haha, caught me red-handed like always.” He raised his hands in faux surrender, though Rin didn’t seem to be put at ease by the gesture, so he tacked on another statement. “I was surprisingly stumped on what tactics to use when talking to a certain person, it’s really got me thinking.” Averting his gaze to the side, he could almost conjure an image of your grinning face in the corner of his vision. “It’s pretty exciting, though, so I don’t mind.”

“Ugh, I knew it!” The half foot threw his head back in exasperation, causing Kuro to extend one arm behind him in case he fell. “It’s that brick-headed adventurer you’re getting all cozy with, isn’t it?! What, you thinking of starting a new party?”

While Mickbell was busy stomping his foot to punctuate his accusation, Holm merely hummed. The gnome usually stayed pretty impartial to matters like this, but that didn’t mean he could always resist throwing in a comment or two.

“I’d be stumped too if I thought about human interaction like a battlefield.” His tone of voice remained soft, but his words were still quite pointed. “You really have to be upfront about your feelings sometimes, you know that? At least, if Mick’s description can actually be trusted.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?!”

After those two broke down into petty squabbling, Kabru could merely try his best to mask his realization behind a tight-mouthed grin.

Holm was right, and he hated it more than anything.

acceptance

Okay, this is the part where Kabru actually bites the bullet and talks about his feelings. Truly a miracle of life.

Kabru can have a lot of trouble being fully vulnerable due to feeling like he’s losing control, so he does his best to maintain control over the rest of the outing. He arranges the time, location, even makes sure to get there first. It’s the most he can do to not feel completely helpless at the whims of his own fickle heart.

When you arrive, a new wave of nervousness hits him that’s almost like nothing before. Kabru has slain men without a second thought, and here he is resisting the urge to tremble because he has to tell his crush he likes them.

He starts off with small talk, sort of building up to his confession while also beating around the bush just a little. Asking you how you’ve been, if you’ve done anything noteworthy, if you’ve meet any new people…..

Eventually, Kabru decides that if he waits any longer, he may instinctually try to hide his intentions in the long strings of small talk he’s making, so he finally takes that leap.

He said your name, and your eyes flickered up to his face. Even if you were spacey at times, you never stared past him or through him whenever he was addressing you. It made him feel….strange. It was odd to feel truly perceived at times.

“Can I be….. terribly honest with you?” He cards his fingers through his curls and closes his eyes, and you couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly beautiful he looked.

“Of course,” you responded without thinking. Not like you ever needed to think twice about your appreciation for the man. More than that, really.

There was stillness, and all you could hear was Kabru’s deep inhale through his nose. He intended to phrase it more eloquently, he really did, but when he opened his eyes again and saw you waiting on his words with baited breath, there was this instinctive fear that maybe this would be his only chance. That you would walk away or disappear, leaving him with only the memory.

He didn’t want just a memory.

“I want you to know that I love you above all else.”

Your mouth hung agape like his had many times in response to your own remarks. Were it not for how shocked he was at his own words, he would have chuckled at how cute you look.

Before he could even scramble to elaborate on his uncharacteristically blunt comment, you blurted out in a similar fashion, voice slightly raised and head perked up,

“You really feel that way?!”

Faced with your blushing face, Kabru could only affirm the feelings that you promoted from somewhere deep within him. “Yes, I’d been trying to win you over for a long time, really.”

If you were flushed before, then now you were nothing short of flooded with embarrassment from ear to ear. Despite this, you were smiling, wobbly and sheepish. “I mean, it’s not like I’m shocked in a bad way or anything — I always thought you were really wonderful, too wonderful for me anyway. I really never thought you were pursuing me of all people!”

For the longest time, your denseness had given Kabru untold grief. Upon seeing you state it so plainly, however, he just couldn’t find it in his heart to be upset. Not when it was one of the things that made you so fascinating.

“I’d sort of figured as such, yeah.”

[r3starttt]

ACT ONE

PAIRING: Caitlyn x reader

SUMMARY: all scenes where Caitlyn appears in act one but with reader.

CW: mentions of grief. angst. lots of fluff. oral. public sex.

02 | 03

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @nosferatuv

At this point, you may as well live with her. The house has become an echo of silence, too hollow and too heavy for Caitlyn to bear alone. Tobias is a ghost himself, drifting in and out, his presence marked only by the faint clatter of cutlery as he eats in solitude, retreating once more into his room. And Caitlyn is haunted. Haunted by faces and moments that play on a cruel, endless loop. Jinx. Her mother. What she could’ve done. What she should’ve done. Choices to act, to protect, to pull the trigger—all left untouched, unclaimed. The weight of it all presses against her, and the only lifeline she allows herself to reach for is you.

So now, she’s here, curled up beside you on her bed. The room is cold, its stillness mirroring the emptiness that seems to stretch across every corner of this place. Even the outside world mourns. The rain has been unrelenting, a quiet lament that soaks and taps against the windows like a reminder of shared sorrow. You can’t help but wonder if this is the right place for you, if immersing yourself in this sea of grief is the wisest choice. But then you look at her.

Her hands are tucked beneath her cheek, her face serene yet marked by the faint shadow of unrest. Her brows furrow, even in sleep, as if the storm inside her mind refuses to quiet. Gently, you cradle her face, your fingers tracing the soft contours of her jaw, brushing over the faint hollows of her cheeks. Your touch moves upward, combing through the messed strands of her hair. The knots formed from her restless tossing untangle beneath your fingers, and the soothing rhythm of your hands feels like the only lullaby she can bear.

A quiet hum escapes your lips, a melody you don’t think much of but one that seems to work. Slowly, her frown eases, replaced by a soft, almost hesitant smile—a smile she seems to fight, as though afraid it might shatter. It’s been so long since you’ve seen her smile.

“Morning,” she whispers, her voice low and rasping with the weight of sleep. Her hand shifts from under her cheek to find yours, her fingers threading through yours in a tender, grounding gesture.

“Morning,” you murmur in return, your voice soft as you lean closer beneath the cocoon of sheets. You press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, the warmth of her skin against your lips grounding you both. For a moment, the world outside, with its rain and sorrow, fades. For a moment, it’s just her, and that feels like enough.

But you’re not the only one here. Violet has been wandering through the house, a presence so quiet yet heavy, a living reminder of everything that’s fractured. Caitlyn had insisted on letting her stay, her voice stained with a kind of reluctant understanding that pain like this doesn’t belong to just one person. It is shared, diffused, seeping into every corner of the lives it touches. When Caitlyn told you, you said nothing. Not in agreement, nor in protest. You didn’t dare show that you cared.

There was something tender about Violet—the softness in her manner, the raw edge to her grief. She carried herself with a quiet dignity, but her eyes betrayed her: red-rimmed and glassy, too burdened to hold anyone’s gaze for long. From the little you knew, it was clear she had deserved better. Tobias, however, saw none of that. For him, the very sight of her was a wound reopened. His anger sat on the edge of his tongue, unspoken but omnipresent, simmering beneath the surface. He was mad, sad, heartbroken, and everything in between. Having a stranger in his house, a woman whose sister had brought devastation to his family, felt like betrayal in its purest form. Caitlyn's insistence on Violet's presence was a knife to his already shredded heart.

And you? You stayed silent. You sat there, an outsider observing their silent war, pretending not to notice the sharp glances and terse words exchanged when they thought no one was looking. You understood, or at least you told yourself that you did. You saw their pain, raw and jagged, and tried to hold space for it all. But understanding wasn’t enough. Because in truth, you couldn’t bring yourself to place blame—not on Violet, not on Caitlyn, not even on Jinx. It all felt too tangled, too complicated, like a string knotted so tightly that pulling at any thread might unravel the whole thing.

The tension in the house was suffocating, building and breaking in whispers and murmurs that swelled into shouting. You pretended not to hear, ignored the raised voices that crept under doors and through walls. That was their fight, their privacy, and you had no right to disturb it. At least, that’s what you told yourself—until Caitlyn pulled you into it.

She had become more meticulous, more controlling, as if the chaos inside her mind demanded order in the world around her. Every movement, every decision, she dragged you along. It wasn’t just habit or need, it was fear. Fear of herself, of what she might do if left alone. She was terrified of causing more harm, of making one more mistake that might not only hurt but destroy the fragile pieces still holding her together.

The shadows of her guilt loomed large. Jinx had stepped into her shower once. Jinx had taken her mother. The thought of what else Jinx might do—to you, to Tobias, to anyone Caitlyn still dared to love—paralyzed her. And yet, she feared the reflection in the mirror even more.

