#And suddenly these questions begin to MATTER

[xinganhao]

🩵 dead poets society member!vernon x reader.

offshoot from the dead poets society!hhu x reader verse. (highly advise to read that first before delving into this!) part of my svt university milestone event.

I said / "I am afraid I will spend entire years / trying not to need you." / As if I wasn't certain. As if this wasn't my confession. — I swear, next time I see you I'll be funny by Clementine Von Radics

PREVIOUSLY ›

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ cool about it by boygenius. sa ngalan ng pag-ibig by december avenue. everything by the black skirts. buyer's remorse by daniel caesar & omar apollo. godspeed by frank ocean. someday i'll get it by alek olsen. everyone adores you (at least i do) by matt maltese. tie my shoes by beabadooobee. nothing can by niki.

on his first year away, vernon focuses on physical distance. a foolish part of him thinks that the more miles he puts in between the two of you, the easier it will be for him to get over this stupid, hopeless crush that lasted throughout his uni years. and so vernon goes backpacking, goes solo traveling. he lets the wind take him wherever. if anything, he only realizes just how deeply ingrained you are in his subconscious. he thinks of you when he passes a secondhand bookstore. he itches to text when he has a particularly good coffee. and when the sky is clear, when it's just the perfect shade of blue? he swears he can hear you in the back of his head, quoting mary oliver. (or: this is the year vernon learns all the different ways you can miss a person.)

vernon spends his second year on dating apps. it makes him a bit sick to his stomach, really. he doesn't think he's doing it right. he matches with people, sure. even manages to bag a handful of dates. each one ends with him giving them some variation of 'i don't think this is going to work out', and when they inevitably ask why, he lies through his teeth. too busy to be in a serious relationship. too emotionally out of it to commit. anything but the truth. (or: this is the year vernon realizes that no one measures up to you.)

by the time his third year away rolls around, vernon is beginning to feel a bit pathetic. here he is, after all that time, and he's still haunted by the shadow of a relationship that didn't even come to the light. sometimes, that seems to be worse— saying goodbye and knowing the door is left open a crack. he distracts himself with literally everything else. he tries out improv. he finally opens up a letterboxd account. he signs up for marathons. (or: this is the year vernon runs, in more ways than one.)

there's less of an ache by the time that year four comes. vernon doesn't think of you as often as he used to. he's able to be with someone else without imagining you in their place. even as that relationship eventually ends, he's glad that it's because of reasons unrelated to you. he's finally gotten to a point where he can look at himself in the mirror and not think of all the ways he faltered or failed. despite everything, it's still him. (or: this is the year vernon accepts the version of himself in his reflection.)

five years. it takes five years before vernon can finally reach back out. not to everyone yet, no. he starts slow. mingyu gives him a whole load of shit for it. seungcheol asks a dozen questions. wonwoo understands. vernon is grateful for them, so much so that he finds himself watching the dead poets society on his plane ride home. it's all fun and games until the scene with robin williams, where the schoolboys are paying ode to him with cries of "o captain, my captain!" it's the very line that echoes in his head when he sees you some feet away from him during a chance encounter. suddenly, none of it matters. not the distance, not the blind dates, not the man that he's tried so hard to be. all he can think of— all he can see— is you. o captain, my captain. (or: this is the year vernon decides to be honest with himself.)

[eunhyuung]

𖦹. “𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇, 𝐘’𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖?” — (𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐑)

𖦹. — 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. honestly, he’s never intended for things to turn out this way because as they say—curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? too bad, he likes what he’s seeing too much, huh? 6.2k words.

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . bitch boy kylar’s pervasive ways of being an absolute freak, jerking off, scent kink as in the loser disgustingly sniffs at his own pre-cum stained underwear, voyeurism through a screen, unsuspecting camboy! reader (amab) using his favourite fan’s flesh-light, massive parasocial relationship, kylar purely getting off to the mere fantasy of you so lovingly fucking his mouth full and slobbering all over your cock. wow. shit, that’s gross.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠? “I think he’s cute, but he’s fucking pathetic. adds to the charm though.”

Undoubtedly, he’s intricately aware of the baseless rumours currently circulating throughout the school due to him. Not that he pays it much mind, as a loner himself—there’s not much that comes forth from uselessly dwelling on ushered statements whispered amongst each nosy student attending the worn establishment.

Especially when he’s grown accustomed to the unfair treatment sent his way, preferring to concentrate on the positive aspects of his measly day-to-day life instead, no matter how minor those details may be. Practically nonexistent in comparison to the absolutely negatives—if anything, but. . . unwavering optimism is a virtue, correct? More or less.

“Did you see him? You’d think he won the goddamn lottery or somethin’—“ One would randomly perk up out of the blue as the other’s words seamlessly tumbled forth from between their lips. “Stop shitting with me. Think that freak has anything to smile about?” And as predictably expected on their part, doubtful silence filled the daunting atmosphere before the overly harsh cackling of laughter soon followed after.

“No way!!”

Right. Hurtful as it may be, wasn’t any less further from the truth to confidently proclaim that Kylar’s life was utter shit from start to finish. From an accumulation of numerous events that notably stemmed from mere bad luck or perhaps, as he so effortlessly believed so himself—a dreadful curse one had so cruelly placed upon him and the rest of his beloved family for. . . God knows what, how would he know anyway? Maybe it was due to an unforgivable sin he’s unknowingly committed in his distant past life or, from sheer, utter hatred on a stranger’s bitter end.

Solemnly beginning with the inexplicable loss of a treasured, cherished childhood friend of, he’d rather not utter the name itself—only to bitterly finish with the concerning changes in his parents questionable behaviour, not to mention the physical morphs in their formerly human appearances. That is, if they’ve managed to retain any semblance of consciousness from their lives previously shared as a family.

And to be honest, it’s a miracle he hasn’t suddenly dropped dead from the sheer amount of stress the outside world brings him. Hurt after hurt, mindless insult after another ruthlessly hurled towards his retreating figure in the school’s stuffy courtyard by snickering classmates.

At times like these, wordlessly thinking back to the gleaming knife occupying the depths of his baggy pocket does somewhat soothe the dull pain aching within his chest.

Somewhat.

Regardless, seething with misery and tainted despair is what he should’ve rightfully remained so, for the entirety of his pathetic life. Least, that was the intended plan on his end. Fortunately, most things don’t ever go as planned in life, do they? And neither was the accidental discovery of your surprising existence, too. One which he repeatedly thanks the divined heavens from above for so generously gracing him with your perfect being—even if not physically there, as you’re merely hidden away behind the greasy, smudged surface of his unprotected, cum-stained screen.

Yeah, he does periodically forget to neatly wipe those unceremonious accidents of his away. . . Mostly the embarrassing bit where the freak is unpredictably shooting forth his fat load all over his tousled bedsheets and of course, his dimly lit, previously discarded phone screen that merely happens to be consequently lying nearby—at the edge of the loner’s unmade bed. Somehow neglecting to absently clean his disorganized room, rotting for none to see due to his inborn laziness or better put, sheer lack of motivation to truly do something about the grimy mess irritably found at his feet.

Crummy wrappers from whatever unhealthy, overly sweetened snack he’s ingested for the day, used socks filled with. . . well, you’d know the typical stereotype of what lonely, unloved boys do in the desolate tranquility of their bedrooms anyway, unwashed clothes laid askew; you name it.

Although, it’s partially your fault for purposefully making your streams so very tempting—practically impossible to stubbornly last till the bitter end if he’s so much as given the slightest glimpse of your pretty cock, mere sound of your wistful sighs and voice carefully articulating his username amongst the hoard of just as eager viewers.

What a shame, he’d just about care more for the dire state of his dirtied room if it meant somehow impressing you in the process. Like the loser would ever be so graciously given the exquisite chance to timidly invite you to his sore excuse of a room, lest he found you for real and, y’know—committed a few illegal acts or two to drag you towards that desired place of his choice. Selfishly kept you to himself for an undetermined amount of time, preferably forever and ever actually. . . !

Oh, he does dearly promise he’d take good care of you. That’s for sure.

Speaking of, he’s always possessed the annoyingly obsessive tendency to easily fall for a fictional character on the other end of a layered screen, but. . . Certainly not like this, no. Since you’re a real, existing person, are you not? A living, breathing human with his own life he’s blissfully unaware of—foreign details and such, are wholly unnecessary to him, because your self is solely what he’s truthfully interested in, really! Sorely convicted no one could ever hope to pitifully understand the true reason as to why he’s been recently sporting that idiotic grin plastered amongst his usually aloof features.

Distractingly sketching more and more admittedly good, yet messy drawings in the private remnants of his notebook’s torn pages. Immediately squeaking at the sudden presence of his english teacher’s. . . what’s-his-name, mister Doren(?) hovering over his hunched shoulders to questioningly quip up as to what may be so important for him to childishly doodle during learning time, huh?

Well, you see—fairly, it’s quite simple, if not entirely self-explanatory when thoroughly observing his recently odd mannerisms and gestures.

Y’see, most would reasonably laugh dead in his face at the sickeningly sweet answer, though what need is there to hide it? It’s evident what the local school’s favourite punching bag has been shockingly struck with. As cheesy as it may be to discreetly gossip amongst one another, the sole undeniable fact that—

“The freak’s obviously in love and crushing on someone or somethin’, no doubt about it. I mean, look at him! He looks like he’s just about ready to float off the earth!!”

“Fuck, don’t word it that way. That’s so fuckin’ gross. Y’a think he actually likes someone—? Like, here? In this school?? Stands no chance. What’s the use of liking ‘em if they’ll run at the sight of you anyway?” Seldomly wrong on that part, there’s no way to precisely tell that identity of yours if your face is disappointingly out of view in each of your films! Therefore, he’d like to take note of it someday, y’know. . . Instead of, ah—humiliatingly jerking off alone to the hazy thought of your faceless body. Not to say, that isn’t disgustingly hot enough on its own. Fucking pervert that he is, plenty to get him off on.

“Hey, now don’t be so mean. He could hear us over there. . . Didn’t you hear what he did to that one girl in class cuz’ she tried to take his shitty sketchbook? Heard she’s stuck in the hospital for a month because of him. Crazy stuff.”

Unsurprisingly so, a scornful pout would’ve expectantly found itself upon his chapped lips at those stray comments if it were any other day of the week. Frustratingly clutching at the worn edges of his school bag hanging limply from his small figure from the seething urge to impulsively retort back. However, what use is there to miserably wallow when your favourite show is bound to showcase itself on screen soon enough? And what he so innocently refers to as some ‘show’ are those naughty streams of yours he’s been regularly keeping up to date with, without missing a single one for that matter—you should be proud of him, really. Is starting soon, as per usual—in about. . . ?

Oh, luckily he’s got plenty of time to wordlessly settle himself in his spacious bedroom before your precious recordings commence. Methodically checking the numbers displayed on his cellphone to indicate the countdown till the sole thing he’s been excitedly looking forward to for the past few, dwindling months, does eventually begin.

Since today is a special day, indeed—is it not?Thoughtlessly humming to himself at the expectant treat patiently awaiting his arrival at home, much to other passerby’s apparent discontent at the rather. . . horrible sound being sung throughout the pathway to his forgotten, desolate manor. Singing melodic notes, especially at the Temple’s choir never was much of his forte for that matter. That’s alright, though! Fortunately enough, he’s confident he can painfully endure anything that this insane town throws at him today. And ‘course, that stupidly includes the dirty looks shot in his direction, too.

Because today. . . today is a special day, yes—he gleefully repeats so, to himself. Y’know, like some maniac.

And akin to how a mechanical key automatically turns itself within the depths of a narrow lock, routine settles in thickly at the back of his mind as his feet instinctively shuffle themselves through the doorway of his beloved house. Less beloved in the sense that it isn’t exactly properly maintained, as obviously proven by the multitude of stains abandoned about upon every wooden surface, it seems. Uneasy floorboards bound to eventually collapse underneath the meager weight of his lanky body, which is a miracle that it hasn’t already by now, actually.

Not to mention, disgraceful cobwebs precariously hanging from below each cornered ceiling, but there still retains a semblance of charm to the place, a little—he thinks. Personally. Majorly due to the familiarity it instills within his boyish brain and it being his lone sanctuary where he feels remotely at peace, unperturbed from outsiders prying eyes.

“I-I’m home.” Timidly calling out to the single place that’d welcome him so, in a hushed, open embrace. But, as per expected, no pleased response comes forth to counter that shrill, little voice of his—having progressively grown accustomed to announce his eventual arrival to what he still sheepishly refers to as his parents, at least, even if they might not outwardly reply with a normal chime of their own. Perhaps he’ll be met occasionally with a hiss or two, yet he doesn’t really dare to enter any further into their territory without loads of garlic necklaces clumsily hooked along his delicate neck. Coward, he is—even in the face of his own mother and father, although it does possess its perks when it comes to avoiding trouble at school or notably, that filthy blonde’s presence.

That is to say, there’s no point in uselessly ruminating any further about an establishment that bores his bare unhappiness, right? Briefly stealing a glimpse to where his parent’s doorway restlessly lies partially accessible, surely aware of his newfound return—judging by the bored clatter of their glinting, metallic fangs concealed below the extended bed. Oh, they’re waving at him, clearly! Least, he positively thinks so if he hasn’t been ruthlessly attacked yet, so far. Unlike certain intruders skittering ‘round the mansion, that being rats. Ah, merely envisioning the little creatures draws a shuddered breath out of his wrinkling nose, jolting shivers coursing throughout the curved length of his spine.

There are far more important matters presently tending to his current attention, however. You, you, you—your upcoming stream. You, you, you . . . Obviously. Occupying the vast majority of his brain and, as for the last remainder—it being the sheer embarrassment of his progressively growing hard-on straining against the rough material of his ripped jeans. Oh, and now he’s popping boners purely from thinking about you?? Like he hasn’t done so before in class either, bitterly reminiscing over the painful memory of skittering away to the boys bathroom for a quick. . . tending to, as in pervertedly pumping his cock full in the tight confines of an unkempt stall. Shakily whining out your name (more like username, really) between muffled whimpers as sweet release mercilessly found the loner and he, ungracefully so, spilled the entirety of his sticky seed along the rest of his rumpled school uniform.

. . .Yeah, he’s definitely got a vast amount of issues to deal with. But, he can helplessly worry about that unimportant part later.

The continuous pitter patter of his feet carefully made up to the balanced stairwell—where his meticulously made shrine of you remains still, by the way—endlessly carries on. Opposite to how the insistent, rhythmic pumping of his discomposed heart feverishly beats with each huff drawn forth of the outcast’s hitched sighs. Creaking floorboards noisily squeaking beneath each incessant footsteps made towards his own private room before finally. . . finally, soundlessly shutting the oaky door with a resounding click and an exhaled breath of relief.

And so, it begins.

Familiar, shrouded darkness envelops his figure whole all at once within the restrictive bounds of his exclusive chamber. Movements seamlessly acted out on an automatic everyday-thing as he so thoughtlessly—to his mattress’s strained annoyance—flings his worn bag containing practically nothing, save for his sketchbook and a singular, used pencil—upon the squeaking, cushiony surface with an audible thud! Well, he’s always been somewhat irresponsible when it came to his possessions in hand lest they held some semblance of emotional attachment to him in some shape or form. Fortunately, he withholds an acceptable excuse for his hasty behaviour this time, yeah, swears it’s an adequate one! Of course it’d perpetually be when it comes to you, his esteemed beloved, his one and only. (To what he’s thoroughly deluded himself to blindly believe so.)

Ah, how unbridled excitement quells within his chest with each shaky step forward to his unattended, cluttered desk. Smiling gleefully to himself in absent thought at the six, available monitors at his disposal—who’re poorly reflecting the sight of his eager expression at the moment, too. Oh, he doesn’t mean to appear like a frantic puppy in heat right off the bat without having even received his sweetened treat.