You could see it in her eyes, the way they darted toward you every few seconds, as if checking that you were still there, still breathing. She had made you her constant, her refuge, her proof that not all was lost. But it came with a cost. Being tethered to someone drowning in their own despair meant you were always at risk of sinking with them. And yet, you stayed. Because Caitlyn needed you. And you needed her too.

"This is all my fault." Caitlyn’s voice was uneven, frayed at the edges, carrying the weight of yet another argument with Violet. Her steps were restless, almost aimless, as she paced into the living room before collapsing onto the couch beside you. The cup of tea she'd abandoned earlier sat cold on the table before her, its surface a quiet testament to her neglect of even the simplest comforts. Her strength seemed spent, reserved solely for crying and, occasionally, your embrace.

The letters scattered across the coffee table mocked her in their neat lines of shallow condolences. Hollow phrases of regret and empty assurances from people who couldn’t begin to fathom the depths of her anguish. You’d taken to opening them in her place, sparing her the cruel repetition of their false sincerity. Tobias had tried to help, his presence a strained and fleeting support, but after the faint echoes of raised voices, he’d muttered an apology and retreated to his room, leaving you alone in the quiet.

"Love… you know it’s not," you said softly, leaning back and reaching for the cup of tea, hoping it might bring her even a shred of comfort. "Did Violet say something? We heard—"

She cut you off, her hand pushing yours down, the motion sharp but lacking the force of true anger. "Stop." The plea, despite its brusqueness, was so fragile.

You fell silent, your gaze locking onto hers. Her eyes, glassy and red, carried an exhaustion that seemed to seep into her very being. You searched for a clue, a flicker of understanding as to what torment had clawed its way back into her mind this time.

"My mother was right," Caitlyn murmured, her voice weak, almost swallowed by the room’s stillness. It cracked under the strain of her sorrow, and your chest tightened at the sight of her—this woman you admired so deeply—reduced to such cruelty toward herself.

"My arrogance led me to take on more than I could handle." Her fists clenched, her knuckles pale as if trying to anchor herself.

You could feel the anger radiating off her, sharp and bitter, not just toward Jinx or Violet, but toward herself. Toward you, even. Toward everything and everyone that had become tangled in this mess. She hated the circumstances that had left her exposed and hollow, hated the gnawing insecurity that whispered she wasn’t enough. And yet, what pained her more was the thought that no one around her—neither Violet nor Tobias nor even you—could be enough for her either. It was a loneliness that festered, a wound that refused to heal.

But then, the room shifted.

A black envelope appeared. It bore no ornamentation save for a symbol pressed into the dark paper. They cared little for the pageantry of their position, choosing instead to let the symbol do the speaking. Unlike the many others envelopes you’ve opened so far, written with the fanciest tones and even decorated.

Caitlyn’s frown deepened as she took it, her expression darkening further as she recognized what it meant.

You handed her the envelope and the badge enclosed within. Her eyes, those piercing blue orbs, scanned the words printed on the letter. With each line, her grip on the badge tightened.

And then, without a word, she stood.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t explain. There was no request, no demand, not even a glance to acknowledge your presence.

You were left behind. Again.

Left alone to the silence of the room, to the scattered letters and the burden of her absence. Caitlyn, as much as she loved you, was taking advantage of your presence, of your devotion. She left you to clean up the pieces, to sift through the meaningless apologies on those envelopes and tidy the remnants of her spiraling grief. She left you to endure the aftermath while she chased whatever closure—or recklessness—her heart demanded.

You gave her space—not the kind that pushed her further into isolation, but just enough to let her breathe, to gather her scattered thoughts. You ate with her father, the meal tinged with a shared hope that hunger might coax her out of hiding. Yet, her absence was a weight neither of you mentioned aloud.

Tobias offered you a small, knowing smile, one that carried the quiet gratitude and understanding only a parent could convey. It was a look you’d seen before, in Cassandra’s gentle glances—their shared acknowledgment of the love and care you held for Caitlyn.

"Look in the garden," Tobias said softly, his voice lined with something between encouragement and resignation.

And you did. The air cool and fragrant with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. The space unfolded before you like a living painting, the greens vivid, the blossoms vibrant in the soft light of the day. The path ahead seemed to glow faintly, a trail of violets guiding your steps like a whisper from nature itself.

“Cait?” you murmured, your voice low as not to disturb the fragile tranquility of the moment. You placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling the slight shiver that ran through her. She didn’t flinch, but her breath quickened, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. You lowered yourself onto the bench beside her. “Everything alright?” you asked, hesitant, the concern in your voice brushing the air between you. You were on the verge of apologizing for intruding when her gaze finally shifted to you.

The relief that washed over her face was almost luminous, softening the sharp lines of her anguish. A small, fragile smile broke through as she reached for your hands, cradling them. Without a word, she leaned into you, her cheek pressing against your shoulder as though finding shelter in your presence.

“Ever since it happened...” she began, her voice a quiet tremor, “three faces keep spinning through my mind.” Her words were slow and deliberate, each syllable heavy with exhaustion, as if speaking them aloud cost her a piece of herself.

“I see Mother—when they found her.” Her voice cracked, and the pause that followed felt like a knife held at your chest. “Every fiber of me just sinks, like a stone swallowed in dark water.” She stopped, her silence thick and oppressive, and you could feel your own heart missing.

“And then there’s Jinx, laughing.” The sound of her sigh was uneven, almost a gasp, as though the memory itself had taken the air from her lungs. “I want to tear that laugh from her throat forever.”

The venom in her voice made you freeze, the raw, unchecked fury a side of her you’d never known. It was a wildfire in her eyes, consuming everything in its path, and it frightened you—not because you feared her, but because you feared what that anger might do to her.

“It’s so easy to hate them...” she whispered, her voice trailing off into the rhythm of the windmill nearby. Its blades turned steadily, the faint creak and groan of wood mingling with the soft rustle of petals caught in the breeze. The air seemed to carry the garden’s sorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest.

You squeezed her hands gently, your thumb tracing slow, soothing patterns across her skin. “And the third one?” She tilted her head back slightly, her eyes finally meeting yours. They were tired, lined with shadows that no amount of rest could erase, yet there was something luminous in their depths—something that spoke of vulnerability and trust.

“You,” she said softly.

The single word hung between you, delicate and profound, as her gaze searched yours for a reaction. Her brows furrowed slightly, the faintest trace of worry in the lines of her face.

She leans into you, her chapped lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes you shiver. The kiss is brief yet lingers in your chest as haunting as it is sweet. When she tilts her head back, her eyes meet yours, and the moment feels suspended, as if time itself has paused to honor the weight of this intimacy. Your skin tingles where her cold fingers trace up your arms, their path slow. They find their way to your neck, her touch a mix of hesitancy and need, before her lips return to yours.

This time, the kiss deepens. There’s a fervent gentleness in her movements, an urgency tempered by care. You respond instinctively, matching the rhythm of her lips. Your breaths interwine, until you pull away just enough to press another kiss to her lips, softer this time, a silent assurance that you are here.

But Caitlyn doesn’t stop. Her mouth finds yours again, her tongue grazing your lips. For a moment, you hesitate. Perhaps it’s the rawness of her emotion, or the vulnerability of being in this open space where anyone might stumble upon you. Maybe it’s the Caitlyn you see now—a woman so familiar yet so distant—that makes you pull back, just slightly.

“Cait...” you whisper, your voice breathless, your eyes searching hers for clarity, for reassurance.

Her response is a smile, a rare one you’ve missed, the one you’ve longed to see for what feels like a lifetime.

And it undoes you.

Your lips find her neck, trailing a line of kisses along her skin, each one a confession of the emotions you can’t put into words. Your hands move instinctively, slipping beneath the fabric of her uniform, seeking the warmth of her thighs. The soft give of her skin beneath your palms.

Her hands rest on the bench, her fingers curling slightly as if anchoring herself to the moment. Her lips part, a soft gasp escaping as your touch deepens. Her breath mingles with the cool air, each exhale carrying a note of longing. She tilts her head back, and her body shifts subtly, her legs parting in silent invitation.

There’s no need for words. Her body speaks for her, a language of trust and desire that you understand without effort. You lean into her. Your lips press on her legs, starting with her knees as you pull her uniform up enough to slide your fingers into the hem of her panties. Her hips adjust, allowing you to pull her underwear down her legs and slid your fingers near her folds. You kiss your way up her inner thighs, never leaving her out of sight. Your thumb rubs small circles around her clit, feeling the wet growing. Caitlyn holds herself in place, letting out quiet whimpers and gasps while fighting for her legs to stay wide open for you.

You slid your hands once again at the sides of her thighs, leaning closer to press small kisses on her clit and down her slit, savoring every inch of her before sliding your tongue up and down, slurping obscenely while moaning against her. "Please..." you begged breathlessly. "Cum for me."

You stand beside her during the speech, her arm looped tightly through yours. Her fingers fidget with yours, nails that expose the restless and uncertain in her with the scars they leave in your skin. Yet, there’s a softness in how she squeezes your hand, as if reminding herself that you’re there. When her mother’s name is mentioned, you feel the slight tremble in her grip, a signal of the tears gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill. You glance at her, catching the sheen of vulnerability in her gaze, and your heart aches to comfort her.

But before you can whisper how you're here for her, the moment shatters. A thunderous boom cleaves through the air, its force rattling your chest. A streak of red light arcs into the sky, burning your view. Screams erupt all around, high-pitched and frantic, mingling with the sound of chaos. The crowd scatters and you freeze, caught in the disarray, until you feel her hand pulling you—urgently, forcefully—dragging you away from the danger.

“Are you alright?” Caitlyn’s voice cuts through the noise, firm yet tinged with worry. Her hands cup your face, her eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you forget the pandemonium for a second. Before you can fully respond, she snatches a rifle from a fallen enforcer. You nod, though your legs feel unsteady beneath you, your mind swirling with fear and confusion.

A red-haired enforcer grabs your arm and ushers you toward the back of the stage, guiding you to the safety of a waiting truck. As you climb into, surrounded by panicked council members, your breath quickens, the fear of something happening to Caitlyn pounding in your chest. It's so loud and so strong you fear it might stop. And it does, when a sharp impact swallows you into darkness.

When you wake, the room feels colder than usual. Caitlyn’s voice breaks through the haze, her words sharp and trembling. “A memorial...” she mutters, her tone teetering between outrage and disbelief. She’s seated at the edge of her bed, you see in her muscles how her back is tight and rigid, her hands balled into fists on her thighs. A nurse exits quietly, leaving you alone-- you almost pray she doesn't.

Her frown is a weight too heavy to watch, her teeth biting hard into her bottom lip, drawing blood. "What kind of animals..." she spits, her voice rising, "All they did is piss me off!"

This side of her is uncharted territory—raw, angry, and terrifying in its intensity. It’s a version of Caitlyn you’ve never seen before, and the sight of it scares you. But still, you move toward her, crawling onto the bed to approach closer.

Her head tilts slightly, leaning into your presence as if drawn by gravity. The fire in her expression falters, replaced by a heartbreaking vulnerability. Her eyebrows tremble, her lips quivering as she fights to contain the sobs threatening to break free. “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses, her voice cracking as her hand rises to cover her face.

She trembles beneath her own emotions, her fingers twitching as her hands drop uselessly into her lap. "She dies and leaves and I’m just supposed to fill this hole like she was never there to begin with." Her words come out in fragments, each one cutting deeper into your heart.

A single tear escapes her, carving a trail down her cheek, and it feels like the final crack in a dam about to burst. Gently, you reach out, your thumb brushing away the tear, your hand trailing down to her chin to lift her gaze to yours. “Hey,” you whisper softly, the word laden with all the comfort you can muster. “We’ll be alright.”

Her eyes meet yours—red and glossy, matching the rawness of her chapped lips. Her exhaustion is etched into every line of her face, the weight of her grief pressing down on her like an unforgiving tide.

“Come here,” you urge, your voice tender yet steady. She hesitates, her hand reaching up to cup yours for a fleeting moment before brushing it away. She wipes at her tears, a futile attempt to hide her vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, her voice faltering. “It’s just...” You silence her with a shake of your head. You understand the walls she’s built, the weight she carries, and you refuse to let her bear it alone.

“It’s all coming apart,” she whispers, her tone fragile, almost defeated.

“No, it isn’t,” you counter, your words firm before cupping her face, your touch grounding her. “We won’t let it.”

The warmth of the fire casts a golden glow across the room, dancing along the walls and casting flickering shadows on the green upholstery of the ornate armchair you occupy. The tea in your hands sends soft tendrils of steam curling into the air, the faint scent of chamomile mingling with the woody aroma of burning logs. The book in your lap lies open, its pages half-read, but your eyes stray to the flames, their hypnotic sway lulling you into a rare moment of stillness.

The sharp crack of the door swinging open shatters the serenity. The sound echoes like a gunshot, startling you enough to spill a few drops of tea onto the small, polished coffee table before you. Your gaze snaps to the doorway, and your breath catches in your throat.

She’s standing there, framed by the doorway. Her face is a canvas of bruises, the darkened hues of purple and red marring the thin curves of her cheeks. Scratches crisscross her skin. Dirt clings to her clothes and streaks her hands. But it’s her eyes that root you to the spot—red-rimmed and glistening.

Her lips are parted, and though no words come out, the tremble in her bottom lip betrays the raging inside her. She’s been crying—you can see it in the rawness of her expression, the puffiness around her eyes—but there’s something more, something primal and consuming in the way she stares at you.

“Are you alright? What happened?” you ask, your voice urgent, almost stumbling over the words as you rise from the couch. The tea and book are abandoned on the table, forgotten in the sudden shift of your world.

She doesn’t answer, at least not with words. Instead, she steps forward, her boots heavy on the floor, carrying the weight of her anguish with every movement. The firelight catches the tears that threaten to fall again, and you notice the subtle wince in her steps, the stiffness in her posture.

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against the dirt-streaked fabric of her sleeve.

“Talk to me,” you urge, your tone softer now, pleading.

For a moment, it seems as though she might speak, her mouth opening slightly, but then it closes again. Instead, her eyes find yours, wide and glassy, searching for something—reassurance, safety, understanding.

The fire continues to crackle behind you, its warmth a stark contrast to the coldness that seems to cling to her. Your hands gently brush against her hair, now tangled and dusted with remnants of the outside world.

"Where’s Violet?" you ask softly, the question laced with unease. The mere thought of losing someone else, of her standing before you so battered and with more grief on her shoulders, sends an icy jolt through your veins.

Her reaction is immediate, sharp—her eyes roll in irritation, her teeth sinking into the flesh of her bottom lip as though she’s trying to chew away the words she doesn’t want to say. She pushes past you, the faint scent of dirt and sweat trailing her as she tosses her gun carelessly onto the nearest surface. The dull thud of metal on wood makes you wince.

"She stopped me," she spits, each word drenched in fury. "I had Jinx—right there—and she stopped me... for a stupid child." Anger ripples through her, but beneath it lies a wound far deeper than she wants to admit.

You don’t interrupt her. You simply stand by the door, watching as she paces, her movements frantic yet constrained, like a caged animal desperate for escape. Her words tumble out in disjointed bursts, a storm of emotion too overwhelming to contain. But even as you listen, the weight of her pain settles over you, a burden you’re all too willing to share if she’d only let you.

Her rambling halts abruptly, the noise of her anguish giving way to a silence that feels almost oppressive. You take a hesitant step forward, your voice calm, steady. “Let me...”

She doesn’t argue, doesn’t resist, and that alone tells you how exhausted she truly is. You guide her gently to her room, allowing her to step into the bathroom.

The shower runs, steam curling into the air as you help her wash away the grime of the day. Her movements are slow, mechanical, but she lets you guide her, her trust in you unspoken yet profound. You don’t rush, letting the water and your careful hands work to soothe her, to strip away the evidence of whatever nightmare she’s just endured.

Later, as you sit behind her, combing through the damp strands of her hair, you feel the tension still clinging to her. Her shoulders are tight, her neck marked with faint bruises that stand out against her pale skin. Your fingers work gently, unraveling knots, both in her hair and, you hope, in her mind.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where her hairline meets her temple. "It’s going to be fine."

She doesn’t say anything, but you catch it—the faintest curl of her lips, a smile so small it’s almost imperceptible. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it’s enough. Only you, it seems, can quiet her fear for a moment.

But perhaps you had been wrong all along. Perhaps it wasn’t only Caitlyn you were trying to convince—it was yourself.

The name, "Caitlyn Kiramman," rings out suddenly, the sound sharp and cutting, turning acrid as it settles in your ears. It twists your stomach into tight, unrelenting knots, your pulse quickening with an instinctive dread.

Your eyes snap to her, wide with disbelief. She’s too far away, standing on that raised platform like a figure in some tragic play. There’s nothing you can do—no hand to grasp, no words to whisper that might reel her back. You can only hope, pray even, that the Caitlyn you know, the one who always looks for you in a crowd as though you’re her anchor, will see you now and find her way.

But she doesn’t.

Her eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments, not with the steady resolve you’ve clung to, but with something unrecognizable—mocking, almost defiant. Her gaze burns.

You see her chest rise and fall, her breath shallow and erratic, her hands twitching at her sides. Her skin glows with an unnatural warmth, a fever born of anxiety and mounting pressure. The ceremonial uniform clings to her, an ill-fitting armor that seems to suffocate rather than protect her. Her face, once serene even under the heaviest burdens, now betrays her unraveling composure.