Though, can he be possibly faulted for it when he’s hardly a few seconds away from being so lovingly graced with your company on the other side of a limited screen? Helplessly devoted in the woeful sense that simply a single snippet of your soothing voice renders him blissfully breathless, weak in the knees bound to soon buckle beneath your honeyed words? Has him torturously aching downwards to where his dripping wet cock tents against the layered fabric of his pants?? Perfection couldn’t even begin to accurately describe your being devoid of any flaws.

So idiotically hooked that the perverted freak is already slumping himself atop the accommodating, swivelling seat of his chair—instinctually placing his connected headset onto the unkempt strands of hair naturally curling around the indented shape with a pleased hum. Y’know, just to be safe. Potentially due to the considerable awkwardness of if he were to accidentally play a pornographic stream aloud, beyond the confidential walls of his room.

Last thing he’d like to bashfully admit outwardly to his parents is how hopelessly infatuated their son is for another boy who isn’t even remotely aware of his flickering existence. Besides the frantic amounts of fanboy comments the loner usually leaves behind, majority of it containing the sheer euphoria of witnessing such a pretty boy as yourself—so boldly displaying himself for thousands upon thousands, possibly more granted the frustratingly recent spike in your growing popularity, to see. Solely perceived as an overly enthusiastic fan that consequently happens to be attending each and every stream of yours, in a vain attempt to someday, be supposedly noticed by his dearest idol.

Undeniable trepidation restlessly courses through his veins, jittery fingertips grazing amongst the crumb stained keys—which, he never thoughtfully bothers to sanitize, exactly—before ultimately typing in the uh. . . ah, it’s still considerably embarrassing to be navigating through a raunchy, naughty site filled to the brim with erotic content. Not to say, he hasn’t especially skimmed through some. . . exceptionally questionable ones in the distant past, but none seemed to wholly satisfy him nor brought him such disgustingly heated interest like your live recordings either. Hah, he’s just so utterly down bad for you—it’s mildly flustering.

Another which he’ll soon be given the meticulous chance to joyfully witness in the gloomy atmosphere of his bedchamber, if anything else. Arrow pointed key impatiently hovering over the strikingly red button labeled for newcomers to ‘join on in’ to where your stream is bound to usually begin. Yes—he’s memorized your neatly made schedule of commencing your tapes every Thursday afternoon, around thirty minutes after he’s finally released from the sorrowful imprisonment of school. And. . . the gleaming ‘live’ signal should be surfacing any second now. Precisely in five—four, three, two. . . and, one.

Click.

[Now recording.]

“Oh— ahah, god. 200 viewers already? No, it’s climbing up to 254 now. . . You guys are already that happy to see me, huh?? I’m flattered.” Whether to necessarily fixate upon your rosy, moving lips deeply articulating each syllable with a musing grin of your own, albeit a shame that’s about as much as he’ll be able to savour and see of your concealed face positioned above the reserved range of your quality camera. Or, the seamless lull within your effortlessly attractive voice reaching the depths of his attentive ears is beyond the dark haired boy’s enraptured attention, truly—because, hah. . . there’s something else, something else much more special eventually coming up, isn’t there?

Chipped nail upon his thumb being subconsciously chewed at in faux thought, that. . . you look stupidly good today (not that you usually don’t) with that casual wear— yes, even something apparently simple as some loose jeans, not all that much different from his own too, and an onyx black turtleneck compatibly added to the mix—looks pleasantly nice on you, enough so to hurriedly draw all breath from him.

Light conversation ensuing as if you aren’t thoroughly conscious of what the viewers unabashedly desire within this very moment. Him included, to be frank. “What have I planned for today? Well, now—you know, it won’t be any fun if I reveal it immediately, but you’re right, I do have something particularly special planned for today’s stream.” And he can tell, with how the influx of notes rapidly increase at the mere mention of a tell-tale surprise, no doubt brimming with utter curiosity and excitement at the sheer, mind numbing prospect of a carefully thought out present from you, that it indeed works. Sweetened chuckle naturally tumbling forth from your parted lips drawn up in a lighthearted smile in return. “Oh, you wanna know so bad? Fine, fine. Bunch of perverts already pressuring me right into it— haah, but I guess I’m no better for getting off of the attention like this either. . . Alright then, I’ll bite.”

Right, estimating the passing time he’s suggested it beforehand, it should’ve certainly arrived in the mail by now. Peering curiously towards the endlessly flowing stream of enthusiastic comments filling up the area at the bottom right of his dimly lit screen.

“Just so happens I’ve got a new one to test out here. Courtesy of a subscriber’s recommendation, y’know. See how much I actually listen to you guys? You degenerates should be grateful I’m even showing you anything, really— oh, c’mon. It was just a joke. Lighten up, will you?” Musing delightfully in response before promptly presenting a faintly rose coloured—oh, oh! it really is his that you chose!—pussy pocket into view, or generally known as a squishy flesh-light solely made to dutifully suck at awaiting eager cocks. Crimson flush coming forth to deeply stain his cheeks so, gasping momentarily to himself at the shocking outcome and maybe just, the idiotic yearning of intricately wanting to be that toy instead.

Ah— god, what he’d inevitably give to be the one you’re sensually sinking your flushed, oozing tip into, breathlessly groaning at the dizzying tightness swallowing your twitching length whole.

On one hand, he’s tried out quite a few, negligently forgotten in some stash hidden within his creaking closet, although ever since he’s been given a minor glimpse of your fat cock since day one—well, he’s come to long a certain. . . other type of treatment altogether. Notably, the disastrously sickening urge to be fucked full to the brim within an inch of his life, filthy masochist that he deceptively is, nothing could potentially compare to your pretty looking cock truthfully.

“Well, then,” Instinctually following forth with the passages of your hands—those too are pretty, actually. Like every inch of you isn’t, physically drooling at the slightest sliver of your exposed skin being gradually bared to his heated, emerald gaze. The edged curvature of your delicate knuckles down to where your slim fingertips connect to your leathered belt, smoothly unbuckling its constraints with a distinct jingle before it ultimately, drops downwards to the floor with a muted thud. His own loosened pants shortly accompanying your gestures soon after in a clumsy haste.

“Why don’t you sick fucks just sit back—“ A tug of your elastic boxers and he’s being suddenly greeted by the addictively sinful sight of it. Flushed cock weeping glistening beads of pre-cum, immediately springing forth from its confine to then, audibly smack against your bare tummy. “relax, and enjoy the show, yeah?”

Ahah, there it is—there’s your admittedly. . . tasty looking cock he’d waste no effort in slinking down to his knees to suckle upon, coat in slippery wet saliva and gratefully swallow down in nigh worship like a mutt starving for a treat. If you sensibly possessed any sort of idea, how well he’d treat you, the boy of his dreams. Hungrily lap the slicked surface of his warm, moist tongue along your balls heavy with seed in an intimate display of unending devotion—obsession, damnation to be gleefully chained and bound to your feet. Or so, he’s steadily scattering the remnants of his needy mind to those nonsensical blurry daydreams of his again.

Along with that artistic mark the loner meekly recognizes as a tattoo permanently etched into the tender flesh of your left hip, inked encryption slithering upwards, beyond the portion that your jeans can possibly conceal if shown on the spot.

“See this?— haah, fuck.” Hitched breath suddenly interrupted with a muted curse at how you merely hover the toy’s softened hole above the leaking tip of your heavy cock, wordlessly pulsing in the camera’s direction—his direction, to be more precise. Silently affirmed as nothing more but a wistful yearning on his part. “The way it just. . .” Oh, he’d so hopelessly, truly never tire to repeatedly listen upon your angelic voice again and again, how it subtly trembles and delves further into a series of rapidly made huffs along with a mix of heaving groans. Beautifully falls apart, tearfully breaks in an instant from the sweet suckle of the makeshift pussy heat steadily sucking in the veiny girth of your aching length. “. . .Effortlessly sucks me inside? So fuckin’—shit, tight. Like I’m fucking a real cunt actually.”

And yeah. . . Yeah, it really is—god, instinctively yearning for the insatiable need that those were his pouty lips instead, thoroughly enveloped around the sheer thickness of your perfect cock. Depthless, expanding pupils deliberately following the trailing path of pearly droplets profusely dribbling out messy pre-cum. Past the stuffed flesh-light’s warm folds—down the curved edge of your neatly swallowed cock to where it ultimately, descends and lands atop your balls with a startling drop.

Seemingly, the slight twitch in his pants at the dizzying demonstration is explanation enough on its own probably.

Quite pitifully so, it’s natural instinct, it’s all, he promises! Stealing a glance downwards to where his own excited cock stands upright and throbbing in the stretchy material of his chosen underwear for tonight’s occasion—one which he can easily slip off at a moments notice, impatiently strip down to his spread knees like an unashamed whore practically begging for it.

Guess it wouldn’t hurt to just. . . rub one out quickly, right? It’s what you’ve so generously taken the effort and time to do so, right?? So the freak—amongst many others delightfully viewing, how annoying—can disgustingly get themselves off to the addled sighs, sickeningly wet smacks! from the teasingly slow roll of your hips upwards, easily tumbling out from his monitors screens.

Timid palm tentatively reaching towards the overly evident, straining hard-on tented underneath the seams of his boxers, earnestly palming himself—or better put, the outlined length bulging through the fairly thin fabric—with a shaky gasp. So embarrassing, how minimal stimulation on his end renders him utterly breathless, silently stunned at the sheer amount of pre endlessly leaking out from his swollen, red hot slit. Inconveniently stains the greying colour in a deeper shade to mindlessly gawk at for future notice. Because currently, he’s unfairly too busy from solely grinding the heel of his softened palm against his cock’s dripping wet head, isn’t he?

Although, it’s not enough. Not enough, just yet—

Certainly, it wouldn’t truly be sinful to shyly go further, bring himself to the very brink of his teetering limit, huh? Fluttering lashes discreetly shutting close maybe due to the dizzyingly hot embarrassment accumulating within his tensed tummy. There, yes there; that’s the spot. . . Ah. Shuddering gasps uncontrollably spilling out of his beautifully open, wanton mouth shaped into a perfect ‘o’ at the clumsy passage of his inexperienced hand downwards, below. Hah—‘inexperienced’ , he sullenly thinks as if the dark haired boy doesn’t steadily fist his cock raw to the mere, increasingly blurring thought of you like a daily routine set into stone, never meant to be carelessly missed.

An unrestrained addict is what he fairly is, for all its worth. Amused grin simultaneously cracking upon his features at the unsurprising realization, insistently tugging at the corner of his now moist lips—disgustingly shiny in his own spit too, now—as scarred fingertips momentarily caress along the curved outline of his twitching cock before impatiently sliding off the sticky undergarment down the length of his perched legs.

Shit, shit. . . Chilly, cooling air mercilessly kissing at the warm, trickling tip of his flushed cock head now openly free from the boxers helplessly limiting bounds. Outwardly hissing at the sudden rush of temperature surrounding the surface of his readily exposed, quivering length. And here he is, already subconsciously humping, desperately bucking at the air—hips spontaneously settling into a rapid pace to fuck into his fist, but oh—your soft skin would be so much warmer to the bare touch, y’know?

Irrefutably better if it were your skillful hands indecently pumping his slippery cock, though you’d only need a single hand to do that, wouldn’t you? Ultimately bigger than his pitifully smaller ones in size, unable to fully wrap around the pulsing thickness of his cock unlike yours who’d effortlessly encompass him whole. Tease at the whorish slit ceaselessly dripping translucent, sloppy pre-cum with a press of your thumb atop the puckered opening all the while fisting himself.

Ah—ah, damn it. “Mmngh. . .”

Invasive, needy hands struggling to grasp for something—anything, will surely do to dull the burning, aching throb of velvety blood rushing south to his taut balls and unsurprisingly so, the pretty flush that comes to visibly stain the surface of his cheeks. Similar to a picture perfect portrait professionally painted by an eccentric artist, that is, if he had any semblance of self-esteem somehow hidden in there.

Predictably so, like some unjust pervert, the experimental tip of his jagged nails curiously grazes against the stretchy texture of his underwear now awkwardly slung down to the freak’s knees. Forgot those were still loosely hanging there, admittedly. Pearly, shiny patch of staining pre boldly glinting back towards his half-lidded gaze as if to elicit an enticing. . . no, the definitely worst idea he’s potentially had.

But, something to just get the ball rolling sometimes, you know? That’s all. Nothing more, nothing any further than his lone tendencies to uselessly clutch at something in a placid need for comfort—for it could be a worn pillow that’s unfortunately out of reach, sweaty used hoodie meant to wholly fill his scrunched nose with the strong lingering musk or even, his pre-cum stained boxers. However else that can be reasonably judged, as no normal person would be feebly bringing their underwear up to their heated face. Deeply inhaling his own stupidly salty scent, crudely burying the tip of his curved nose within fisted briefs restlessly held in the cup of his palm.

Shiiiiitt, it stinks like hell. So, shouldn’t be so devastatingly erotic and spur him on further—shouldn’t have his aching cock incessantly yearning for some form of release, albeit in a fucking pervasive manner.

“So perfect. . . hah, y-you’re so—pretty.” Incessantly drawling forth from his bitten lips, crimson stained flesh absently chewed upon as the searing metallic taste fills his every muddled senses. Like a fallen mantra that’s bound to greedily consume his very being—and frankly, he’d be nothing more than earnestly grateful if he was so selflessly granted the lucky chance to have his useless, good-for-nothing, pliable body thoroughly used and ruined by you. Ah, idly wondering in the discreet back of his mind, how you’d harshly fold his slim figure in half.

Would it be fast and rough, possibly? Indecently cruel in each of your instinctual thrusts, sudden snap of your hips to fuck him within an inch of his life? Or perhaps, no—undeniably the opposite, considering your usual style Kylar familiarly knows all too well. Slow, methodical and torturous marks progressively imprinted along the curved surface of his arched back. Smooth, chilly fingertips gliding downwards till he’s greeted with the slight grip of your locked palms upon his hips. A trembling plea here and there, only to be coldly met with a sneered chuckle at the pitiful sight—heated tip barely grazing against the puffy entrance of his puckered hole as you’d utter out a singular insult.

“You fucking pervert.”

In a mere instant, as it should come as no shocking surprise, surely—that single, fleeting thought precariously tips him towards the edge before the perverted freak’s has remotely registered the immediate slackening of his open jaw. Furrowing of his brows with a petulantly long whine as sickeningly thick, white strings of seed uncontrollably spurt forth from his swollen tip, splattering amongst the previously untainted surface of his keys, bare and unclenched tummy in the cooling air and of course, the monitored screen itself.

“H-hah—I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry. I’m nothing. . . but, a nasty p-pervert. . . ! Please—hngh, forgive me. . . !” Salaciously muttering to himself as though you’d possibly hear his ushered mewls for forgiveness, reassuringly cleanse him of his rushed and impulsive actions. Adoringly nosing along the creeping edge of his torn sleeve, pouty lips lewdly suckling upon its cotton material in an absent habit meant to momentarily soothe himself from the ongoing orgasm wracking throughout the entirety of his quivering, slackening figure—sluggishly resting atop the leathered, rolling chair.

Ah. . . Hah, doesn’t even register the all too heavy weight of his sleepy eyelids inevitably fluttering shut in a dazed slumber, head comfortably leaned back against the cushioned pillow. Carelessly forgetful of the accumulated, dripping mess now irritably found at his feet which he supposes, he’ll reluctantly clean later when he’s somehow received the faithful chance to.

Although, speaking of—isn’t he foolishly forgetting something residing in the shrouded depths of his mind. . . ? That can be, potentially dealt with. . . later, though. Maybe.

Didn’t even bother to aimlessly recall as to what it is regardless.

It wholly slipped from his drowsy mind, anyway.

— . . .

Alright, well—understandably enough, shouldn’t have tediously overslept past the overly distracting ringing of his stubborn alarm, but still. . . ! It’s not like it’s necessarily the loner’s fault for having this annoyingly irreparable tendency to listlessly pass out the second he’s satisfyingly gotten his fill. Probably, should get that checked out, however. Who effortlessly shifts to the realm of sparkling dream land after having hurriedly, finished in one fell swoop?? As in, helplessly shooting forth a fat load and considering it done and over with. Him, apparently.