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, each hushed gasp and whispered word a dagger in your heart. She hears them too. It’s evident in the way her shoulders tense and her brows curve inward, forming lines of worry and doubt. Her nose scrunches as though trying to block out the suffocating air around her. The bruises and scratches you’d helped her hide beneath layers of powder now peek through the flush of her reddened cheeks, revealing a fragility she seems desperate to mask.

Her lips part as though to speak, but no sound comes. Instead, her breaths grow uneven, quickened, fluttering with no escape. She hesitates, falters, her steps unsteady as she moves toward Ambessa.

Your heart plummets.

This wasn’t supposed to happen—not like this. Everyone around you seems to agree, their silent nods and approving glances affirming Caitlyn’s every move.

Everyone but you.

Your throat tightens as you watch her bite the inside of her lip. It’s the kind of detail that would normally endear her to you, but now it feels like a weight pressing against your chest.

And then it happens.

Caitlyn steps to the forefront, her figure illuminated by the dim light of the grand hall. Ambessa looms before her, a towering figure draped in authority and power. The room stills as the older woman steps forward, placing a heavy cape over Caitlyn’s shoulders. The gesture is deliberate, ceremonial, and it feels like the final blow in a battle you’ve already lost.

You watch Ambessa lean in, her voice too low to hear but her lips close enough to Caitlyn’s ear to utter something significant, something that makes Caitlyn’s expression waver for the briefest of moments.

You can’t take it.

Your heart screams at you to intervene, to shout, to do anything but stand there frozen in your disbelief. But your body betrays you.

This cannot be your Caitlyn. The Caitlyn you’ve fought for, bled for, loved beyond reason. The Caitlyn who was supposed to fight for what was right, not be swallowed by it.

But she stands there, and for the first time, you wonder if the Caitlyn you thought you knew is already gone.

[harbours-lighthouse]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐓.𝐈𝐈

— part one

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — Jason Todd x F!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — The argument Jason had with you is sending him spiralling. Will either of you find each other before it's too late? Will this be what spells out your inevitable split, or will you break away from fate and everything that tells you that this won't work?

𝐀/𝐍 — I finished this while still recovering from some pretty harrowing COVID, so I apologise if it feels a little janky. It might not be, but I struggled to view the fic as one whole thing and not tiny little snippets, and that's probably because of my silly light-headedness and sickly brain :)) Anyway, I hope you enjoy <3 (and I hope I tagged everyone lol).

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: none; just hurt/comfort

Jason can’t breathe—he’s sure of it. Each inhale feels like knives piercing through him. You left nearly an hour ago, but it’s his watch strapped on his wrist that tells him that. The clock hanging above the fridge in your kitchen isn’t working anymore—something he should have fixed—and the silver hands are stuck at 9.50 PM.

You walked out of the apartment at 9.48 PM.

Those silver hands glint and he’s sure that the clock knows what it’s doing. What it’s doing to him.

At first, anger swelled inside of him like a tide, reaching past his exhaustion to grab at his senses. He nearly whirled to slam his fist into a wall when you left, but the little voice in his head stopped him. The one that reminded him of you. 

Don’t. You’re not going to be that person. 

That person who hurts. That person who wrecks something precious just to stave off the grief gnawing at him. That person who loses everything by being the worst thing he could possibly be. 

And then that anger dissipated a little like smoke, and something else took its place. It felt like dread, thick and heavy. It clung to him like spidery hands and it still does.

Jason runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingernails catch on the scab at his temple. It makes it all rush back to him—the fact that he’s been gone, and that you’ve left.

He snatches his keys off the little cabinet in the foyer, and the door slams shut behind him like an omen.

Like something final. 

He didn’t bring his bike with him—he’d simply dropped onto your fire escape. If he’d been anyone else, he knows you would have thrown a frying pan at him, but you’d basically been sitting on the couch and watching that damned window like it might lure him back to you. You knew the second there was a flurry of shadow that he was there, and the window had slid open only a few seconds after he knocked on the frosted glass.

But now he really wishes he had brought his bike, because going on foot makes his search for you all the more difficult. Gotham City is large, and he knows you cover ground quickly when you’re not thinking about your destination.

Jason’s chest tightens, like ropes slowly looping around each of his lungs. He knows how cold panic feels, but this is hot—molten. If the ropes don’t stop him from breathing, then it’s the heat of his frustration.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says beneath his breath, like a quiet prayer of desperation. He feels vile for saying it—how can he say it when you’re not here to answer it?

His feet carry him down the narrow steps that lead up to your apartment complex, before turning onto the street. The holes in the asphalt glint with residue rain water, and the chilling wind nips at his skin.

You must be freezing, your cardigan can only do so much. 

Each street is as familiar as the last, but he doesn't know how familiar they are to you. Have you taken the route you normally take to the bus stop? Did you simply keep walking past that tiny sliver of shelter from the weather on Gotham’s icy mornings? Or have you messed with him and taken a completely different path? Are you winding through the city like a clever and scared hare, and he the fox?

He hears a ruckus somewhere to his left, loud voices caught on the wind like paper notes.

He cuts across the street with long strides, puddles of water disturbed abruptly in his wake. The shadows don't scare him—whatever lingers inside alleyways doesn't know what violence is.

But Jason is still afraid because he knows that you're not as familiar with Gotham's cruelty. This city chews people up and spits them back out. This city is nothing but barbed wire and a pulsing heart made of teeth.

And Jason can be just as sharp as the place he grew up in.

“I don’t need your help,” Jason sneers, and he feels like he's said this twice already. The words chaff against him, like they're not as smooth and true as he thinks they are.

He watches the way your fists unclench by your sides, something close to resignation pinching around your face.

“I think you do,” you say too softly.

Jason feels like he might burst into flames, the kind that lick at him as punishment. 

“You don't know what I need,” he grounds out, and he watches you crumble. 

Why had he said those things? You'd been waiting for him for a whole month—Jason knows he hadn't been fair to you for that, but he couldn't find the right thing to say. What does ‘I'm sorry’ do in a situation like this? Begging you to forgive him seems… pointless. All his life he's asked for forgiveness, and never gotten it, even when a ticking time bomb sat next to him. 

Why would you be any different?

But the silence that rang through the apartment after you left felt like a bell echoing in his ears, a sort of chant meant to torture him. Guilt had streaked red and hot through him while he stood there, unable to move, think, or breathe.

Jason couldn't let you go like that, even if his whole body screamed for him to just leave; the fact that you left your apartment for the sake of getting away from him is sitting heavily on his chest, too.

The roar of a car cuts through the noise in his head, and Jason makes his way to the crossroad ahead of him. Headlights glare through the dark haze of the night, splitting beams across the asphalt. Engines prattle while the city and guilt gnaws at him. He hears the rhythmic chirping of the crosswalk button, and squints up at the little walking man— 

—it’s red. 

That colour is everything inside Jason. A pulsing shade that burns through him like a fever. All you’d ever done was try to soothe that burn, and the one time that you try to soothe your own, he lashes out. His throat tightens painfully. 

You’re everything to Jason, and you’re alone. He let you leave. 

What sort of a man does that? 

What sort of lover does that?

Jason’s eyes flit across every moving object, hoping to see you—maybe you’d step out of one of the corner stores, hair lit up by the sickly-green glow spilling from the windows. Or maybe you’d come to a stop by the curb, and he’d run to you—that’s what he should have done in the first place. 

Instead all he can see are flashes of white as cars zip by him or stand still at the intersections. Red tail-lights gleam like eyes and there’s so much noise. It fills the entire street, fills his head, and all Jason can see when he blinks is your face crumbling with regret and hurt. 

The hurt he buried inside of you when he didn’t send word for a whole month.

The regret he caused when you realised you couldn’t say anything that mattered. 

What is wrong with him?

In the corner of his eye, Jason catches movement—and his heart stops. 

It’s you, and you’ve just slipped out of a phone booth.

Jason inhales and it’s sharp, piercing through him. He watches as you grip your hair, fists shaking. You look so lost and Jason’s moving before he can think. A car horn blasts at him, but the noise is lost in the rapid pulsing of blood in his ears. He can feel the wind clawing at him, but even its cold fingers can’t steal away the heat beneath his skin—hot shame and guilt, it builds while the air in his lungs becomes stuck. 

“Sweetheart!” Jason calls without thinking, and his voice catches on the word. 

You spin, eyes wide—everything is spinning, but Jason stands as still as a statue in your vision. Had he known how desperate you were to go back to him? Was this why he didn’t answer the landline at the apartment?