‘Course, that reasonably draws its fair share of invasive consequences. Utterly lost in the bewilderment of his racing thoughts during his languid sprint towards class in the dead middle of the somewhat. . . spacious hallway, yet—not so much so that he isn’t incidentally slamming against a poor student in a troublesome haste, unintentionally tripping himself over his own loose, untied shoelaces. Oh, can’t be any more blind, can you??

Having fully expected to have painfully hit the dull, heartless ground by now—but, but. . . unfamiliar softness tentatively tugs at his blurry senses instead, confusingly warm firmness of someone else’s secure arms embracing the dark haired boy’s lanky figure in return. “Ugh, fuck—“

“. . .Sorry, are you alright? I didn’t mean to bump into you there. I should look where I’m going next time—stupid of me, really. You’re not hurt or anything, right?” Despite being sorrowfully accustomed to the normally discriminating tone most students expectantly would’ve adopted at the mere sight of him, nothing particularly prepared Kylar for that vaguely recognizable, dulcet voice faintly ringing within his stinging ears as he, so dumbly, peers from below the mopped mess of his unruly tufts of hair. One day, he’s got to take care of that nasty habit of his to be neglecting his unfairly important needs.

Strikingly stiff as a stoned, wobbling statue at the nearest temple from the intimately tender worry currently occupying your gaze—ah, what is he specifically meant to respond with in such an uncouth situation again?? Somehow missing the loosely held grasp your smooth palms have atop his hunched shoulders because, oh, he’s never been willingly touched before either—has he?

“Um, y-yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” My god, haven’t you received nothing but excellent marks in English, idiot?? Further elaborate on that meaninglessly empty statement! Inwardly cringing at the slight squeak unjustly found amidst his slurred speech and albeit, apologetic struggle not to seemingly appear like some ditzy moron right now instead of y’know—excessively nodding along to the point that, you’re questioningly tilting your head to the side.

“That’s good to know. Make sure not to run like that in the hallways again yourself, next time. Could’ve ended worse and I wouldn’t want someone getting hurt on my behalf, would I?” Momentarily stunned by that sugary sweet smile and maybe, the all too good-natured pat naturally placed upon his left shoulder that his heated breath is promptly caught in his bobbing throat.

He meant to reply back, truthfully desired nothing more than to sheepishly inquire further for. . . what? Nothing, perhaps. Anything to have your presence possibly linger longer next to his, but before he’s consciously notices—your retreating silhouette is already swiftly stepping past his dumbfounded, stranded self. Stifled curses accompanied by faintly echoing footsteps thudding against the now desolate, school hallway.

“Goddammit, where’s that blonde bastard—told me to wait for him and he doesn’t even fucking show up. Is he still pissed at me for yesterday’s shit?? I swear I should. . .”

Ah.

And, he didn’t even get to catch your name.

Guess he’ll find out through his own personal means. Stealing a rushed glimpse towards the headmaster’s shut door where they privately keep any student’s confidential files—that is, including properly listed grades too, which he’s gotten no interest for, to begin with.

Name.

Your name.

Well, he’ll find out one way or another because he always possesses a way to, doesn’t he?

[tetzoro]

˖˙ ꔫ — SPITFIRE ˚

꒰ synopsis ꒱ : you and kid have an unspoken understanding but of course you need to test his limits to see how he truly feels.

꒰ contents ꒱ : MDNI. eustass kid x reader ; unprotected sex, brat taming, possessive kid, creampie, slight dacryphilia, mentions of overstimulation, impact play if you squint — WC : 1.5k

Kid was brash, reckless and mouthed off to anyone who dared to step in his way. Never one to back down from a challenge no matter the odds, he was driven and hardworking in his own way. And when it came to you, it was no different.

The little arrangement between the two of you was nothing new. The crew was unfortunately well acquainted with it as well, always forced to listen to you guys bicker to no end. Insults would fly left and right until he was red in the face, irked beyond belief at the audacity you held against your captain.

Kid demanded respect but something in him would falter at treating you like the rest of the crew. Besides Killer, you were the only one to truly get away with speaking to him in such a way. But that’s because he soon learned a failsafe way to have you begging for forgiveness, apologizing to him and giving him the well-deserved admiration he sought out from you.

But tonight you had gone too far.

The Victoria Punk was docked at an island for the evening for a typical restock and of course, the crew ended up at the bar. The alcohol was pouring and Kid held his smug smirk on his face as you sat next to him, chatting away with Killer.

The crew had decided to poke fun at the way you were stealing glances at the captain, making bets on when the two of you would sneak off.

That’s when you decided to play a little game, skipping off to one of the patrons of the bar and tapping their shoulder, gaining their attention.

The attention that belonged to Kid.

But you didn’t care. All you wanted to do was prove that you weren’t stuck under Kid’s charm, that you weren’t falling for him no matter how hard you tried to resist him.

A resounding bang boomed off in the cramped bar, silencing the room and halting you from getting too close to brushing your lips with the stranger whose name you never bothered to learn.

“Hell no!” Kid roared, standing straight up. All of the contents on the table were knocked around after he had slammed his fist against the hardwood, a definite crack splitting down the middle. “Get your ass over here.”

“Is that an order, Captain?” The question that sealed your fate. Within moments, Kid has you within his grasp and leading you far away from the bar. His cheeks are almost as red as his hair but you know better, the flush was more from just the anger boiling up inside of him.

It was far too easy to let yourself fall victim to his sinful touches as soon as you returned back to his quarters. The familiar dip in his mattress cocooning you further into his hungry jaws, refusing to let you flee from his grasp. Not that you were planning on it anyway.

“What happened to my little spitfire?” Kid smirks, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix in a way that has stars bursting behind your eyes. The intensity was almost too much, the pressure of his heavy length splitting you open was enough to make you come. But it wouldn’t happen until he said so. “I give you a little bit of cock and suddenly you lose all that attitude?”

It takes you a second to come back down from the initial pain as he begins to move, a brutal pace that never gives you a chance to catch your breath, stealing all the words you wanted to throw back at him but the only thing you could move were your hips. Your legs shook from the intensity, the back of the headboard slamming against the wall but you don’t have it in you to care.

“Kid-” You gasp out, nails digging into the broadness of his lightly dusted freckled shoulders.

“No.” He hisses out, giving your thigh a teasing slap, not enough to hurt but enough to warn you of what’s to come if you don't fix your mood. “That’s not what you get to call me right now.”

“Captain!” You cry out, your legs falling helplessly to the mattress, unable to hold them up around his waist any longer. He kept plunging into you, eyes sharp on your expressions and waiting for you to continue. You knew what he wanted.

“What was that? You’re whining so much I can hardly hear ya, speak up.” His grip digs into you more, unable to get enough of the way your skin feels against his.

“‘M sorry!” The apology slurs past your love drunk lips, hoping that he’ll forgive you and let you come.

“Couldn’t be good for me and use your words so you decided to be a brat?” He pauses, shoving himself deep into you to watch you writhe underneath. “Just wanted me to fuck you till you couldn’t think?”

“Y-yes!” You concede yet you don’t have it in you to care. The way your thighs shake, hips jutting up to meet his thrusts, pleasure swirling in your head and washing over your body has you saying whatever he wants. “Let me come!”

“I don’t think so.” A low laugh escapes him, his cock throbbing within your walls and ready to fill you up. The thought of him finishing without you zaps through your head, frustrated tears brimming your lashes and threatening to spill over with every thrust. “Aw, pretty little cry baby. Let me see those tears and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

A pitiful cry of his name escapes you, bottom lip quivering as the pleasure is too much to hold back. All you needed was his deft fingers pressing down on your nub and it would spiral you over the edge and have you floating above the clouds in a heaven he could only bring you. The tears glide down your cheeks, pleas spilling out of your mouth.

The sadistic grin Kid wears on his face so well only grows, captivated by your beauty as you lose your sense of self for him. To unravel you down to your core until all you craved was him just to build you back up and worship you like the treasure you are.

“Let go f’me.” Kid commands with a grunt, his fingers finally touching you where you needed him most. His heavy thumb pressing down on your clit was all it took for your body to lock up, shake with unadulterated need and release in a way that sends you heavenward. “That’s it, so fucking good for me.”

Moments like these you lay back, trying to catch your bearings as Kid uses you to finish himself off, thrusting into you at a pace that pleases him until he’s spilling his load deep inside of you, grunting out your name until he’s just as breathless as you.

The room is quiet save for the heavy panting coming from you both. Like clockwork, Kid hoists you into his arms, holding you close until your heart's fall back into sync and beat as one, planting soft kisses along your temple. There were never any words to say at this moment, just letting your bodies fall into a gentle rhythm together.

After a while, and the both of you settle back from your lofty state, he shifts slightly to face you. There’s a gentleness in his touch, one that is hard to miss as his knuckle sweetly kisses along your cheek. A caress so soft yet leaves a haunting ghost in its wake as soon as he pulls away.

“Back with me?” He asks, the roughness in his voice a comfort that has you curling closer to him. His lone arm coiled around you, letting you melt into his embrace. The closeness was not something that was always here, it’s something that had built overtime.

A foundation of trust and vulnerability that formed something so sacred that neither of you ever spoke about it – too stubborn to let the walls in your heart fall down before the other and truly lay everything bare.

“I’m here.” You nod, resting your cheek against his built chest. The steady comfort of his heartbeat lulled you into a drowsy state. The weight of exhaustion starts to settle into your bones, limbs tired from the way Kid never failed to manhandle you.

You knew you had to get up, clean yourself off and scurry back to your own bed. But it was just so cozy, so intimate that if you moved then everything might shatter and this time you may not be able to pull it back together.

Despite it all, you couldn’t fight sleep. Kid be damned, he can yell at you tomorrow for overstaying your welcome or hell, he can carry you back to bed like a true gentleman would. Not that you’d get your hopes up.

As your eyes flutter shut, fingers curling into his muscles, you hear the word that you’d never expect but the one you longed to hear.

“Stay.”

[vevobly]

Yellowjackets Reactions To Your Death! [Peri-Crash] (1)

A/N: Heads up! This is written with you in mind as their romantic partner, but you can always just interpret it as whichever you want. Your death is left unspecified because I want it to be left open for you to decide (when and how). Jackie and Laura Lee didn't die in this just as they originally did in canon early on.

Jackie Taylor:

When you die, Jackie is crushed. The moment you die and leave her, it's as if everything around her just dissolved into nothing. She'd be in denial of it at first, thinking maybe when she sleeps at night and wakes up the next day, she'd find you awake beside her. But it doesn't happen, and the longer Jackie tries to ignore it, the deeper she spirals down.

She wouldn't know how to process any of it, much less cope with the fact that you're no longer around anymore, other than putting up a front with everyone else and pretending she's got everything composed even though she clearly doesn't. When she's all by herself, she'll just break down suddenly and cry; all while holding onto something that once belonged to you.

When Jackie begins accepting that you're really gone, she only sinks deeper. She becomes a mess, barely able to hold herself together. She takes out her feelings on the other yellowjackets, more judgemental and controlling. Doing everything she can to avoid grieving you more. She clings to your belongings, even when they serve no purpose. It's due to this that she becomes distant from the others.

Shauna Shipman:

Shauna's grief is quiet, yet it speaks more volumes than anything. She'd try to rationalize your death as something inevitable, but knowing her, she'd always mourn you even when she thinks like that. Not knowing how to get the pain of losing you out of her, she'd project it outward. She'd keep something of yours—anything that belonged to you once—close to her as a way of coping.

It doesn't matter how or to whom you died, Shauna would be consumed by guilt no matter what. She would just shut down emotionally, and replay the moments she had with you before your death. Second-guessing everything she said or did when you were still around and alive before. She'd wonder endlessly if she could have done something, anything to prevent your death.

Your death would become this silent but omnipresent wound for Shauna because she would constantly just ruminate about the what-ifs, and blame herself for not being able to do anything before your death. It really doesn't help that one of her coping mechanisms to live with the fact that you're dead is just daydreaming that you're still alive and with her.

Taissa Turner:

Taissa would just bury her feelings and emotions, compartmentalizing them to stay focused on keeping the other safe. She'd just double down on tasks, and insist everyone on moving forward. But she can't fool anyone, because it shows. Sometimes, she's just staring blankly at something that reminds her of you or snapping when someone questions her out of nowhere. She's spiraling, she knows.

Losing you would devastate Tai, especially if she felt like she couldn't stop it from happening. She wouldn't be able to let herself grieve you properly at all, and things only get much worse when because of that, it manifests into these nightmares or hallucinations where she sees you alive. She would know that it isn't real, her eyes are just deceiving her. But that wouldn't stop her from wanting it to be real.

Aside from those, Tai would become super focused on survival, almost as a way to honor you somehow. Your death makes her sleepwalking way worse than before because despite being asleep with her subconscious mind being the only thing leading her in her sleep, she's seeking you out unknowingly despite everything else.

Van Palmer:

Van would take your death incredibly hard. And one of the ways she would try coping with your death is just by making some light-hearted jokes. It hurts her to think about you, especially after your death, but it hurts her way even more to not think of you. In some way, she ends up thinking your death was a sign. Maybe even a punishment for something she did, something they've done.

Aside from humor, Van would try her best to deflect anything that involves you. She would avoid places (though it can't be helped that she still would come there from time to time) or objects tied back to you, not wanting to confront her own loss directly. If someone on the team questions her about how she's feeling, she will just brush it off with a strained smile and a weak reassurance in response.

Usually at night, when everyone's asleep and when she's all by herself, Van would talk to you as if you could still hear her. As if you were still alive. And despite how pathetic it may seem, she hopes for some sign that maybe you're watching over her. Whether she was involved fully or not with your death, she would blame herself, somehow ending up thinking that her own survival came at your expense.

Natalie Scatorccio:

Whether she could have done something to prevent your death or not, Natalie would feel overwhelmingly helpless. She would be so angry at everything because of your death. She would blame herself, the crash, and the whole universe for your death. It's because of her grief that she would be a bit reckless and take risks for her survival, almost as if she doesn’t care about dying or not because of it.

Nat after your death would be like a ticking time bomb. You were one of the few things grounding her, and with your death comes the push into self-destruction. During desperate times of need with the team, she'd end up lashing at them. More so to those she blames for your death, whether or not they had anything to do with it.

If she had anything that reminded her of you, you can bet she'd be holding onto it tightly. Maybe even sometimes talk to it as if you were still alive. For a while after your death, she'd be bitter towards everyone before begrudgingly just accepting that you're dead and there's nothing she could have done to prevent it. Nat would put up barriers again between herself and the team, just to isolate herself.

Lottie Matthews:

Lottie would try her damnest to convince herself that your death was part of a larger purpose. Something that the wilderness planned (was it even necessary? why did it have to be you out of everyone else?). She would insist on making the whole team follow a certain ritual or just something—anything—symbolic in your honor. If some of them didn't want to, she would become defensive or more insistent with it.

Whether you actually stayed around to see each of them slowly but surely lose their mind more after your death, Lottie will have this belief where she thinks your spirit is around and lingering with her. And this only worsens when she starts having visions of you that are vivid because she interprets them as signs that you're not truly gone.

It doesn't matter if she actually believes in it herself or not, it comforts her. It gives her a sense of purpose despite your death. While she tries to make it seem like your death was kind of a good thing, she's hurting more than she lets anyone see. When the group starts getting more divided, she unintentionally ends up using your death as something to inspire the rest to actually be a team and work together.

Laura Lee:

She's so torn to the point that she leans into her faith about the man from above and believes that maybe in some way—somehow—your death was something that he had planned. That your death wasn't just something done by the universe to be cruel towards her, make her more miserable than she already is. She would try comforting others about your death, but it would be more like she's comforting herself than them.

Despite her belief, she'd wrestle so hard with guilt about your death; wondering almost endlessly if she could have done something—just anything to save you. Over time, she convinces herself that your death was maybe a test of her own faith in him and so. But just like everyone else in the group, she's spiraling. She's falling apart just like all of them are.