You watch with your mouth dry as Jason comes to a stop in front of you, several paces away. You hate that distance—when did you get so distant?

“Jason,” you utter quietly, and if Jason hadn’t watched your lips form to say that single word, he wouldn’t have caught it at all. 

“I’m… so sorry,” Jason says heavily, and your heart squeezes as if a hand had been shoved through your chest and grabbed the beating muscle. 

You know how difficult it is for him to say that—mostly because he doesn’t ever believe that you’ll forgive him. All you’ve ever done is forgive him. How can he not see that? 

Tears burn the back of your eyes, and you blink rapidly. Cars leave behind the rush of air and sound, surrounding the two of you like beams of metal and light. Gotham watches the two of you like a cruel mother, and you feel your stomach bunch with nerves. 

“I—” you swallow thickly, “I called the apartment… thought you might still be there.”

Jason blinks, eyes combing across your face while his shoulders sag with the weight of that knowledge. 

“I wasn’t there, I’d left already.” 

“So you came looking for me?” 

Jason feels like hands are grabbing at his ribcage and splitting it open. He’s afraid that when he speaks again, everything he feels might spill out from his mouth—I love you I love you I love you I love you! 

“Yeah,” he settles with. “I should have—I should have gone looking for you sooner.” 

“You should have come home sooner,” you say. 

Jason nods, his jaw tightening while his throat throbs. He hasn’t felt this desperate in a long time.

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he murmurs, “I know you needed me, and I wasn’t…”

He can’t finish the sentence: I wasn’t there. 

You close your eyes while the burn becomes overwhelming, the first few tears falling like thin, silver ribbons. You never want to cry when there’s something hot and angry settled in your chest, but maybe you’re not really angry. Maybe you’re just tired and terribly in love.

“I forgive you, Jason,” you cry softly, and Jason’s body aches—as if the weight of your sorrow were breaking down his muscles, slowly eating away at his nerves.

Maybe you’d both been distant, but that never meant you had abandoned his soul. He is still irrevocably connected to you, so tightly that if you didn’t have physical forms, he’s sure the both of you would have merged into one single thing. 

He doesn’t know what that looks like, but Jason knows that it’s all that he wants.

Jason moves, almost senselessly, and his hands reach for you. They hover, not quite touching, and you open your eyes to find his outstretched hands. You don’t think or wait or pull away. His skin feels warm when you slip your fingers between his, intertwining your hands like a woven tapestry of calluses and scars. 

And forgiveness. 

“I’m sorry for leaving,” you say, voice thick with tears. 

Jason shakes his head instantly. “No, don’t—” 

He brings you closer, pulling you into him. Gunpowder and leather overwhelm your senses and you want to drown in it. You latch onto him like he might slip through your fingers—like he might be gone if you blink once, twice. 

You breathe him in and feel his chest shudder beneath your cheek.

“I’m not going to do that again,” Jason whispers brokenly, and his lips press against your scalp. “I won’t keep you waiting like that—I’m sorry that I did.”

You feel the ache in your chest slowly ease, though it doesn’t leave fully. 

“And,” he chokes around the dryness in his throat, “I’m sorry for all the things I said. I… I do need your help—more than I think I do. And you know me better than anyone else—I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that.”

You can hear the regret inside of him. It pulses like a heartbeat, and you want to soothe it. Blow it away like smoke. 

“It’s okay, Jason. I promise that it’s okay.”

Jason’s warm hands tighten around you, shielding you away from the rest of Gotham. 

“I love you,” Jason says, and there’s no hesitancy lingering behind the words. 

No shame.

No regret. 

No guilt. 

You want to cry even harder, but instead a lightness fills you, breathing air back into your lungs. Pure air, not the kind Gotham offers. Just the kind that Jason brings. 

“I love you too,” you reply softly.

The cars don’t slow, even when you feel like they should.

*** 

Luigi’s Pizza Place simmers with heat and spices, melted cheese and crispy bacon. Jason stands beside you with his hand firmly wrapped around yours. Both of you stare up at the menu, even though you both know the prices by heart. 

“We could get a hawaiian,” you say, and you hear Jason’s long exhale. 

“Sweetheart… we’ve talked about this.” 

“I will not hear any hawaiian pizza slander, Todd.” 

“It’s fruit on pizza—” 

“Invalid argument.”

Jason scoffs as you both shuffle along with the rest of the queue. 

“How is that an invalid argument?” 

You idly watch the staff flitter behind the counter. “Olives are a fruit, but no one complains about that.” 

“That’s… different,” Jason sighs. 

“How so?” 

“Because it’s still savoury.” 

“So? We put BBQ sauce on a bunch of pizzas and that’s sweet too. What’s wrong with pineapple being sweet?” 

“Baby,” there’s a laugh stuck in Jason’s words. “I don’t think that works the same way.” 

“Whatever—also, why is it that there’s more hate for hawaiian pizza than there is for those weird gummy pizzas?” 

Jason tugs you closer to him as a group of teenagers enter the place, loud voices bouncing inside the heated shop. 

“That I will agree with—that stuff's disgusting,” Jason mutters, and you squeeze his hand. 

“That’s probably better than any apology you’ve ever given me.”

A kiss is firmly planted against your temple.

“Minx,” Jason mumbles, and you smile wider than you have in a long time.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

tags: @kitkatlover015 @batslilwhore @freythecrazyfae @soulsforsales @joinmeforadoublesuicide @sweetistic @zephrnyx @twismare

© harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

[rose24207]

The Triangle’s Mercy

Summary: You defy the rules of life and death, sparing Player 333 on the field and pulling your gun on another player in the dormitory, leaving him questioning why a guard would protect him.

Player 333 x guard!reader

A/N: let me know if you want more of that! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

You stood in the sniper station high above the field, peering down through a small window as the players shuffled into position. It was your assigned post for the first game, Red Light, Green Light. From here, you had a perfect view of every player.

Your job was simple: if the doll detected movement, you would receive the player number through your earpiece. Once detected, you would pull the trigger without hesitation. That was the rule. No exceptions.

The field was eerily silent except for the nervous murmurs of the 456 contestants. Among them, your eyes caught Player 333, Myung-gi.

He looked calm but his hands were shaking, his feet barely steady beneath him. There was nothing special about him—just another face among the desperate masses. But something about the way he clung to hope, even in the face of calmness, struck a chord in you.

A beep drew out to signal the start of the game.

“Mugunghwa kkochi piotsseumnida.”

You held your breath. The field froze.

Your earpiece buzzed.

“Player 117. Movement detected.”

Your scope locked onto the target. A man in his mid-thirties stood near the back, his left foot trembling slightly as he struggled to balance.

Your gaze was sharp as you fired.

The crack of your rifle echoed across the field. The man fell instantly, a crimson stain spreading across his chest.

The song resumed, and the doll’s head swiveled back toward the trees. The remaining contestants hesitated, glancing at the fallen man, before cautiously moving forward again.

“Player 335 Movement detected.”

Another shot, another body collapsed. The doll’s sensors worked quickly, and you kept up with the pace, eliminating each target as the system flagged them.

The ground was slowly littered with bodies, some still, others leaking trails of red into the dirt.

Then came the voice of Player 456, shouting above the chaos

“Everybody, stop moving! Just freeze!”

His instructions spread like wildfire. The remaining players obeyed, standing still like statues. The field grew eerily quiet again.

You scanned the group for anyone who moved. You listened for instructions but none came.

As the game continued, your earpiece buzzed again.

“Player 333. Movement detected.”

You froze.

The scope of your rifle shifted automatically, locking onto Player 333. The young man, trembling violently, stood in the middle of the field. He had stumbled slightly, his foot dragging across the dirt. His face was pale, his lips quivering as if he was seconds from screaming.

He knew he moved.

You placed your finger on the trigger.

But something made you pause.

You were supposed to shoot.

But you didn’t.

Something inside you stopped you. Maybe it was the terror on his face or the way his chest heaved as he realized his mistake. Whatever it was, you couldn’t pull the trigger.

The doll’s scanners shifted, the moment passed, and Myung-gi froze again, acknowledging the fact to how close he had come to death.

He wasn’t the only one confused. Far below, Player 230, Thanos, watched him. His sharp eyes narrowed as he realized what had just happened: Myung-gi had moved, but he was still alive.

The game ended with a beep of the clock. The surviving players were herded back to the dormitory, their faces pale with shock. Bodies were dragged from the field, their screams and cries of mercy now replaced with an eerie silence.

The players sat or stood near the rows of towering bunk beds, their expressions a mix of fear, anger, and grief. You were stationed by the door, your rifle slung over your shoulder. The cold metal walls of the room seemed to amplify every whisper, every muffled sob.

But your focus remained on Player 333.

He sat on a lower bunk, staring at his hands. Across from him, Thanos approached, his face dark with suspicion.

“You,” Thanos exclaimed, crouching down to meet Myung-gi’s eye level. “You moved during the game. I saw it. Why aren’t you dead?”

Myung-gi blinked, startled. “What? No, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Thanos growled, grabbing his collar. “The guards shot everyone else. Why not you?”

“I don’t know!” Myung-gi snapped, his voice shaky. “Maybe I didn’t move as much as you think—”

Thanos slammed him against the bed frame, rattling the metal bars. “You’re lying! You’re cheating somehow!”

The commotion drew the attention of nearby players, who watched nervously but kept their distance. You descended from your position by the doors, rifle in hand, and approached them.

“Break it up,” you ordered, your voice cold and sharp through the modulator.

Thanos looked up at you, his grip still on Myung-gi. “This one’s a fraud! He’s—”

“I said, break it up.”

Your rifle shifted, the barrel pointing directly at Thanos. The gesture was subtle but enough to make him freeze. Slowly, he released Myung-gi, his hands raising in surrender.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Thanos muttered, backing away cautiously.

Myung-gi remained pressed against the bed frame, his breathing heavy as he watched the exchange. His gaze flickered between you and Thanos, confusion evident in his expression.

Why had you intervened? Why was a guard protecting him?

You didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, you took a step closer to Thanos, your rifle still aimed at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Thanos nodded quickly, retreating into the crowd of players. The tension dissolved as he disappeared, leaving you and Myung-gi alone.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, hesitantly, Myung-gi asked, “Why… why did you do that?”

You stared at him through the mask, your heart pounding. You couldn’t answer, not without revealing too much. Instead, you simply turned and walked away, your boots echoing against the cold, metal floor.

Myung-gi watched you go, still confused but alive. And that was enough for now.

Thank you for reading!

[faramirsonofgondor]

This is a small idea, but what if Bruce used to use Dick’s birthday as the password for a ton of encrypted files on the Batcomputer, and one of the first times he came home after he was kicked out, he went to log in to retrieve information and it was no longer valid? So he has to ask Alfred what the new password is, and it turns out it was changed to Jason’s. Such a small gesture, but it cements how solidly Bruce wants him out of his life. So much that he’d go through the trouble of updating nearly a decade’s worth of encrypted files for a new password that frankly isn’t any safer.

Over the years, as new people come, different birthdays are used depending on the era. Tim’s, Cass’s, Damian’s, and even Steph’s are used a few times during either their first months in the house or their Robin runs respectively. But Dick never has his used ever again. Maybe it’s intentional, maybe it’s not.

It’s one of those things that’s so small it feels ridiculous to even mention, but he still silently feels hurt about it whenever he thinks about it. He never brings it up.

OUCHHHHHH YOU’RE GONNA MAKE ME CRYYYYYYYY.

Ok ok so one small adjustment to this - I don’t feel like Bruce would use anyone’s birthday’s (at first, at least) because that would be too easy to figure out, so what if he uses either the date he got Dick, or the date that Dick first went out as Robin?

And the thing is - Bruce doesn’t even change it to hurt Dick or because he doesn’t want him in his life, really. It’s just that Dick made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with Bruce, that he was independent now, and that he was doing just fine. Plus, Bruce wanted to do something to show his new kid that he trusted him, that he cared about him.

But deep down Dick is struggling, and he does need Bruce even if he doesn’t want to. He just wants proof that Bruce cares about him. But Bruce never really seems to understand that, which is why it hurts so much when he realizes that Bruce changed the password. It seemed like Bruce was trying to erase every reminder of him and replace it with something newer, something better.

Over time Dick comes to accept that maybe Bruce just cares about Jason more than he cares about Dick. Dick tries to get over and be a good older brother, but there’s always a small voice in the back of his head telling him that one day Jason will replace him too. That everyone will replace him eventually.

Then Jason dies - and Dick doesn’t find out until after the funeral. The grief stings more than Bruce’s fist ever could. He doesn’t go back to the cave until months later, once Tim has become Robin. He tries the old code at first, uncertain if Bruce would change it or not. Something horrid twisted in him when it didn’t work, so he tried the dates for Tim instead - but those didn’t work either. Fear, anger, and hope twinged inside him as he entered the date for his time as Robin. It didn’t work either. He tried about ten other dates that he remembered off the top of his head, but nothing seemed to work.

It was with shaky, hesitant hands, that Dick entered in the date Jason died - the day Dick had lost his brother and Bruce his (only?) son. He wanted to scream when the code worked, but he said nothing instead. Once he got the information he needed, he left without a word and didn’t return for weeks.

It wasn’t until Tim’s father had died that the codes changed again. Then, they started changing with each new arrival of the family. Then they would change more and more at seemingly random intervals. Some of the dates would be connected to Tim - the day he became Robin, the day he quit being Robin, the day he became Robin again, and others were connected to other members of the family - Damian’s birthday, the day Cass joined the family, the day Steph had “died”. Hell, sometimes the passwords were dates connected to Alfred, Clark, and Diana.

But most of the time, the date was usually related to Jason in some capacity - the day he and Bruce met, the day Jason became Robin, the day he was (supposedly) resurrected, the day the first report of Red Hood was made, the day Batman first encountered Red Hood, the day Jason attacked Tim, the day Bruce found out that Red Hood was Jason, the day Jason rejoined the family. Not once was the password connected to Dick. Dick didn’t know what it meant - it had to mean something, didn’t it? That Bruce remembered the dates for so many things, for so many people, and used them as protection for his files, but he couldn’t be bothered to input any date regarding Dick?

Then, when Dick comes back from Spyral, the password has changed again. He tries the date he left, the date he “died”, hoping that maybe it was significant enough to use. It wasn’t. The new password was Jason’s birthday. Dick had been tortured, killed, revived, beat by his mentor, forced to go on an undercover mission, and had to pull himself out of said mission with no backup or help, and in all that time, he hadn’t cried much. But now? Now the computer blurs in his vision, and he can’t help the sob that bursts free. He doesn’t understand why Bruce doesn’t care. He doesnt understand why he’s not enough. He’s not sure he ever will.

Dick kept his own set of files with a separate encryption code and storage from Bruce’s. Bruce had encouraged him to do so when he first became Robin, and besides helping him set it up, Bruce hadn’t touched the files or even tried to gain access to them. Dick never changed the password once, though he’d considered briefly when Bruce had been lost in the time stream. His thumb hovers over his phone anxiously, wondering if he should change it now. He doesn’t, and instead types in the familiar numbers - Bruce’s birthday - and adds the newest information into the files.

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (58/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Nothing in your life has ever felt like this - thank God you have friends to help you through it.

Warnings: heavy on the angst, heartbreak, Kika and Lando are actually the best

Word Count: 4.1k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: the end of deal from our girlie pov. hope you like it. feedback is appreciated!

You’re still standing there. Not moving. Not breathing. Not quite believing. 

The sound of the crowd fades into a dull throb, like your ears have been packed with cotton, or maybe even grief. Your fingers tighten around the camera, the strap biting into your palm, grounding you in the only thing that’s ever made sense – your work. 

Because he doesn’t make sense. Not now. Not like this. 

You don’t understand what you’re looking at – Charles beside her, too close, too familiar, too different. Not the man who whispered I love you against your skin a few hours ago. Not the man who held you like he was afraid to let go. Not the man who kissed you like it might be the last time. 

No, this man in front of you knows exactly where the cameras are. 

And he’s standing exactly where they want him. 

You swallow, the lump in your throat thick and rising. You want to blink and have it make sense. You want to rewind time. You want to ask, but there’s no space fort hat here. Not behind the rope – and definitely not behind the mask he’s wearing like it was always been part of the suit. 

A photographer next to you leans in and murmurs something to you that sounds like a „they make a good pair, huh“, but your blood rushes into your ears, almost making you deaf to all the noise around you. 

Your breath is locked somewhere between your lungs and your throat. You don’t look at the photographer next to you. You can’t, because if you do, the cracks might show. And once they do, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold everything together. Not tonight. Not in front of all these eyes. 

So you keep facing forward, still as a statue. A beautiful, tragic one. 

He’s still standing there, laughing at something Elena just said, hand resting at the small of her back like it belongs there. Like it’s supposed to be there. And like it didn’t caress your body just hours ago. 

You blink hard, once, just to keep yourself here, to stay upright. To stay somewhat sane. 

You remind yourself that you’re not the show, not the question they’ll ask later. You’re the one who’s supposed to watch and take photos, not feel. But your heart doesn’t care about roles. And as the flashes go off again – brighter, louder, endless – one thought slips through, impossible to silence. 