Your death challenges Laura Lee’s faith. She'd begin struggling to reconcile why the man from above would ever allow this to happen. But she’d never admit it, she would never admit her doubts and just keep it all to herself instead. She becomes so focused on praying and just having these memorials for you that she becomes hopeless to the point she starts thinking maybe there isn't any higher being out there in the world, it's all just us people ourselves out here.

Misty Quigley:

Misty copes with her grief about your death by hyper-fixation, unable (she's kind of numb to your death) to move on from it fully and accept that you're no longer around. She'd refuse to let go of anything that belonged to you, keeping those things close to her and constantly talking about you as if you were still alive.

Misty would lash out terribly hard at anyone that tells her to move on, she would go on about how they're being disrespectful of your memory by being like that. To punish them in her head and just to be petty, she ignores them for some time completely when they need her. Only actually getting over it once Nat tells her she's being ridiculous for that.

She throws herself into keeping others alive after your death, claiming it's what you would’ve wanted. But she doesn't know that. She just thinks it's what you would have wanted. At some point after your passing, she'll start telling the others she can feel you and that you're guiding her. But no one really believes her. Things only become worse when she becomes more manipulative, using you basically as a reason to justify her behavior.

[enhrtz]

The First Kiss — (엔히아픈)

syp ꕀ the enhypen members are your boyfriends and you guys decided to kiss eachother for the first time

characters ꕀ jungwon, heesung, jaeyun, sunghoon, sunoo, jay, and niki

context ꕀ first kiss, gn!reader, (black writer, some things may sound a likkle weird), jake gets physical (no smut), dancer!niki, fluff, jay has an obsession with stealing your food, ice skater!sunghoon, affectionate!sunoo, (if i’m missing some, let me know✨)

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

JUNGWON. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

“I love you so much!” jungwon giggled, corners of his mouth nearly touching his ears.

you and jungwon were walking out the doors of a fancy restaurant that shined with lights and embraced a chill vibe. jungwon thought it would be cute to take you out on a date and enjoy your sweet presence. your hand was interlocked with his as both of you shared heat in the cold.

“I love you too wonnie!” you cooed, putting your head on his shoulder.

jungwon footsteps became slower and you followed along with him—your heart slightly speeding up in your chest as you felt a different vibe from this moment. he bites the inner muscle of his lip, his dimples poke out and his eyes meet the ground.

“would right now… be a perfect time?”

his boba eyes stared into your face and your hands begin to sweat, a slight noise erupts from your throat as you swallowed nothing but air. your head nodded a ‘yes’ uncontrollably and the gap between the lips of two lovers was sealed. it was cute, sweet, and you tasted a faint red velvety flavor from his tongue.

“we should have done this more sooner” he grinned, giving you a quick peck before moving his feet towards the vehicle that takes you guys home.

HEESUNG. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

heesung was standing behind you at the ‘wheel of fortune’ game at dave & busters and his smile beams when you land on ‘M 1000’.

you jumped up and down like a big kid, gathering all of your tickets putting them in a bag that heesung brought for you to carry.

“what game do you wanna play now?”

“i don’t know… which one?” you questioned, your pointer finger on your lip as you turn every which way to find a game of your interest.

“it’s your birthday love, whichever you want.”

in the process of him saying that you found a game of your choice. you began to speed walk towards ‘hungry hungry hippo’ and heesung followed you with no big deal. he places the bag of tickets down next to him as he sits on the hippo with you, placing his card against the scanner.

you both began to laugh and giggle when you guys fight against each other to catch as many balls as you can in the hippos territory. the game had ended and the results—heesung won and you didn’t but that didn’t matter because you had also won something else.

“babe come here” he gestures you with his hand out.

you grabbed his hand and he sped walk to a location you wasn’t familiar with. it was a dark room and you could smell the faint scent of a strawberry shortcake, which was indeed your favorite.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” everyone shouts, lights turning on and your heart jumps out of your chest followed by a scream that had eveyone in the arcade look at you funny.

you felt a pair of hands on your cheeks, guding your face towards another direction away from the people. your lips being attached to none other than heesung and you suddenly forgot that people were in the room.

“WE reserved this room for EATING.” jay announced, cutting you two out of your, what you’d like to call, “daydream”

you and heesung giggled, as he gives you a quick peck on your forehead.

“happy birthday love”

JAEYUN. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

it was series sunday and you were cuddled up on the couch with jaeyun watching a series ‘outer banks’ while stuffing your throats with delicious snacks.

in the meantime you started to get sleepy and you kept falling in and out. jaeyun noticed and he puts your head on his shoulder, watching the show for you and himself.

“do you want me to tell you what happened after you wake up?” he offered, putting his head on yours.

you shook your head ‘no’ readjusting your body to a better postion to take a nap. your head now on his thighs and your body curved like a fetus, his fingers massaging your head in soft circular motions. your body buzzing with peacefulness.

his touch so warm, makes your body fuzzy you had the urge to kiss him. you guys have been dating for 3 months what could go wrong?

“kiss me” you ordered. jaeyun looked down with his glasses slightly falling down his nose bridge.

“where is this energy coming from?” he says with a slight smile on his face.

“nowhere. i just feel like right now is a good time to try something new”

you sat back up, staring at jaeyun’s tinted red lips and went in for a kiss. his mouth soft, you followed along his movements head tilting opposite of eachother and hands around his neck, his weight pushed your back towards the couch pillows. slight breaths escaped your lips, fogging up his glasses he took them off and kissed you deeper with his body on top of you.

you pulled away, searching for air as you felt your lung capacity fill up with overwhelming joy.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry!” jaeyun apologized, removing his body from above you.

you laid still, shocked as for what just happened and why you did it. you don’t regret what you did and you want more but you believe that kissed proved enough for you.

“you kissed me so good i just… got a bit too ahead of myself”

SUNGHOON. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

“i’m a horrible ice skater” you said as sunghoon was tying up your skates.

“you’re with me you’re going to be okay, i promise. just remember the basics in what i told you. bend your knees, duck walk, and lean forward a little”

you gave sunghoon a stare that stated your fear for the ice. you hated ice skating but you thought going ice skating with your boyfriend wasn’t a bad idea and with that he stands up, holding out his hand.

you grab onto his hand, walking on the carpet floor before sunghoon stepped his foot out the glass door onto the solid ice. his stance was stable and he slightly tugged you onto the ice, it was a gesture of ‘i got you’

feet touching the solid ice you let out a muffled scream when you felt yourself jerk back from how slippery the floor was. sunghoon holding you tight against him, making sure he didn’t break your safety trust.

“remember the things i taught you” his voice calming your anxiety. you unlatched yourself from his tight safety grip and bent your knees, leaned forward, and took small steps one by one.

“there you go. look at you getting it!”

you slightly smile at his words. his presence making a huge difference for you, leading you to finally give trust in yourself to go on your own.

“i got it from here!”

“you sure?”

you nodded, keeping your hands out infront of you duck paddling your way around the rink. you saw sunghoon following behind you, making sure whatever happened he was going to be there to support you.

sunghoon grabbed your hands and skated backwards, dragging you along with him. his stroll on the floor matched the beat of the music playing on the loud speaker and you tried to catch up with his pace but it was too difficult.

sunghoon brushed his slightly red nose against yours, distracting you from the movement and redirecting your attention to the moment. you held his hand with grace and love, feeling warm inside.

pressing a kiss to his lips his skates still strolling acorss the ice, he had no intentions of letting you go even while you guys were sharing love within the lips.

pulling away, you both bumped foreheads and suddenly your fear from the ice disappeared and turned into a smile as you a skate across the ice with sunghoon.

SUNOO. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

sunoo is such an affectionate person, he is always willing to do anything regarding love and you were so down for it.

you and sunoo were at a flower garden, dressed up with soft clothing for the occasion. so many flowers were out on the grass and you didn’t know which one to look at.

“wanna play a game?” sunoo questioned, his attention still on the flowers.

“what game is it?”

“rare flowers. whoever finds the rarest flower has to make dinner tonight. dea—“

you were already on the move, finding a flower you and sunoo hasn’t seen before. you heard his faint laugh from afar and you chuckled. still searching for this random flower. you found a flower that was white on the outside and a slight pink on the inside, you’ve never seen this flower before and with that you picked it up running back up to sunoo noticing he never left his spot.

“i found a flower!” you showed in your hands. “where’s yours?”

“i don’t know, i think my rare flower is standing right infront of me”

you let out a loud ‘aww’ before tumbling him to the ground with a big hug. your bodies rolled around in the flowers, the scent of nature enhancing the mood.

you plant a kiss on his lips, which shocked you both because he wasn’t ready for that and you didn’t expect your lips to move before your brain. you felt awkward inside so you decided to take yourself off of him but he instantly pulled you back down on him sealing your lips together, with the flowers and sunlight on display.

JAY. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

jay was a complete fat ass. he was and will be the first one to take any food away from you, he’ll let you get the first few bites obviously but after that its over.

it’s gotten to a point where you would have to hide your food from him but this time you didn’t need to hide food because you both were on a picnic in central park.

fresh fruits were in the basket, along with a few other snacks that you knew he was going to attack first. you guys decided to paint each-other something that represented your relationship.

setting out the materials, you were in the process of eating strawberries. you put your hand in the basket and realized there was one more left, jay side eyeing you in the process.

“bro. i know you not staring me down over a damn strawberry jay.” you laughed, placing the strawberry on your teeth.

“AHHH!” he yells, turning your face towards him before biting the top of the strawberry, leaving you the other half of the strawberry on your teeth.

you couldn’t stop laughing at your boyfriend and his silly behavior. the strawberry juices dripping from your lips as you used your hand to catch it before it fell on your canvas.

jay chewing the strawberry aggressively, while side eyeing you. he couldn’t hold himself together he bursted out laughing and you two were now a giggling mess.

“i love you,” jay says, leaning forward towards your face planting a kiss on your sweet strawberry lips.

you kissed him back, the strawberry tasted lingering in your tongue and your strawberry lip gloss getting on jays mouth.

“why do you taste like double the strawberries?” he questions, licking his lips.

“i had on strawberry lip gloss dummy”

“mmm. taste good!” he smiles, going back to kissing you.

NIKI. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

you and niki were in the dance room sweating your asses away. you guys were rehearsing a choreography that your manger taught you guys 3 days ago for a show and you only had today to get the counts together and you were stressing.

there was one move you couldn’t hit on the beat and it was frustrating you. niki was doing his absolute best on explaining it with the counts.

“five, six, seven, eight. two, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. got it?”

you nodded your head, barely having the breath to speak. he pressed play on the song you guys were dancing to and when the part came up you immediately hit it right on the counts.

“was it that hard love?” he said, stopping the music and looking at your body collapse on the floor.

“yes!” you responded, nodding in the process. your body weak and you needed a break. you’ve been dancing for 2 hours straight and you ran out of energy.

niki came towards you with one of his hands under your back and the other hand under your legs. he picked you bridal style and walked with you towards the small couch in the corner of the dance room.

sitting down with you on his lap, he turns the AC on and goes on his phone to set an hour break because he know you needed it.

you controlled your breathing in the process of laying on his lap and he had cold towels to wipe the sweat off your body and keep you awake. you stared at him, while he was in the process of taking care of you.

“why are you just staring at me like that”

you placed your hand in your chest. “i can’t stare at my handsome boyfriend while he’s taking care of me?”

niki chuckled. “of course you can. but are you really staring at me or my lips? if you want a kiss just say that.”

he gives you a cocky glare that screamed ‘got ya.’ this was about to be your first kiss with him and you didn’t expect for it to be in a dance room and especially you didn’t think he’d be so bold about it.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up and planting a kiss on his lips. niki’s hands were on your lower back as he was supporting you from falling off of him. slight humming sounds escaped the lips of both lovers and a muffled scream came from you when you heard the door opening.

“alright, let me see what you guys got.” the mangaer announces.

you were standing up while niki was sitting on the couch, manspreading. he pulled his phone out and showed the manager that you guys had 8 minutes left of a break and with that the manager left you two alone.

your heart beating out of your chest, as you turn around to see niki standing in-front of you wanting to be attached to you’re luscious lips once again.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

! not proof read ! ~ likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated :>

[psilactis]

I just watched the first Furiosa trailer and.... I didn't like it

[gallusrostromegalus]

I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.

-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a

~*Spiritual Experience*~

I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.

Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.

He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only BARELY enough space for the fireworks and certainly none for his truck.

So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand. This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.

He begins, and this is crucial to what happens next, by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it unsecured on his lawn.

Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.

His process for unloading the fireworks is to 1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls. 2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things. 3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed 4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup. 5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her. 6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house. 7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too. 8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate 9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed 10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.

Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man? Answer: Absolutely Not.

There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else. (This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual) Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally. Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.

I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.

However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up. and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop" And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."

For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."

I move under the eaves. "Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not." "Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."

Sometimes, the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.

The Gods were not merciful today.

It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this, But I got to see it today. Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before. Oh. I realized as it got closer. That's RAIN.

Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say, five to tent square miles, is instead concentrated into an area of say, my neighborhood exactly.

So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.

The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel. Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge. Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.

My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp. They do not have a tarp. They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.

Which is when the hail begins.

"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy. "HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!" "OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"

I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic. The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor. Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.

So. I was raised Agnostic -but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.

---

(If you laughed, please consider supporting my Ko-fi or preordering my book of Strange Stories on Patreon)

[nikkento-writes]

It starts with a distasteful joke from Gojo. "I bet Nanami's pretty vanilla in bed, am I right?" He nudges you playfully as he sips on his lychee mocktail in the restaurant. Your boyfriend excused himself to use the bathroom and Ieiri went out for a smoke, leaving you alone with Gojo, who you met for the first time just a little over an hour ago.

You're shocked that he'd even ask such a personal question, especially since your relationship with Nanami is still four-months fresh. Unsure how to respond, you simply laugh, not answering. When he continues to stare at you through his blindfold, your smile falters. "You're being serious?"

He smirks, clearly egging you on. "I just can't imagine our little strait-laced salary man being very fun in the sack. No offense."

You're torn between changing the subject all together into something less inappropriate and defending your lover's honor. And unfortunately for you, as the anger inside you begins to bubble at Gojo's tactless words, you choose the latter. "If you must know, he's very, very fun in the sack." You cross your arms over your chest, glaring at him. 

He shrugs, the shit-eating grin still on his face. "I just can't see it. But as long as you're satisfied, that's all that matters."

"I am very satisfied, thank you very much!" you emphasize, cheeks hot now, annoyed. Before you explode on him, Nanami and Ieiri return, so you try to contain your rage as much as possible throughout the rest of dinner.

You intend to keep his outrageous comments to yourself, not wanting to start any unnecessary drama, especially with Nanami who is above this type of ridiculousness. But remembering Gojo's smug expression makes you irate all over again. That night, while you're cuddling with Nanami, you share the story. "So, Gojo said something funny to me while you were in the bathroom." As you recount the short conversation from earlier, you keep it light-hearted, laughing about it as if it doesn't grind your gears (which it does). In all honestly, your sex life with Nanami is amazing, and while it's nobody's business but your own, you can't help being bothered that certain people think otherwise. 

When you're done, Nanami doesn't respond right away, processing it all before he speaks. "Interesting." His voice is steady, though you can sense a hint of annoyance in his tone. "He's an idiot," he adds, holding you closer, grazing his lips on your forehead. 

You giggle, snuggling into his chest. "I know."

"But...you are satisfied, right?"

The waver of uncertainty in his voice breaks your heart and you almost regret telling him. "Of course I am! You know I am!" you answer confidently, peering up at him.

He kisses your forehead. "You promise?"

Grabbing both his cheeks, you smooch him on the lips. "I promise."

Gentle kisses soon turn into sloppy ones as Nanami rolls on top of you, surrounding you in his strong and muscular body. It happens quickly; the blanket is shrugged off, clothes are stripped and scattered on the floor, your legs are spread wide for him as he eats you out voraciously, proving how much fun he can be in bed. He makes you orgasm twice like this, getting it nice and wet for his hard cock, throbbing in his fist as he strokes it. “Ride me,” he demands, laying on his back, licking his lips while you mount him.