He knew what would happen tonight when he made love to you in the afternoon. He knew he’d be standing there on the red carpet, on the other side oft he rope, with someone that’s not you. 

And maybe that’s the cruelest part. He knew how much it would kill you inside. 

And he did it anyway. 

He held you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing. Kissed you like nothing else mattered. Looked at you like he couldn’t bear to look away and miss a second of your beauty. 

But he left. Not in the room. Not with words. In this moment. On this carpet. With this choice. 

You stand there, surrounded by glittering gowns and thousand-dollar lenses, and realize you’ve never felt more invisible. No one sees the girl behind the rope clutching her camera like it’s the only thing holding her together. No one notices the way your chest trembles with every breath you take. 

They’re too busy watching them. Too busy capturing them. 

You want to scream, to rip off this stupid red dress, this night, this version of you that thought love meant being chosen even when no one is watching. Your chest burns, but not from anger – but from the ache of knowing. From the betrayal that doesn’t shout – it settles. Quiet. Heavy. Like wet silk clinging to your ribs. 

Your gaze finds his like a wound finds the blade. Unavoidable. Precise. Final. 

It’s not even a long look – barely a second, maybe less. But it’s enough. Enough to undo you. Because in his eyes, there’s no shock, no apology. No guilt. 

Just something quieter. Something worse. Acceptance. 

Like he always knew it would come to this. Like he’s already made peace with the version of the story where you’re left behind the velvet rope, and he’s smiling with someone else next to him. 

And that’s what undoes you. Not the kiss between them that didn’t happen. Not the questions shouted by strangers. Not even her hand on his chest like it belongs there. It’s the way he doesn’t fight it. 

The way he doesn’t fight for you. 

No flicker of hesitation. No step forward. No whispered excuse to slip away and find you. Just stillness – calculated, composed. The Charles they all want to see. The one who knows exactly how to perform without flincing. 

And maybe that’s what this was all along. A performance. 

Not the love – no, that was real. You know it was. 

But this ending. This deafening silence. This cold unraveling dressed up in velvet and flashbulbs. It was written long before you stepped into this beautiful dress. 

Your heart clenches, tasting copper in your throat from holding everthing in. 

Because he didn’t just let you go. He let the world believe you were never his to begin with. As he turns back toward tot he cameras, hand still resting on her waist, you realize something no flash will ever catch – he didn’t lose you tonight. He gave you up. 

You lift the camera, looking through the lense one more time, because it’s the only way you know how to survive this. Through glass. Through distance. Through detachment. 

And just before you press the shutter, you whisper the quiet truth that he’ll never hear over the roar of everything he chose instead. 

I would’ve stood beside you. Not when the lights were on. 

But in the dark, too. 

- 

You don’t remember how you left. 

One moment you’re standing behind the rope, blinking through flashbulbs and heartbreak. The next, you were walking – no, moving – through the crown, cutting across the marble oft he entrance hall like your body had already decided before your mind caught up. 

The car came quickly. You don’t remember calling it. 

Your fingers were shaking when you opened the door to the hotel room. Maybe someone held it for you. Maybe the driver said something gentle. But none of it mattered. Not after that look. Not after the hand on her waist. Not after the quiet letting go. 

You toss your camera bag on the counter, your chest burning like you’ve just run a marathon through glass. Your phone buzzes where it’s been clenched in your hand the entire time – lifeline, anchor, curse all at once. 

Lando: Have fun tonight. You deserve it. sent an hour ago

You swallow. He must’ve seen the stories, the buildup, the PR sparkle. Everyone did. Everyone will. 

And then – buzz. Again. Another message. This one is newer. Five minutes ago. 

Lando: Check your email. Flight home in 2 hours. Don’t stay there. 

You freeze. 

Not because it’s unexpected – but because that’s what Lando does. 

He pays attention – quietly, instinctively, like a person who’s memorized the way you disappear when you’re hurting. He never asks for explanations first. He just moves. Acts. Makes space before you even admit you need it. 

You stare at the message, thumb hovering, but you don’t respond. You can’t. Not yet. 

Instead, you open your email. And there it is – confirmation number, departure time, seat by the window. One nag checked. One carry-on. His signature, even in silence, is everywhere. Clean. Fast. Done. 

A lump rises in your throat. Not like before – not the thick, suffocating ache that came from watching Charles turn away from you. 

This is different. This is the ache of being seen. 

You get up, pull your suitcase from the corner. The red dress is still on you – you don’t have the nerve to take it off. You don’t even try. The thought of peeling it off – of undoing the night thread by thread – feels impossible. Like if you take it off now, you’ll unravel with it. So you leave it on. 

You drag your suitcase to the door, half-packed from before. You throw in what’s left on the counter - your charger, your brush, your camera, heavy with untouched shots you can’t bear to look at yet.

The zipper sticks, and you yank it harder than you mean to. It jerks closed, teeth catching fabric, like it knows how much of you you’re trying to shut away.

You pull your hair back with a trembling hand. Check your phone. Just enough time. 

You take one last look around the room, at everything you were supposed tob e part of tonight – the bathrobe you wanted to wear after the gala, the champagne bottle on the sideboard, the silence that swallows you whole. 

And then you’re out the door. Through the lobby, where someone in a suit nods at you, but doesn’t recognize the storm nehind your eyes. Past the marble that gleams like a lie. Into the waiting car, where your fingers curl around your phone again. 

Still no reply typed out. Still no words. 

But your sceen is lit. Lando’s name still there. Holding space. 

The drvier asks your destination and you give it quietly, voice tight in your throat like the words are afraid to come out. 

The city glides past the window in blurs of golden light and wet pavement, all cobblestones and hard winter shadows. It feels like a place you need to escape from before it swallows what’s left of you. 

You lean your head against the glass. It’s cold. Grounding. Real. 

And Lando’s name glows again. 

Still no message. Just – presence. Just him, in the only way he can be right now. 

You finally type something. Your thumbs hesitate, rewrite. Then you settle on just:

You: On my way

You hit sent. No punctuation. No explanation. But maybe that’s all it needs to be. You don’t know what’s waiting for you on the other side of this flight – answers, comfort, silence- But you know one thing – it’s not this. 

Not the ache in your chest that started the moment Charles let go of your hand. Not the way you still feel his eyes on you like a ghost refusing to leave.

You shift slightly, the red fabric riding up your thigh as the car turns sharply, nearing the airport lights. You’re still wearing the dress. Still wearing the mistake. But you’re not wearing the lie anymore.

When you step out, the wind bites through the silk and your bones all at once. But you pull your coat tighter and walk forward anyway.

You don’t look back. Not once.

-

The door clicks open with the same sound it always makes—familiar, soft, harmless. But nothing about this moment feels familiar anymore.

You step inside the apartment on quiet feet, the red dress clinging to your skin like it knows it doesn’t belong here. Your suitcase rolls behind you, wheels catching on the edge of the rug you once picked out together.

The lights are low. The kind of low that says someone’s waiting.

And she is.

Kika’s sitting at the kitchen island, feet tucked beneath her, a mug in her hands. She looks up the second the door shuts behind you. No smile. No words. Just those soft brown eyes, already full of something thick and knowing.

She stands. Crosses the room in two strides.

You try to stay composed. You try to make it to the bedroom. You try to be okay for just one more second.

Your breath catches. Snags. Like there’s no air in the room, like the walls are shrinking.

You take one shaky step toward the hallway - toward the bedroom, toward anything that isn’t this - but your knees buckle before you get there. A soft gasp escapes your lips, and your hand hits the wall for balance, but it’s no use. The weight in your chest is too much.

The red dress suddenly feels like it’s suffocating you.

Your fingers scramble for the zipper at your side, but it won’t move. The fabric is too tight, too unforgiving, clinging to your ribs like punishment. Like it knows what you wore it for. Like it’s mocking you.

“Get it off“, you choke, breath hitching as panic builds. “I can’t - Kika, I can’t breathe -”

She’s there in an instant, her hands gentle but swift, helping you out of the dress as you claw at it, nails dragging against silk, desperation rising like a tide. The zipper gives. The sleeves slip from your shoulders. You step out of it with a sob so guttural it doesn’t sound like it came from you.

Then you're in your underwear, knees hitting the floor, dress puddled in a heap of red around your ankles like something dead.

And you cry.

Big, broken cries that shake your whole body. You curl in on yourself, arms around your stomach, as if holding yourself tightly enough might keep you from falling apart even more.

Kika drops to the floor beside you with a blanket, wrapping it and her arms around your trembling frame. Not saying anything. Not needing to.

You bury your face in her shoulder and scream into her skin.

You scream for the silence. You scream for the velvet rope. You scream for the moment he let go.