You oblige, sinking down on his cock slowly, adjusting to his size. “Fuck, Kento,” you whine, wiggling on his lap until he bottoms out.

“Feels good, huh sweetheart?” He traces your mouth with his thumb, teasing it.

“Yes. So fucking good.” You suck on his fingers, rocking back and forth on his lap. 

He fucks you like this, his feet planted on the bed, bucking his hips up into you at a steady pace. Suddenly, his phone rings, interrupting for a moment. He glances at it, his expression tensing, showing you the name displayed on the screen: Gojo Satoru.

"Answer it," you say, grinding on him with a wicked smile on your face. "Prove him wrong."

For a split-second, he looks at you like you're crazy. But something in him snaps, probably the same thing that made you so angry earlier. Sometimes, you just want to prove yourself right. 

He picks up the phone, putting it on speaker. Gojo's voice rings out. "Nanami, I feel terrible. I said some inappropriate things to your girl - "

"Fuck me, Kento," you whine, bouncing on his lap as he thrusts up into you faster, entire body hot and electric with pleasure. 

Nanami has the phone in one hand and the other that was just in your mouth playing with your clit now. Through labored breaths, he says, "Sorry Gojo, I'm a bit busy being an absolute bore in bed. Isn't that right, kitten?" 

He holds the phone closer to you while you moan your boyfriend's name, your third climax of the night approaching quickly. "Kento, Kento, fuck me Kento!”

Satisfied, Nanami sets the phone down on the bed, gripping your hips to pound up into you, the squelching of his cock pummeling into your wet cunt so erotic and lewd. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Gonna breed this slutty little pussy.” Over the edge now, he shoots his load inside you, letting out his own husky moans. He hastily lifts you off him to eat you out one last time, his cum leaking down from your cunt onto his chin as he sucks on your swollen clit until you come on his face, moaning obscenities incessantly. Completely spent now, you pull off him to cuddle, kissing each other messily as you both come down from your high. 

"Ahem." Gojo's voice startles you as you realize that neither he nor Nanami bothered to hang up the call. Horrified, the two of you wait with bated breath for his response, noting the suggestive ruffling in the background. "I apologize. I stand corrected."

[alexiroflife]

how jjk men would react if they found out you sh…

Warning(s): cw//self harm, graphic depictions, mentions of depression, anxiety, sensitive content, angst/comfort

-> if you or anyone you know is struggling with self-harm, suicidal thoughts, depression, etc., know that you aren’t alone. as someone who used to struggle with these things myself, i understand how difficult it can be, but know that you are strong and you are loved. and thank you for the ask, this is a very important topic and i appreciate the vulnerability of the request. sending all the possible love in the world to all of you.

gojo, geto, nanami, toji, choso, sukuna

satoru gojo: satoru has an incredible sense of sight, thanks to his gift of the six eyes, as well as very keen observation skills. he picks up on little habits you harbor very quickly during the beginning of your relationship. you always choose to wear long-sleeved clothing, even when it’s warm, and you tug at your sleeves as though you are desperately trying to conceal a certain part of yourself from the outside world, from him. he doesn’t understand why at first. the thought crosses his mind that you just aren’t comfortable in sleeveless clothing, but you’ve shown him pictures of yourself from a decade ago when you’d wear variations of different tank tops, short sleeves, and more. he doesn’t understand what changed somewhere along the line. perhaps your sense of style has shifted? maybe you don't like your arms? (he can't understand how because he finds them to be the most gorgeous arms he's ever seen).

but no, something is nagging at him in the back of his head, churning the contents of his gut as though there is something he needs to know, to see that you were hiding, and when the moment unveiled itself, he instantly saw. 

you’re in your kitchen while satoru watches you from the other side of the island, leaning over and gazing at your movements with a soft smile. his blue eyes scattered across your body, admiring you while simultaneously searching for any clue, any answer to his hovering questions.

“where’d i put the containers,” you murmur to yourself in the midst of making lunch for the week, moving about your space rather slowly. 

satoru offers his own help, pointing a slender finger over to the space above your head. “did you check that cabinet?” he asks.

you turn over your shoulder and quirk your brow. “oh, do you live here now? suddenly know where everything is?” you ask playfully, a small smile rising to your lips as satoru chuckles. 

“not yet,” he winks. “but i sure am working on it, though. you know i have to make myself familiar with the space in case we share it someday.”

“is that so?”

“or, of that doesn't work out you could always live with me. i’d love to have you.”

“we’ve been together for three weeks, satoru.”

“yeah, but what does that matter when it comes to loveeee,” he pouts and you giggle, shaking your head as you turn back to reach for the cabinet. you stand on your tiptoes and reach out, sleeve of your sweet draping down to your elbow.

satoru is quick to his feet to help you, though you’re more than capable, when he catches the sight of what looks like a scar streaking over the inside of your wrist. his face falls and his brows angle, marching over to you quickly with a look of urgency on his face.

you don’t register how fast he is moving until you feel him behind you. you turn and look up, caught off guard by the way his eyes had hardened and his pupils shrank. your hand stalls on the cabinet handle, the scars on your arm completely slipping your mind momentarily.

“satoru? you okay?”

he doesn’t answer, grasping your wrist in his hand gently and pulling it down from above you. your eyes flicker up to the movement, and when you realize what is happening, your heart sinks. your eyes go wide and you try to tug your arm away, but satoru’s grip tightens slightly, extending your arm by your wrist to display the inside of your forearm before him. 

he thinks his vision is blurring over, his heart ringing in his ears, his breaths quickening as his eyes detail over the row of rigid scars lining from your inner elbow up to your wrist. his world collapses around him, lips stretching into a disbelieving grimace as his wild eyes survey the damage. some of those scars look newer than others, scabbing over with specs of purple, while the others are far older. 

you panic, trying to tug away again, but satoru’s grip on you is too secure. a lump forms in your throat as you search for things to say, anything to say that could take your boyfriend’s attention away, that could excuse the sight before him as something else. “s-satoru, wait-” you stammer, your voice weaker than you had intended it to be. 

satoru looks like he can’t hear you, nose flaring as he stares, and stares, and stares, and suddenly, your vulnerability is bare naked before him, on display for him to judge, to belittle, to curl his brows at and determine as pathetic and weak. you can feel yourself about to cry already, shaken by this sudden attention.

“satoru,” you whisper, arm trembling within his grasp.

“what is this?” he breathes out so quietly, his voice betraying himself and hardly reaching over a brush through the wind. when you do not answer, those pained eyes are on you, tormented by the sight he has just witnessed. “(y/n), what is this?”

you feel small, avoiding his eyes and looking all over the floor. “i- it’s nothing,” you murmur.

“nothing?” he repeats, as though he has been burned by your response. the white haired man quickly seeks out your other wrist, reaching down to your other side as you try to turn away, but he, of course, manages to seize it and extend it like your other arm and roll up that sleeve. the same row of scars litter your beautiful skin.

satoru’s a mess, frightened, confused, devastated. this is what you had been hiding from him all this time? “this isn’t fucking nothing, (y/n), they’re all over you! what did you do?”

you still can’t respond, you can’t muster up an excuse, you can’t do anything. satoru’s concern is far too overbearing, his gaze too intense, and his hold on you too secure. it feels like he has you laid out on a slab before him, stripped of your clothes as he examines your body with contempt.

he’s disgusted. he’s ashamed, you think. 

amid his grief, he catches the terrified look in your eye, your lips tugged downward as if to prevent yourself from crying. you look so scared.

how could he have not seen this sooner, that you’re hurting? that you’re hurting yourself? 

“baby, what did you do?” he repeats, softer this time as he leans down to look at you, your body trembling in his hold. his thumbs graze your inflamed skin, hesitant to touch you for fear that you may break.

“please don’t,” you breathe out in a huff, voice wobbling as you scrunch your eyes closed. “please, don’t look. just forget you saw it, please.”

“forget i-?” satoru has to stop himself from lashing out poorly, from allowing his emotions to overcome him in what he understands is clearly your moment of need. “how could you ask me to do something like that? (y/n), your arms, baby!”

“satoru, please-” you shake your head. you want to shrink away, to hide, to vanish into thin air. “i don’t wanna talk about it. please.”

“(y/n),” he exhales, closing his eyes to gather himself. “(y/n),” he repeats softly, hands releasing your wrists slowly and sliding up your arms to delicately hold your shoulders. “we can’t not talk about this. you have to tell me what’s been going on. you have to, baby, you have to understand how scared I am right now. help me understand. let me help you, let me take on whatever burden you’re carrying, please, I’ll do anything as long as it means you’re not hurting yourself.”

his hands move to your neck, cupping over the skin as he ducks his head down to look at you more clearly. 

“i can’t stand the thought that you’ve been- and i haven’t-” satoru was stumbling now, throat straining as the urge to cry rose. “why didn’t you come to me? i’m right here for you, (y/n), i always have been. why didn’t you tell me?”

“...it’s embarrassing,” you manage to say, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking. you can feel your boyfriend’s eyes peering into you even with your own eyes closed. “didn’t want you to see… I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

satoru’s heart is breaking for you, hurt that you could even think of yourself as a burden to him. “have i- have i done or said anything to you to make you feel that way?” he asks genuinely, and you cringe, turning your head to the side to open your eyes.

“no, of course not.”

“then why would you think that, baby?”

you shrug helplessly, tears welling into your eyes. satoru sees you, all of you, his heart thrumming to capture the pain you feel and to lift it from your chest, to help you breathe even just a little bit. he releases a weighted sigh, one of sadness, of love, of heartache for you, and he’s pulling you into him as your arms dangle limply at your sides. 

you scrunch your eyes and immediately break down into him, sobbing into his shirt as his warm hands wash over your frame and cradle your head to him, the muscles in his face tight with anguish. he holds onto you like he’s horrified that you will fade away within his arms. 

“i’m just so tired, toru,” you cry into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt. “i’m sorry.”

satoru doesn’t respond, afraid that if he speaks, he’ll end up crying too. you’re his girl, his beautiful, loving girl, and the fact that you have done such harm to yourself is incomprehensible to him. if you love him so, how can you hate yourself enough to have done this?

“how long?” is all he can ask you, breath heaving into your hair and ear. you hesitate, for he already seems so wounded by his discovery. “tell me.”

“...two years…”

he’s crushed. how did he not see sooner? how could he have been so blind after having bragged about being able to see everything so clearly? how could he have left you like this?

he holds you tighter, digging his head into the crook of your neck and hunching over, your eyes now seeing over the curve of his broad shoulder. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” he apologizes to you in turn, fingers curling into your hair as he holds your scalp. “i'm sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

you’re confused as to why he’s apologizing to you since the entire thing is your fault. satoru has a tendency to take on your emotions, piling them onto his own weight of carrying the title of the strongest. you never understood why he did so naturally and willingly, and why even now as you stood limply in his arms, he’s crying for the things you did to yourself.

he pulls away with shiny red eyes, gazing down into your shiny red eyes and tear stained cheeks. you’re so beautiful, he thinks. he hates that such beauty has been suffering in so much silence.

“(y/n), I love you more than anything in this goddamn world. please don’t- don’t keep doing this to yourself. if you’re hurting, come to me. hurt me if you have to lash out, but don’t hurt yourself beautiful.”

“i would never even think of hurting you, satoru.”

“then don’t think of doing it to yourself,” he says firmly, and you press your lips together. 

“…i-i don’t know how to… to stop,” you mumble, and he’s taking your hands in his and kissing them gently.

“i’ll help you. we can get you help, baby, I promise. just promise me, please,” he begs you, holding your hands close to his heart. “you come to me when you feel like doing that, okay? you come to me. and I’ll do whatever I can. let me help you. let me be there for you. i won’t let you push me out, (y/n).”

you're crying again, tears streaking over your face as satoru’s love captures you within his words, within his warmth as he forces you to understand that you are not alone, and never will be. 

satoru kisses your hands again. his lips reach your cheek, and his hand comes to tuck your head into his shoulder again, holding you and telling you that you have him to go to when your world grows dark.

geto suguru: if suguru could sum you up into one word, he would say that you're his universe.

everything in his life he does for the sake of you and his girls, for the sake of keeping you safe and making you happy. your happiness and your comfortability are the only things that suguru prioritizes above all else, making them his very goal to serve each and every day.

suguru's not the most stable, you know that and he knows that himself. he has his off days, where he falls quiet and the world around him numbs itself and the noise becomes a muffle in his ears until you step into view, giving him a smile and wrapping his big frame up in your small arms, your voice whispering to him and breaking through the fog. you're his sanctuary. you're his safe place, and he loves you so much. he owes his entire life to you, therefore ensuring that you feel just as loved as you make him feel is very important to him.

so when he catches sight of the scars on your stomach one day by accident, when you lift up mimiko to sit on your shoulder as nanako jumps up for you to pick her up to, and her shoe kicks up your shirt from your waist momentarily, suguru freezes.

are you hurt? did someone do this to you? did you do this to yourself?

countless thoughts are racing through suguru's mind as he stares at you in a daze, watching you laugh so joyfully along with the girls as though no trouble plagues you.

but there is. you've just been hiding it. hiding it far too well.

his mind is elsewhere for the rest of the day, unsure of if he had been imagining things or not. he knows you so well, or at least he thinks he does. how have you been hiding those marks littering your lower abdomen? how had he missed them?

he thinks back to the moments you two were intimate and recalls that you never wanted to remove the tanktop you wore or let him kiss further than your ribs. he recalls the days you all went to the beach and you kept a white shirt over your swimsuit or elected to wear a onepiece. he recalls how quickly you change when he's with you, your back turned to him as you rush to throw something on over your upper body.

the signs... they're all there. you've been hiding yourself from him, but why? what have you been doing? have you truly been harming yourself, or is that thought a trick of suguru's worst fears?

he tries to keep himself calm around you and the girls for the remainder of the day until they are put to sleep and the two of you are alone again.

you sit on the edge of your shared bed, rubbing lotion over your arms with your back facing suguru again. he watches you carefully, back resting against the headboards and hazel eyes trained on your figure as though you aren't real.

he waits for the proper moment, waiting for you to crawl up and curl under his side, his arm subconsciously wrapping over your waist as your head lays on his chest. he stares at the ceiling for a moment, thinking as weighty silence overcomes you, then he's cautiously speaking.

"(y/n)?"

the soft call of your name brings your head up to peer at him curiously, blinking innocently. he turns down to look at your face and his heart clenches. while he knows that he knows what he saw, he doesn't want to believe it. he doesn't want to think that you, such a selfless and caring person for him, would hurt yourself.

you hum up at him, wondering what he has called you for. you see the pensive look in his face, the subtle knit in his brow as he stares at you, gears in his head turning. "yeah sugu?" you say gently.

he doesn't want to ask, but he has to. he doesn't want the confirmation, but he needs to know.

"i want to ask you a question..." he says, and you grow slightly befuddled.

"...okay?" you start. "is it serious?"

"yeah, it is," he admits, and you suddenly grow nervous, immediately catching an idea of what this could be about. you don't like the look on his face, the way he appears so serious.

"...alright," you mumble, suddenly meek.

the black haired man stares for a few more moments, just looking at you, taking in your the features he feel so deeply in love with, the features that bring him comfort and peace. "i saw something earlier, when you were holding mimiko," he begins softly, thumb caressing your back to ease you into the conversation.

you feel your heart jolt anxiously, trying to keep a straight face so as to not give your nerves away, but knowing suguru, he could likely already tell that you're getting antsy.

you lift your head to look at him, hand resting over his chest, and his eyes follow you smoothly. his eyes are focused, lips in a firm line.

"your shirt lifted, and i saw your stomach. i saw some marks. a lot of them, actually," he says, and you still completely, like a deer caught in headlights. his hand presses gently into your back, trying to keep you present with him as his concerns grow worse when he sees you stiffen against him. he frowns, denial still taking hold of him. "(y/n), please tell me those aren't what i think they are," he sighs heavily.

you feel caught.

you knew that suguru would find out at some point or another, but that didn't make this moment any less horrifying for you. it's so quiet in your room, so isolating, no background noise of the girls giggling or the distant buzz of the tv to help weaken the intensity of this point in time. you feel like a spotlight is shining overhead, an audience awaiting eagerly for you to reveal your secrets to the crowd.

suguru sits up slightly, his calmness gradually shifting into terrified incredulity. your eyes are on his face but your gaze is elsewhere, far off. you look uncomfortable, stuck, and no explanation hits suguru's ears.