And when your voice breaks, your body stills. Your breaths come in jagged, shallow gulps. But your arms finally release the tight grip around your waist, and instead, you reach for her.

You let yourself be held. She holds you through it. Through the noise, through the collapse. Through the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t fit into words. Her arms around you are steady, unflinching. She doesn’t hush you. Doesn’t tell you to breathe. She just lets you fall apart.

The blanket is soft, but it’s her presence that keeps you from vanishing. You cling to her, your fingers curled into the fabric at her back, your sobs stuttering out until you’re left gasping. Hiccuping. Quietly unraveling.

“I - I thought I was enough", you whisper, voice shredded. “I really did.”

She presses her chin to the top of your head, like anchoring you there.

“You are", Kika says, the first words she’s spoken since you fell through the door. “You still are.”

The silence after is thick. But it’s not empty - it’s full of her holding space for everything you can’t say yet.

You feel the aftershocks still moving through you, your chest aching, your cheeks wet, the red dress discarded like a ghost at your feet. You close your eyes, pressed against her, and for one suspended moment, you let yourself exist inside the wreckage.

No pretending. No strength. No answers.

Just this brutal, necessary truth: It hurts. God, it hurts.

-

The door creaks open as your hip bumps against it, a cardboard box balanced in your arms, the word “fragile” scribbled in rushed black marker across the top. The hallway smells like sawdust and fresh beginnings. You step inside, the soles of your shoes brushing over the hardwood, and pause for a second.

New.

The word settles into your chest.

Then shuffling, coming from the kitchen. A thud. A muffled curse.

“Careful with those!”, you call out, voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

A head pops around the corner - brown curls a little messy, cheeks flushed from effort. “I was careful", Lando says, lifting a hand in mock surrender. “The cabinet, however, was not.”

You let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. Almost. But it’s tight in your throat.

He walks toward you, taking the box from your arms before you can protest. “I told you I’d get the heavy ones.”

“You also told me you wouldn’t unpack the kitchen without me.”

Lando grins, that familiar one that pulls a little crooked. “Technically, I’m not unpacking. I’m just making room for pizza later.”

You glance around the apartment. Boxes still stacked in corners. Curtains still waiting in a heap on the couch. No photos on the walls. No memories yet. Just clean slate.

He watches you take it in, the shift in your expression - softening, hardening, breaking a little.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you walk slowly toward the middle of the room, where sunlight is pouring through the window in long golden lines. You turn in a slow circle, then stop and close your eyes for a breath.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Lando doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He never does. He just lets it stretch, like a place to land.

When you open your eyes, he’s still standing there, box at his feet, hands in his pockets. Not pushing. Not pretending. Just present.

And somehow, that’s what makes your chest crack open again - not in the way it did on the red carpet, or in the hotel, or on the plane. But in a way that feels like possibility. Like maybe not all endings are meant to stay endings.

Lando lifts one eyebrow. “Pizza now, or after the breakdown?”

You huff out a laugh through your nose. “Can’t I have both?”

He smirks. “You’ve got great taste in pain and carbs.”

You nod, stepping past him to grab another box. “You’ve got terrible taste in mugs.”

Lando gasps in mock offense, clutching at his chest like you’d just insulted his firstborn. “My mugs are iconic.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “One of them says ‘Don’t talk to me until I’ve crashed my third sim race of the day.’”

“That one’s a collector’s item", he fires back, following you into the kitchen. “Also, pizza’s already ordered. Should be here in -” he checks his phone, “- eleven minutes. You’re welcome.”

You slide the box onto the counter with a quiet smile. “Thanks, Lando.”

“For the pizza or the mug debate?”

“For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but the grin fades into something softer. He just nods and starts peeling tape off another box.

Eleven minutes later, like magic or divine mercy, there’s a knock on the door and the smell of hot, melted cheese fills the apartment. You sit cross-legged on the floor, paper plates balanced on a moving box, steam curling from slices as you both dig in like you haven’t eaten in days.

“You’re gonna love this new job,” Lando says around a mouthful of crust. He wipes his mouth and grins, waving his pizza slice like a banner. “It’s not the usual trackside chaos. It’s at McLaren HQ - behind the scenes, away from all the cameras and the noise. They want you there to bring back the spark, to capture the soul of the company. Not just the drivers, but the people who make it all happen.”

You swallow a bite, surprised. “So no flashing lights, no red carpets?”

“Exactly. Just you, your camera, and a whole lot of stories that nobody else notices. The engineers, the designers, the late-night brainstorming sessions. That’s where the heart is, and they want someone who can see that.”

You pause, imagining a quieter space - less glitz, less pressure, more real. “Sounds peaceful.”

Lando nods. “Peaceful, but important. They’ve been losing that energy, that connection. You’re the one to bring it back. Make McLaren feel alive again through your lens.”

You let that settle, the weight of possibility sinking in. Away from the glare, away from the expectations. A chance to start fresh.

Lando grins wider. “And trust me, no one’s going to ask you to smile for the cameras or pretend to be someone else.” He sets his plate down and leans back on his hands. “Look, maybe it won’t be easy. Not right away. But it’s yours. Not his. Not anyone else’s. Just yours. You get to build this one without being someone’s plus-one.”

His words settle deep, anchoring in a place that’s been drifting since Modena. You nod slowly, suddenly aware of how quiet the city feels outside your new windows. No red carpets. No velvet ropes. No flashbulbs. Just the sound of new walls breathing in their first night with you.

You reach for another slice and glance at him. “You’re staying tonight, right?”

He smirks, leaning back against the wall. “I’m not letting you sleep on the floor alone. I’ve already claimed the least lumpy pillow.”

You smile weakly, but your mind drifts. Woking - this new apartment, this new life - it feels so far from Monaco. From the place that had been home for the last few months. The last month you’d known Charles. The city where everything felt alive and tangled with promises that now feel broken.

It hits you then, how distant that world already feels. Like a fading photograph tucked away in a drawer you don’t open anymore.

Lando notices the silence stretching between bites and doesn’t press. Instead, he just says quietly, “It’s not the same, but maybe this can be home too.”

You look up, eyes still clouded but grateful. “Thanks, Lando. For calling Kika that night when I got back from the gala. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”

He shrugs, but there’s warmth in his voice. “You’re not alone in this. We’ve all got each other’s backs. Especially when the world feels like it’s falling apart.”

You manage a small, shaky smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He tosses the last crust into his mouth, grinning. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

For a moment, the weight in your chest eases just a little, caught between the comfort of old friends and the uncertainty of new beginnings.

Your phone buzzes again, sharp against the quiet hum of the apartment. You fumble for it, a flicker of hope stirring - maybe it’s Charles. Maybe after everything, he’s finally reaching out.

But it isn’t.

The screen glows with a message from someone else, a name you barely recognize. You stare at it, the weight in your chest settling deeper.

Since the gala, since you packed up and left without a word, he hasn’t reached out. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

You set the phone down slowly, the silence swallowing you whole.

Lando glances up from his seat, catching the way your hand tightens around the phone before you set it down.

“You okay?” he asks gently, his voice low enough not to shatter the fragile quiet.

You swallow hard, forcing a nod. “Yeah. Just… nothing from him. Like he never even cared to explain.”

Lando’s eyes soften. “Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.”

You don't answer Lando right away.

The truth is lodged somewhere between your ribs, still too sharp to pull free. Instead, you stare at your camera, lying untouched in its case near the wall. It's been there since you arrived in Woking - quiet, dormant, like a version of you that doesn’t know how to exist anymore.

The last time you held it was the night everything changed. The night he didn’t reach for you. The photos are still on the memory card. You haven’t had the nerve to look at them. Maybe you never will.

You lean back against the wall beside Lando, pizza box between you both, the silence not uncomfortable - just heavy. Weighted with things unsaid.

“It’s weird", you say after a long while, your voice thin. “How fast something can stop feeling like yours.”

Lando doesn’t say anything. He just shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

You glance at your phone again. Still nothing. Still not him.

No apology. No explanation. No goodbye.

Maybe that hurts more than anything he could’ve said.

Still, you're here. In a different city. In a new apartment. With boxes waiting to be unpacked and walls that don’t yet feel like home.

But maybe they will.

Maybe this is how it starts - not with answers or closure, but with space. With the kindness of a friend who doesn’t ask you to be okay before you are. With a life that isn’t fully shaped yet, but stretches out ahead of you anyway.

And one day, maybe even with the sound of the shutter again. When your hands stop shaking.

You look at Lando. He meets your eyes for just a second and gives you a small, steady nod.

Maybe everything will be alright.

Not all at once. Not in the way you once dreamed. But in a quieter, steadier way.

You start your new life. Starting a new chapter.

Of a new book.