"(y/n)," he says your name again, looking desperately down at you. "tell me i'm wrong."

you wish you could, you really do, but you can't lie to suguru. he knows you too well, he loves you too much, and to lie to him would be like denying his understanding of who you are.

you feel your skin flush with shame and anxiety, heartbeat likely loud enough for your boyfriend to hear.

you worry. you worry about your boyfriend's judgment, for his reaction. is he going to be angry with you?

"hey," he snaps you out of your daze with the drag of your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes as he stares at you helplessly. you look at him and frown, ashamed that you are the reason he looks so pained. "what's going on?"

the question comes out so delicately, it makes your heart break. a whisp of understanding blends into his tone with empathy, yet a crushing sense of sadness and guilt that overpowers the aforementioned emotions. you struggle to look him in his kind eyes, dreading his consolation that you feel you don't deserve.

"talk to me, (y/n)."

you chew angrily on the inside of your lip, looking down at your finger as you pick at his shirt. he watches your brows furl, an array of different feelings capturing your features. "i was gonna tell you about it..." you murmur, and suguru is floored.

"what?" he breathes out as though he has no more air. you wince, lowering your head. "you-" he pauses, mind jumping from one place to another. "you did that to yourself?"

"i'm sorry, i-" you can feel your throat growing tight. "i've been trying to-"

"to stop?" he tries to finish for you, grasping for any kind of explanation. he's devastated, not only because you've been harming yourself, but because you've been so busy looking after him and the girls that he hasn't noticed. you're the one who always comforts him, but while you've been doing that, you've been aching on the inside and trying to hide it.

you nod meekly when he concludes for you. "i just- i thought the feelings would go away, so i didn't say anything, but they're just getting worse and i don't know what to do anymore and i only feel better after i..."

"(y/n)," he stops you gently, his heart shattering upon listening to you ramble, spilling out the things you have been holding onto for what he assumes to have been so long. "you've been dealing with this all this time?"

"...it's on and off," you confess. "some days are better than others, but..."

suguru finds your words familiar, for he often finds himself in the exact same mindset; feeling functional and confident some days, and others, not so much, but you're the reason why he's able to handle his bad days, yet he hasn't been the same for you for as long as the two of you have been together.

he feels almost sick. he loves you to death. you're his everything, but you've been in pain, and he hasn't seen it.

the way he's looking at you now makes you feel guilty, remorseful, embarrassed. you know you should have told him, but you could never find the strength to. you had always been too scared. and the longer you self-harm, the less you are willing to admit to yourself and to your boyfriend that you have a problem.

you're shocked, though, when suguru's hands tighten over you and his face grows bitter, not with you but with himself. "how could i have been so stupid?" he grumbles, distraught. "and so selfish? all this time, you-"

"no, suguru, please, it's not your fault," you try to tell him.

"i should have seen, baby, i should have noticed something sooner. and all this time, instead you've been looking after me when i should have been looking after you."

"don't say that, suguru," you shift, looking sadly into his eyes. "it's my fault. i'm the one who did this, i'm the one who's to blame. i'm the stupid and selfish one, not you."

suguru's frown deepens, sad eyes looking over your face. you blame and belittle yourself just as easily as suguru does, and he can't stand it. he can't stand to see you like this, to be so aware of hurt before him. he wants, no, he needs to take all that pain away from you. he needs to exorcize it, rid your body of it, cast it away so that you can be happy from now until the rest of time. he needs you to be okay.

"i swear on my life, (y/n)," he begins firmly, eyes boring straight into yours, holding your cheek. "i will do everything in my power to get you through this. whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes, i will be here for you. you're not alone, you understand? you don't need to pretend for me. the girls love you- god i love you so fucking much, and i can't stomach to think of the times you've suffered in silence for my sake. i'm no good if you're no good, baby. i need to know these things, i need to be able to help you."

your nose twitches and your jaw clenches as you look into him, breathing growing unstable. suguru has always been so generous and so loving. he has a way with his words and how safe they make you feel even during your worst moments.

"but what if i can't do it, sugu?" you whisper, his thumb catching the tear that leaks from the corner of your eye. "what if i'm not strong enough to get better?"

"you are strong enough," he affirms confidently. "more than strong enough. and when you feel weak, lean on me. but you have to promise me something."

you nod slowly, mutely, keeping his gaze as he stares at you lovingly, wistfully.

"promise me you won't do it," his words come out as a quick, hasty breath. his brows curl further upward, his desperation plain on his pretty face. "promise me you'll let me know as soon as you want to, but don't hurt yourself again, (y/n). don't do it. i'm begging you. you don't deserve that pain."

though you are unsure if you can even make that promise to yourself, you force yourself to try. for suguru's sake. "okay," you mumble, and he sighs, kissing you softly and pulling you to his chest to whisper sweet nothings as his hands soothe over your stomach and your back.

nanami kento: you twist your fingers around each other as you sit in the living room while kento cooks in the kitchen. you're nervous, more nervous than you have been about anything in your entire life, but you know that you need to rip off this bandaid to approach your boyfriend about such a serious matter.

recently, you find yourself returning to the old habit that you believed to have been relinquished. you thought that you had gotten better, that the urge to self harm had completely gone away after having spent so much time in therapy trying to heal, but recently, you've been feeling down again, useless, angry with yourself. you didn't want to tell nanami at first because you didn't think that your current mood would go beyond feeling depressed, but now that you've started scratching away at your thighs and your arms again, you know that you need to let him know what's going on. you know that you can't go on like this anymore.

but you have no idea what to say.

nanami has been nothing but doting toward you, bringing you flowers every morning, making your meals, ensuring that you remember to schedule doctor's appointments or to keep yourself warm when it's cold out- the man's life revolves around your comfortability, and while you know he would be far more offended if you keep this to yourself, you're horrified to see his reaction when you tell him that you relapsed.

nanami is well aware of your past difficulties with your mental health, and he always tells you that if you are ever in a dark space again, he needs to know. even so, he hasn't been with you when you're like this. the two of you got together after the multiple therapy visits that helped you to shift mindsets, so now that you feel this way again, and while in a relationship with nanami no less, you feel petrified.

you don't even notice when he rounds the kitchen counter to make his way over to the dining table, setting down two plates of food. he looks over and catches the way you stare ahead blankly, lost in thought. you've been doing a lot of that lately and he wonders if something is wrong.

nevertheless, he knows that if something is bothering you, you'll tell him. "sweetheart, dinner's ready," he calls out, and you snap your head over to him, his voice bringing you out of your daze.

you stand wordlessly, movements somewhat robotic, as you slowly make your way over to the table. "thanks, ken," you say softly, lacking your usual energy, and at this point, your partner knows for certain that something is off.

he watches you carefully as you sit down, pushing in your seat for you and pecking your forehead before sitting down next to you. "tell me how your day was," he starts, brushing off his hands and reaching one out to rest one on your knee as he always did at the table. he's prying, you can tell, trying to learn if something that happened throughout the day affected your mood.

your heart is hammering loudly, your eyes stuck to the plate and unable to look up at him. "it was okay," you respond.

"just okay?" he questions and you nod slowly. "did something happen?"

you flicker your eyes up to his brown ones suddenly, caught off guard by the question. he sees the questioning in your eyes and replies accordingly.

"you seem to be a little off, this evening, that's all."

you hum, unsure of how to respond to his observation. you look away again, contemplating. just say it, you think. just tell him, just get it over with.

as you struggle against yourself, nanami only grows more concerned. you don't confirm or deny his comment, and the way you turn away has him wondering if he's done something to hurt you.

"did i do something wrong, darling?" he asks.

you furrow your brows and quickly shut down the idea. "no, no. not at all, ken. it's nothing you did."

"then... there is something troubling you?"

you stall a bit more now that you're on the spot, cursing the fact that kento is always so quick to pick up on the smallest changes in your demeanor.

"(y/n)?" he calls you when you don't answer.

"i have to tell you something," you say abruptly. you see nanami's brows raise ever so slightly, soft brown eyes looking over your face in an attempt to read the situation before you tell him anything. "it's... a lot. so i need you to just... bear with me. and please don't be mad."

nanami's brow twitches slightly as he looks at you, head tilting. he grabs the bottom of his chair and shuffles it closer to you, leaning over slightly and running his hand over where it resides on your knee.

"i could never be mad at you," he tells you earnestly, as though it's the most honest thing he's said in the world. "what's the matter, my love?"

god, he's so sweet to you it makes you physically ill that you have to break this news to him.

"...do you remember when we talked about... um..." your voice fades off, nanami's concentrated gaze only making you more nervous for what his reaction will be.

"take your time," he encourages you, and you only feel worse.

you return to chewing on the inside of your lip anxiously, picking at your shirt under the table. the blonde man beside you is ever so patient, allowing you to gather your thoughts before you verbalize them.

"...um...it's.... about what we talked about a while ago..."

"...and that would be regarding?"

"my... past."

nanami furrows his brows, still not quite understanding. "i apologize, honey, what about your past?"

just rip the bandaid. just rip the bandaid.

"my past with self-harming," you rush out, and the weighty silence that follows is enough to make you want to sink into the floor and let it swallow you whole.

you can feel his eyes burning into you, processing what you just told him, and all you can hear is the pound of your heart in your ears as his hand stills upon your knee.

nanami, on the other hand, is completely shocked by your revelation. while he understands that your relapsing has always been a very realistic possibility, he never wanted to entertain the idea that it could very much so happen- at least, not while he's around.

a sense of fear grips him. are you going to tell him that you relapsed? have you already hurt yourself? has he failed to be there when it happened??

"did you-" he doesn't know what he wants to ask, or how. he hates that he is already jumping to conclusions, but the way you are structuring this conversation with him only leads him to believe the worst. "what happened?"

your head hangs low and your fingers taut on your shirt, lips tightening as they press together. you can hear the disbelief in his voice already, and it breaks you.

"i relapsed."

the brown-eyed man clenches his jaw, falling completely silent once more to not react in a way that may worsen your state. you feel his hand tighten into a fist over top of your leg as he lowers his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingers and inhaling sharply. you feel like a child who is awaiting punishment as you look at his hunched state, a million questions of what he will do next running through your mind.

you hate to do this to him. nanami already has so much on his plate, you know this is the last thing he needs to be stressing over. you wish you could be okay for him. it's not his fault that your mind takes you to these places, and you don't want him to bear responsibility as though it is his doing. even so, you already know that he will because that's the type of man kento is. that's the type of boyfriend kento is.

you wait a few more moments in unbearable muteness. after what feels like forever, kento lifts his head again and rests his chin on his fist, elbow propped on his knee. he's looking to the side, deep in anguished thought. he no longer looks surprised, but rather guilty and frustrated. "when?" is the first thing he asks.

"yesterday," you answer dejectedly, and he almost jerks, his body twitching in reaction. "...are you mad?"

nanami looks at you and his hardened expression immediately softens into something melancholy. "no- no, of course not, (y/n), no," he shakes his head as if the notion is unfathomable, releasing his fist to cup your knee again more securely. "i will never be angry with you for what you're going through. never. no, i'm not mad."

you nod quickly, a meek sense of relief and sorrow taking over you, a weight heaving from your chest upon letting it out. "okay," you whimper.

"come here, my darling," he coaxes you softly, opening and grabbing your hand from under the table delicately to lead you to stand over him. his hand guides over the small of you're back once you're up, leading you to sit on his lap with your back pressed against the table and your legs dangling over one side of his chair.

he holds your forearms gently, looking up at you with sad, understanding eyes. "are you comfortable showing me?" he murmurs so intimately, easing you into his warm consolation.

you don't nod or answer him verbally. instead, you wordlessly roll up the sleeve of your sweater to reveal angry red scratch lines running up your inner forearm. nanami's lips curl in pain as though he can feel the sting of your scars, holding your arm gently for him to look over it.

the sight kills him, though he tries to keep his cool. this isn't about him, it's about you, but goodness, the image of the scars on your beautiful skin makes him hurt like no other pain he's experienced.

"is this all of it?" he asks you, and you shake your head.

"there's some on my thighs," you mutter, looking down.

he nods. "alright," he sighs. "alright."

"...i know you have so much on your plate already... i just-"

"don't. don't even," he stops you, eyes still roaming over your irritated skin. nanami usually commends himself for remaining collected in times of crisis, but he's desperately fighting a part of him that wants to yell out and cry for the sake of you.

he imagines you struggling with this on your own, long before he came into your life, and the thought makes him cringe to picture just how far this must have gotten. these scratches he is surveying now already look bad enough. were the other ones worse?

"(y/n), you know this isn't okay," he looks up at your face and sees how you are avoiding his eyes. you look so small compared to how you usually carry yourself, and it kills him. "to harm yourself like this... you can't treat yourself this way, darling, you know you can't."

"i know," you mumble. "i just had a moment, and now i'm scared that- that i'll go back to how things were."

"as long as i'm with you, you won't. i promise you that," nanami swears. "it was just this one time since you last?"

you nod. "yeah..."

"okay," he nods once more, convincing himself that this is something he can help stop before it gets any more out of hand. "why'd you do it this time, my love? what were you thinking that led you here? is there something i can do differently? is it work? is it a combination of things?"

"i wish it were that easy to explain, kento," you frown, glancing up at him helplessly. "but it's just... it's just a feeling i can't put into words. i can't pinpoint the source. i just... one minute i felt like i couldn't breathe, and the next i was..."

"okay," he repeats, letting you know that you no longer need to say anything more. you don't have to revisit it. he understands. he will take care of it. he'll help you. "okay, darling. how about this. i call off of work tomorrow and we can sit and talk about seeing a new therapist. then we can go out and do whatever you want. just for fun. does that sound okay with you?"

your nose flares and your lips tug to the side as you nod, truly not comprehending how you managed to find a man so patient with you. "yeah, that's good," you say softly, and nanami is at least relieved that you are willing to take further steps into a better direction.

"good," he whispers, rolling the sleeve of your sweater back down so that you no longer feel exposed or feel like you have to think any more about the things you did to yourself when you felt alone. "it's alright, my love. we'll get through it. you'll get past this just like you did last time," he encourages you, moving to caress your shoulder lovingly as you hold his gaze. "it's okay," he tells you again, and you nod weakly, leaning over to plop your head against his shoulder.

nanami holds you to him and exhales, food completely forgotten. his only priority now is to be there for you in the ways he could not before the two of you met.

"thank you for telling me."

choso kamo: choso worships the ground you walk on because he can not fathom a world without, nor the fact that you happened to stumble into his life on a whim. to imagine you hurt is the very worst thing that the man can think of, and the notion that you would hurt yourself is beyond his comprehension.

you aren't actively trying to hide any of your scars when he finds them. the scars are old, faded reminders of the pain that you used to endure and how you attempted to cope with it. while you are now six months free of self harming, the scars remain very present.

choso happens to catch sight of your scars when you are getting changed. he's sitting at the edge of your bed, face flushed, as he watches you blissfully change out of your pajamas and into clothes that you feel are best suited for a walk to the ice cream shop that choso has proposed. it's a bright sunday afternoon, and the brunette is eager to take advantage of the weather with the woman he holds close to his heart as well as his baby brother, who the two of you intend to meet at the store.

you're now dressed in nothing but a large white shirt and underwear, your legs bare as you strut around the space freely. choso's jade eyes follow you as you walk, completely obsessed with the way you move. he could watch you do the most mundane things for hours, which he truthfully tends to do anyway.

your back is to him before you round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom momentarily before coming back into the living room. choso's eyes still don't leave you, tracing over your face down your figure and finally to the front of your bare legs.

he falters, and his brows draw together when he catches dark marks littering over your inner thighs, only revealing themselves with the movement of your limbs as you walk.

the pale-skinned man grows confused and slightly concerned. he's never seen those marks on you before, and simultaneously, never on anyone else he knows either. he finds them to be a strange form of battle scars, especially due to the placement, the small size, and the sheer number of them. some of them take different shapes too, blurring together or over each other, while some stand out alone. they almost look like burns, but it's hard for choso to really tell.

you proceed about your business, searching through your drawer to pull out a skirt, when choso speaks up.

"love? what are those?" he asks curiously, perplexed.

you turn over your shoulder, shutting your drawer closed with your foot. "hm? what's what, cho?" you ask him, unsure of what he's referring.

choso, still slightly flustered by the vision of your half exposed body, nods his head into the direction of your lower legs. "those," he says again, and you look down, still lost.

you lift your foot momentarily, checking to see if something is stuck under or on top of it. you then survey the rest of your body, searching for something out of the ordinary. "uhhh," you trail off. "i'm not sure what you mean, baby. you're talking about my legs?"

you are far too desensitized to and familiar with the image of your scars to process that choso has never seen them before. the brunette, however, is unsatisfied, wanting an answer that you have yet to provide.

he leans forward, lifting his hand and pointing his finger directly to a patch of dark spots peeking out from your inner thighs. you follow his gaze, eyes landing on the culprits, and your shoulders drop in realization. "oh," you say shortly, choso retracting his hand.

he looks at you innocently, awaiting a response while you try to figure out how to explain this sight to him.

you don't want to worry him, but knowing choso, if you lead with the fact that these scars are there because you inflicted them onto yourself, he would have a heart attack, failing to find reason to your words.

even so, you know choso only wants to understand you as much as you desire to understand him. he wants to see the ugly parts as well as the beautiful parts of you that he is so drawn to, and if you hide it from him, that would only create a rift in your budding relationship that you aren't entirely too keen on creating.

you want him to know you, all of you, and these scars are as much of a part of you as the bones in your body and the blood pumping through your skin.

they're a sign of what you've been through, what you've overcome, and who you are now. they're important, and choso should know why they are there.

"that's a good question," you sigh, putting your skirt on the bed as you move to sit next to him at the edge of it. choso immediately turns to you, glancing over the marks shamelessly now that he has a better view of them.

"did someone do that to you?" is the first thought that crosses his mind, red drifting into his vision at the mere idea that someone has hurt you in such an intimate way.

"...no," you shake your head, lifting one leg up onto the bed, brushing his own, as the other dangles. "i put them there. a while ago," you explain honestly.

choso scrunches his brows tighter, eyes flickering up to your face then back down to try to identify what exactly the marks are. "what are they?" he repeats.

you exhale, puckering your lips as you prepare yourself for this difficult conversation. "they're burns, cho. from a match," you tell him.

now, the half-curse is incredibly confused. burn marks? on your lovely skin? in a place where only you could reach? put there by yourself?

you burned yourself?

"i don't understand," he frowns, shifting to face you better. "why would you..."

"i used to be in a really bad place, baby," you purse your lips, watching as his face contorts with consternation as he comes to understand that you purposefully harmed yourself.

"what do you mean? bad enough to do this to yourself?" he sounds mortified, his voice growing ragged the moment his tone picks up volume.

his pupils, moments ago blown pools of affection, are now shrunken dots of shock.

"don't look at me like that," you beg him, placing your hand over his own. his eyes snap to the sudden contact, then back to you with concern. "sometimes, when certain people are suffering from depression, or anxiety, or just overall bad thoughts and they feel like they have to... break out, or maybe punish themselves in a sense... they resort to hurting themselves."

choso gulps, lump forming in his throat as he listens to you with shaking eyes. "and that's what you did? you felt like you needed to punish yourself?"

"it's hard to explain to someone on the outside. i know it sounds... crazy, but it was the only way i knew how to cope with everything that i was dealing with."

"why didn't you come to me instead?" he immediately asks and you give him a sad, knowing look.

"because, we didn't know each other then, cho?"

"i don't care," he shakes his head, eyes keeping yours. "you should have found me."

the idea brings a hint of a smile to your lips, choso's sweetness warming your heart. "i didn't know who you were, baby, that would have been like begging a stranger for help."

"so?" he scoffs. "i loved you the moment i met you. it wouldn't have made any difference to me.

you sigh again, bringing your other hand to rest over top of your boyfriend's as you smile softly at him in an attempt to get him to calm down.

the panic is still written all over his face as he takes in your smile, the vision somehow only making him sadder. you're so gorgeous, inside and out, and that smile is only scratching the surface of your unending beauty.

to know now that your radiance was once outweighed by the torment in your mind encouraging you to harm yourself... well, it makes choso want to ball his eyes out. it makes him want to confront the physical manifestation of your past traumas and pummel it into the ground, bashing its head in for all the hurt that it has caused you.

"i ended up just fine, cho," you reassure him.

"why didn't you say anything before? were you trying to keep it from me?"

"no, baby, i just didn't think to tell you. i kinda forgot about them," you say, and that comment alone makes choso soften his features slightly.

"you forgot..." he recites your words. "does that mean you're better now?"

you hum in affirmation, smiling warmly. "it's been a while since i've hurt myself or done anything like that. i got through it. i'm okay now, these scars are just a permanent reminder of the past."

his frame sags slightly with relief, brows lifting as he looks over you with a blank expression. "i think i understand," he mumbles, looking back down at the marks. "i'm sorry you ever had to go through any of that."

"it's not your fault. you weren't there."

"i wish i had been. so i could have helped more. i know you said you're better, but maybe if i had been there i could've stopped you from hurting yourself at all."

"i wouldn't put that responsibility onto yourself, cho. it was my responsibility."

"still," his brows arch slightly. "i would have stuck with you every second of every day to make sure that you never had a second alone to do any of it. i wouldn't have let you, and i won't let you now." a thought seems to pop into his head when he finishes his last sentence. "you wouldn't go back to trying to hurt yourself, (y/n), would you?

you exhale. "i mean, i'd like to think i wouldn't, but sometimes these things aren't linear," you admit. "i just know that for now, i'm okay."

"the second you're not, though, you'd tell me?"

"yes. i would."

"you promise?"

"i promise, baby."

"okay," he sighs. "because i don't think i'd be able to function knowing you're upset."

the brown haired man leans over, carefully holding your thigh as he looks over your marks again, no longer flustered by your bare skin but entirely focused on the severity of your burns. you look down at him, hands slipping from his own as he surveys you closely like he's a doctor.

"they don't hurt anymore, do they?"

"nope. just scarred."

choso looks at you for a bit longer in silence before looking back up at you from his hunched state. "can i kiss them?"

you laugh softly, hand falling into his hair at you gaze at him with your heart aglow. "you want to kiss them?"

he nods. "so they can feel loved."

you coo, thumb smoothing over his temple as his eyes swell with adoration right before you. "of course you can."

toji fushiguro: toji is absolutely no stranger to scars. he's a human man with no cursed energy, having had his fair share of close calls on risky jobs that have left him with slashes over his calves, small pierces in his flesh, and cracked callouses. then, of course, there's the scar on his mouth bestowed upon him by his oh-so-loving family, which will be stuck with for the rest of his life.

scars follow toji like moths follow a flame, and he's numb to it. he believes that they are a part of life, both physically and mentally, especially with the kind of life that he leads. whether the wound is a large one or a small one he can barely see, he accepts scars as a part of who he is-

who he is.

while toji likes to parade around with a hardened exterior decorated with faded, scabbing wounds, that is something he deems fit for him and him only. he doesn't care what other people do with their lives as long as they leave him the hell out of it, but for the love of all the money that he has acquired over the years slaughtering sorcerers, he will be damned if he finds a single, tiny little scratch on your body.

scars are for toji, not for you, his darling little girlfriend and the day he finds out someone has hurt you enough to leave behind a mark is the day he's putting several bullets into the culprit's head.

toji's worst fear, though he hardly discusses it, is losing you and watching you get hurt. god, he practically lives to protect you, and to feel as though he has failed to do so would wound him detrimentally. he's a tough guy, but you make him so soft, and admittedly he wouldn't want to be soft for anyone but you. you're his rock, his little hot head, and he loves you more than life itself.

if you're hurt, he will lose it.

therefore, when he finds out that you're self-harming? oh, he's on the verge of losing his fucking mind.

he does a double-take when you step out of his room and into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around your body, his eyes widening and his brows arching immediately.

now, toji knows your body inside and out. he's explored every inch, he knows every crook, every crevice, every mark, every texture, and he has never once in the six months you have been together seen the red lines over your inner wrist.

he watches you with twisted lips as you grab an orange from the counter before walking back into his direction. you're almost back into the room when toji calls you.

"uh uh," he stops you, and you pause, turning over your shoulder and purposefully moving your left wrist to press into your towel.

"what?"

"come here," he orders and you give him a strange look.

"why?"

"i wanna see somethin'. come here."

you're quick to snap back easily with your own sarcastic retort, clearly in a foul mood over something. "if you want to fuck, can you wait until i'm fully dried off and after i finish this?' you hold up the orange in your other hand, a perturbed look on your face.

"i don't want to fuck, (y/n), i want you to come here."

toji's voice comes out sternly, and on the verge of anger. you survey his posture, his arms leaning over his legs as he cranes to look at you with a suspicious, firm expression. you can tell that he's serious, and a sudden sense of fear overtakes you that you mask with annoyance.

you don't say a word when you slowly walk up to him, crossing your arms over your chest to conceal your wrist, the hand holding the orange tucked under your elbow.

"what is it?"

toji holds out his palm. "give it."

"...my orange?"

"put it in my hand."

you huff, carefully maneuvering your arm around to keep your inner wrist pointed toward your body as you bring forward the orange and plop it aggressively into his hand. toji watches your other arm the entire time, taking clear note of how you refuse to let your wrist show, and you know you're fucked.

the green-eyed man tosses the orange to the side of the couch and holds out his large palm again, eying you intensely. you look down at him with a frustrated frown, shrugging. "i don't have anymore oranges."

"don't be cute, doll."

"what? do you want my hand?"

"you know i want your hand."

you roll your eyes, raising the hand you had held your orange with when he stops you. "not that one. the other one."

your heart pangs, shaking your entire body as he looks to you expectantly. how the fuck had he managed to notice the scar on your wrist so quickly?

the moment you hesitate, he knows that what he saw earlier is something to be concerned about. you normally never hide yourself from toji, and the way you go about hiding your arm now is defensive enough to raise several brows. he knows you're not dumb, too. he knows that you know exactly what he wants to see.

"(y/n)." he cocks a brow, the severity of his demeanor only making you more uneasy.

he can't see. he can't see what you've just done. he'll hate you. he'll look at you like you're crazy.

"what if i don't want to give you my hand?"

"then i'll just grab it for you, and i don't think either of us wants to go there."

you release a trembling, aggravated breath. you can't get away with anything when toji's around, and while you ponder having chosen to get an orange later, you know deep down somewhere you wanted toji to see. you wanted him to help you, which is why you walked out of that bathroom half an hour after having put those scars on your arm.

"hand, now."

you turn your eyes away with a grunt, slapping your wrist into his hand facing downward. toji is quick to whip it upside once he has a grip on you, and his eyes seem to freeze over the sight of three fresh slices on your upper forearm up close.

his jaw clenches, then unclenches, then clenches and unclenches again as his lips twitch and his eyes adjust to the vision. you're hurt. not only are you hurt, but it looks as though you've recently been hurt. you've hurt yourself.

toji has a hard time figuring out what to do. he's not good with things like this, but he knows that seeing you with scars on your arm is quite literally about to set him off. he always imagined having to defend you from others who seek to hurt you, but never having to defend you from yourself.

he can't fathom it. he's struggling, the muscles in his eyes are twitching, and he can't handle it. he can feel his heart begin to race, unsure if he is angry or scared or mortified or devastated.

there are three lines in your arm. bright red. staring right back up at him.

and you put them there?

no way, you put them there.

but you did. clearly you did, or else you wouldn't be looking so guilty right now.

but when did you? how did you? why did you?

he doesn't know what to think. he doesn't know what to say. he swore he'd always protect you, but how does he even begin to try to protect you from yourself?

"are you out of your mind?"

the question leaves him rather calmly, a low inquiry that you are unsure is meant to be directed as an insult or a genuine ask.

you can't look at him. you don't even know what to think yourself. it had all happened so fast while you were in the bathroom, before you got into the shower.

one minute, you were staring angrily in the mirror, cursing your reflection as your wicked thoughts sprouted grubby arms and guided you toward the pair of brow scissors that you kept in your makeup cabinet on the left side of toji's bathroom.

you wanted to feel in control of the disdain you felt lurking within your soul. you wanted to feel something for fear that you would never be able to feel again, and before you knew it, you were dragging the exposed blade over your skin.

"d'you wanna explain why i'm looking at these cuts on your arm, (y/n)?"

and you know, you know that it's a bad sign when toji uses your name instead of the plethora of pet names he normally elects to call you: doll, princess, mama, girl, pretty baby- anything but your actual government name, and when you hear it roll from his tongue under these circumstances, you can only imagine what's going through his head.

you shift on your bare feet, looking down at your toes. "dunno," is all you say, and toji scoffs in disbelief.

"you don't know?" he emphasizes. "that's all you have to say?"

"if you wanna embarrass me, go ahead, toji. seriously, i'm tired."

"what the fuck makes you think i wanna embarrass you? i wanna know why the fuck my girlfriend walked out of the bathroom with cuts on her arm!"

you rip your arm away immediately when he yells, storming back off into his room and slamming the door behind you.

toji jumps up, suddenly frazzled. he doesn't want you alone in there. he doesn't want you out of his sight.

the navy haired man moves quickly to his door and grabs the handle, only to find it locked. he jiggles it harshly and bangs on the door. beginning to panic. "open the door, (y/n)," he shouts, meeting no reply.

little does he know, your back is pressed against the other side as tears crash over your cheeks. you don't know how you expected toji to react, but the look on his face just now and his tone of voice was enough to send you running off.

you feel ashamed, weak. you shouldn't have gone out there at all. you should have waited until you were dressed, discarding the whole idea of letting toji see what you did so that you could suffer in silence without his help, because what help could he truly provide anyway?

toji's a tough man, but he's soft for you. he would stand in front of a moving train for you. he would sacrifice his life for you, so when you don't answer, he imagines the worst.

"open the door," he says again, weaker, tugging desperately at the handle though he knows it won't budge. he knows he could break the door down, and he's prepared to until he hears you sniff amdist his pounding. he immediately stops, face dropping.

fuck.

this is bad.

he knew it was before, but for some reason, it's only now registering how bad this is.

you're in pain. you hurt yourself because you're in pain and you need him, but he doesn't know how to help you. he's never dealt with anything like this before.

his hand slides from the door and to his side, forehead knocking against the door though his other hand remains tight on the handle. he just needs to see you.

"princess," he mutters defeatedly. "don't make me kick this door in."

silence.

"please," he softens even more. "please, (y/n), let me in."

the house falls quiet once more and you give in. you feel so lost, and the only person who can at least comfort you, in his own way, is toji.

you slowly turn to unlock the door and step back as toji opens it swiftly, staring down at you with wide eyes and at least relieved to see that you haven’t done any further harm to your body.

he does, however, see your tears.

his face tightens as he bends down to scoop you up in an instant, your legs and arms tightening around him as you snivel into his shoulder, his large palms sliding over your body. he feels your small body tremble against him as he walks the two of you over to the edge of his bed, sitting down as you cling to him like a koala.

"i dunno what happened," you whimper into him. "i dunno why i did it. i dunno. i dunno."

you say it over and over, your voice as broken as toji feels listening to you.

he wishes he knew what to do. he wishes he was better equipped to handle this, but never in his worst nightmares did he dream that he would find you here, his fiery girl, the love of his life.

he's been so busy trying to protect you from the outside world that he hasn't even thought about the things that could harm you from within.

he stays silent as you babble to him through tears, holding you just like he knew how. he doesn't want to picture those scars on you. he doesn't want to picture what led you to put them there. he just wants to hold you, to at least let you know that he's here and he's not going anywhere. he may not know how to help, but he knows how to love you and he hopes that's enough.

"i'm not letting you out of my sight, y'hear?" he says gruffly into your ear and you nod meekly. "i'm not letting this happen ever again. not as long as i'm alive."

he mentally swears to rid your house and his of any and every sharp object he can find and to throw it all in a safe as you sink into him.

toji knows how to protect and toji knows how to fight. though he's more acclimated with fighting others, if he has to fight to protect yourself from your innermost demons, then hell, he will find a way to do just that.

sukuna ryomen: lord help you and lord help anyone within a fifty-mile radius when the king of curses discovers that you've been harming yourself.

sukuna is not at all very good with his words or his expressions of affirmations. he is a being of action, and he believes that he has proven his love for you enough by simply allowing you to be in his presence longer than anyone else ever has or ever will.

at first, when he sees a scar or two on your leg, he thinks its just an accident or a result of you being clumsy. then, three more pop up, then five, then far more than he's even willing to count, and he decides that this scar pattern is somehow intentional.

he knows no one else has marked them onto you because he is prepared to kill anyone who comes too close, especially if they have ill intentions. if you were in danger at someone else's hand, he would be the first to know and the person meaning you harm would be dead before they could even think about touching you.

therefore, when he sees that the only person normally within your company is him, uraume, and yourself, the process of elimination leads him to you.

he goes about confronting you rather harshly, as well, for he knows no other way to be.

you're out in the garden of his large residence one day, soaking up the sun, when you hear familiar, loud stomps heading your way from behind.

you turn around and squint to peer up at sukuna, who is standing over you with a menacing glare in his crimson eyes. you don't necessarily find this out of the ordinary, so you greet him as usual.

"hi, kuna," you say sweetly. "you good?"

he is not good. not at all, so he gets straight to the point. "come inside, woman."

you quirk a brow. "why? i just got out here?"

"do not question me."

"can it wait, like, fifteen minutes?"

"do you wish to live in the next fifteen minutes?"

you sigh, entirely too used to sukuna's facade of cruelty around you. you know by now that the king of curses would never dare to hurt you.

"i do intend, to live, yes," you smirk.

"then you will come inside as i have demanded."

"no, sukuna. i want to stay out here for a bit. i've been inside all day."

the pink haired man fumes, teeth grinding together in agitation. he doesn't want to delay this conversation any further than it has already been delayed, but of course, you choose to be difficult.

"very well, we will do this out here," he growls and you smile.

"good."

you don't prepare yourself for when sukuna grabs the back of your chair and whips out around to face him with the unpleasant screech of the legs against the cobblestone. you wince, then retract your face when sukuna lowers his to stare at you from mere centimeters away, one of his arms grasping to push up the lose leg of your shorts up to reveal the set of scars littering your skin.

your eyes go wide, his movements too quick for you to process all at once.

"are these your doing?" he hisses and you gulp.

"s-sukuna-"

"i did not ask for you to say my name. i asked if these scars are your doing."

his eyes are piercing, striking directly into yours. "what are you talking about?" you whisper shakily.

"are we going to pretend like you're an idiot now?" he snarls. he's so mean, but he feels it's for good reason. your body has been tainted, and for some reason, you have been doing the tainting. he needs to know why.

you shake your head weakly. "no..."

"then answer me properly. i will not repeat myself a third time."

you bite down on your lower lip, heart ringing in your ears. you didn't even know sukuna paid attention to you enough to catch wind of something like this.

"yes... i did this," you finally tell him, and sukuna is livid.

"and why would you be doing something so foolish? scars are not something you are meant to give yourself, human."

"please don't be a dick, sukuna, not right now."

"i am asking a perfectly reasonable question and i expect you to answer it," he glowers. "now."

"you wouldn't understand if i told you," you frown and he clicks his tongue.

"stop assuming things of me before i lock you inside of my room where you can not escape or even fathom doing something like this to yourself again under my supervision."

you curl your brows, frowning up at your boyfriend. "if i tell you, you'll call me foolish."

"because this is foolish," he grunts. "but i will not if my doing so will get you to fucking explain yourself."

you shake your head, looking down and contemplating before deciding to just get it over with so that he can stop putting you on the spot. "sometimes i just feel shitty," is all you elect to say.

but sukuna is hardly satisfied with this response. "so you choose to inflict pain upon yourself instead of calling upon me?"

"i told you, you wouldn't understand," you say. "it's not something i can easily explain to you either."

sukuna narrows his eyes. "fine."

he lowers himself to grab you legs and throw you over his shoulder. you squeal, grabbing onto his back as he begins to walk you back into his home and toward his room. "sukuna!" you kick your legs around. "put me down!"

"no. you're coming with me, and you're going to sit and talk me through every single thought that has crossed your little mind to make you think that injuring yourself in such a way is tolerable within the walls of my residence. then after that, you'll come with me everywhere i go from this point on."

"what?!" you exclaim from where you hang upside down. "I don't wanna go everywhere you go," you wine.

"too bad. you should have thought of that before you decided to harm yourself."

sukuna is horrible with words, and far more horrible with expressing his concerns, but despite your temporary discomfort with how he goes about approaching the situation, you can still see in the pinch of his brow and the stiffness of his posture, combined with his refusal to let you go without a proper explanation, that he cares very deeply for your wellbeing.

[remlionheart]

⊹ ࣪ ˖☁️ daydreaming about...

𓆩♡𓆪aged up characters, MDNI𓆩♡𓆪

sweet boyfriend yuuji who is just so proud to be yours. he's standing with a group of friends, aimlessly talking and laughing when he sees you walk out of your dorm, his attention immediately stolen by the way your sundress hugs your hips. "damn, do you see her?" like he hadn't just walked you to class thirty minutes earlier in the same outfit. "she's so pretty, isn't she?" even after a year of dating, you still manage to leave him awestruck every time he sees you.

sweet boyfriend yuuji who purposefully leaves lots of extra clothes at your house. at first, he said it was just so that he didn't have to bounce between your apartment and his as much, but after stopping by late one night and seeing you curled up on the couch in nothing but his hoodie and a pair of knee-high socks, he suddenly abandoned nearly all of his clothing at your place instead, absolutely enamored by how cute you looked walking around with his t-shirts hanging off of your shoulder.

sweet boyfriend yuuji who knows all of your favorites- from snacks to pizza toppings to your longwinded coffee order that he rattles off like a pro in the drive-through, not missing a beat when asking for two extra pumps of vanilla with oatmilk and a strawberry cakepop, though the cakepop usually ends up with a bite mysteriously missing out of the side of it by the time it gets to you.

sweet boyfriend yuuji who sincerely loves listening to you yap. your coworker said what to her boyfriend? and he didn't even deny it? "oh, he's so guilty- he's not even trying to hide it at this point!" yuuji scoffs, completely enthralled by the gossip though he's never met either one of these people in his life. he's always asking you questions though, always encouraging you to keep talking. always wanting to know all the little details of your world, no matter how big or how small.

sweet boyfriend yuuji who looks up at you as he pulls your underwear to the side, light flickering through his golden stare as his fingers begin to carefully dip into you. "aw, does it feel that good, baby?" he has to bite back a smile at how pouty your nod is, your walls desperately clenching around him. "so wet already," he muses, his mouth suddenly hovering over your center. "you must've really missed me today, huh?" a cute little yelp escapes you as he finally leans in to give you want you want, flattening his tongue against you in a way that makes both of you moan. "yeah, i can tell."

sweet boyfriend yuuji who grabs onto the headboard for support as his hips meet yours, letting out the prettiest, headiest noises. "where do you want me, baby? show me." he pants, eyes glazing over as he watches you place your hand on your tummy. "right there? you sure?" you can barely get out an "mhmm" though before he's thrusting back into you- so attentively and so deeply, the two of watching together as the thick outline of his bulge begins to swell against your skin, his mouth dropping open at how overwhelmingly good it feels. "that's my - girl."

[whisperofwonder]

Comfortable

Uncomfortable domestic moments when you realize just how comfortable you are together, and how much he really cares about you

I just really love domesticity, okay? Even when it isn't pretty.

Featuring: Kuroo Tetsurou, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Miya Atsumu x reader

(a few potential triggers here, sorry!) TW: vomit / vomiting in Kuroo's ; blood/period in Ushijima's, then you'll have Atsumu's which is really just light and kind of goofy oops

KUROO TETSUROU

"Ugh," You moan as you reach to flush the toilet. You get to your feet and turn to find Tetsurou still hovering behind you. You grimace thinking about how he'd held your hair back just moments ago, as you released the entire contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl.

He hands you a cup of water. "How are you feeling?" He asks as you rinse out your mouth - it's a silly question, all things considered, but you don't exactly have a snarky answer at hand.

"I'm sorry," You blurt instead, not quite sure how he can be looking at you with that almost tender expression on his face after witnessing that.

"Why are you apologizing?" He asks softly, reaching to unstick a sweaty strand of hair from your face.

"Because, it's so gross. You didn't have to come in here," You insist. "I'm an adult, and - you really shouldn't have to see that." You purposefully avoid glancing in the mirror. You don't even want to know what you must look like right now.

"But I don't want you to feel gross alone," He says as if it's simple. You open your mouth, searching for some kind of retort, but nothing comes. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn't have to," He continues. "Not when I'm right here."

It's so surprisingly sweet that you feel your face start to crumple. "Tetsu," You squeak out.

"Shh," He shushes you, "Just tell me what I can do. Do you need anything?"

"I just want to go back to bed," You admit, reaching out to grab the edge of the sink as you feel yourself begin to waver.

"Okay then," He says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he scoops you up in his arms, slowly carrying you back to the bedroom and setting you gently on top of your pillows. "Try to get some rest," He murmurs, pulling the blankets up over you. "I love you," He adds, brushing the hair away from your face.

"I love you too," You murmur back, leaning into his touch and the comfort of the knowledge that he'll always be right here.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

Your alarm feels even earlier than usual, and after confirming that it is indeed time to get up, you turn it off with a groan. You're feeling particularly at odds with the world already today, and part of you just wants to pull the covers over your head and go back to sleep. Instead, you slither out of bed, standing next to it as you check the e-mail notification that had popped up overnight.

"Oh," At the sound of his voice, you turn to look at Wakatoshi. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and he's looking at you with a slight frown on his face. "My love..." He gestures down at your side of the bed, and to your horror, you see a streak of red on the otherwise pristine sheets.

Suddenly, the way you're feeling is making a lot more sense. "Oh no," You drop your face in your hands, muffling your words. "That's absolutely disgusting. I'm so sorry." You don't even want to look at him, but at the sound of rustling sheets, you finally drop your hands. Your boyfriend is methodically stripping the bed.

"Why don't you get in the shower? I'll start washing these." He says matter-of-factly. There must be something in your expression, because you see his face soften. "It's alright. It's natural," He assures you.

"But-" You can't put into words how mortified you are. Natural or not, he shouldn't have to see it, much less clean it up. "At least let me do that," You insist finally, reaching for the pile of bedding.

"No," He twists away so that it's out of your reach, "I've got it. Just get in the shower, okay?"

"You shouldn't have to, though," You say more softly.

"I don't have to," He agrees. "I want to help you. Can I do that?"

You bite your lower lip, trying not to let your hormonally-charged emotions win this battle. "Okay," You say finally.

"Okay," He echoes you, dropping the sheets into the laundry basket before crossing the room back to you, gently taking your face in his hands and pressing a kiss to your lips. "I'll make you some tea to have with breakfast," He adds after he pulls away. "Will that help?"

"Yes," You whisper, the I-love-you hidden in his words practically echoing in your head. You can't resist pulling him back in for one more kiss, hoping he feels the I-love-you-too that you press into it.

MIYA ATSUMU

"Atsumu!" You knock on the bathroom door, "Are you soon done?" It's moments like these when you really regret that this apartment has only one bathroom.

"Just got in!" He shouts back above the sound of the running shower. You bite back a sigh. He's famous for his long, hot showers.

"I really have to go!" You call back. "Can't you make it quick?" You're on the verge of pacing back down the hallway, just to help you hold it in.

"The door isn't locked! Can't ya just come in and go?" You freeze. It might be silly, but it's an unspoken milestone that you haven't crossed yet - peeing in front of each other.

"But!" You groan.

"But what? Ya've seen me naked before," You can practically hear his smirk.

"Tsumu," You whine, but in a matter of moments, you open the door anyway. It's gotten to the point where you don't have much choice. With only a moment's hesitation, you put up the toilet lid.

"How was yer day?" Atsumu begins conversationally.

"We're not doing this," You say quickly. "I'm going, and then I'm leaving the bathroom."

You hear him sigh. "Want me to get out and pee too, so we're even?" He asks, completely serious.

"No!" You say quickly. "I'm leaving now." Before he can say anything else, you're closing the door behind you.

About 10 minutes later, Atsumu finds you in the kitchen, towel wrapped around his waist as drips of water slip from his hair. "Guess we're a real couple now," He grins, leaning in and pressing a damp kiss to your lips.

"We weren't before?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"'Parently not. Didn't know it was such a big deal," He says with a smug grin. "How will I ever look at you the same again?"

"Hey!" You swat his bare shoulder indignantly. "It was your idea." You remind him.

"Guess so," He hums. "Know what? I think I still love ya just as much." His smile is softer somehow, despite the teasing glint in his eyes.

"Oh?" You ask, struggling to maintain your haughty expression.

"Yeah," He nods. "Looks like you're stuck with me." He leans in for a longer kiss, almost making you forget about the small puddle that's begun to form on the floor.

[pucksandpower]

Die With a Smile

Charles Leclerc x death!Reader

Summary: desperation is a dangerous thing — six seasons without a World Drivers’ Championship has left Charles willing to do anything for glory … even pay the ultimate price (or in which Charles Leclerc sacrifices everything for Ferrari and, thanks to you, learns that death is nothing like he expected)

Warnings: major character death

Charles Leclerc has always been one for precision. Calculated. Calm. But now? Now there’s nothing left. Precision has eroded into a recklessness that terrifies and excites him in equal measure. The pursuit of glory is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Melbourne is hot, the air thick and sticky with anticipation. He stands in the paddock, helmet in hand, eyes tracing over the sea of faces. Reporters, mechanics, engineers — all of them moving with purpose. The season begins here, but he can’t shake this feeling that something else is starting too.

He frowns, scanning the crowd again. Something — or someone — has caught his attention.

You stand there, leaning against a barrier, watching him. Quiet, still. You don’t belong in this chaos, yet somehow, you fit. It's not like the usual glances from fans or the admiring stares from strangers. No, this is different. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you pulls him in, like a thread slowly unraveling.

His grip tightens around the helmet. “Who’s that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone nearby.

Pierre, standing a few feet away, catches the tail end of his question and follows his gaze. “Who?”

“There.” Charles nods subtly toward you. You’re still there, eyes locked on him. Unblinking. He swallows hard.

Pierre shrugs, oblivious. “No clue. Probably a fan or something. You good?”

Charles doesn’t answer. You’re not a fan. You’re something else. His heart thuds in his chest, a slow, deliberate beat, like a countdown. He can almost hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words feel empty. He’s not fine. He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous, and you’re the reason why.

Suddenly, the world around him — the voices, the clamor of the paddock — fades, and it’s just you and him. You, watching him with a calmness that unnerves him. And him, standing there, frozen, unable to look away.

“I’ll see you after the race,” Pierre says, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Charles doesn’t even register his friend’s departure.

He doesn’t move, his body rooted to the spot as if some unseen force has pinned him in place. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why can’t he look away?

There’s a flicker in your eyes — something fleeting, something dark. His pulse quickens. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, in mirrors, in the faces of men with nothing left to lose.

But you … you wear it differently. Effortlessly.

Charles takes a step toward you. His boots hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and suddenly, he’s walking, moving through the crowd without really seeing anyone. His focus narrows, sharp and deadly. He can feel it, the pull, the way his every step is dragging him closer to something he can’t explain.

And then he’s standing in front of you.

You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you’re waiting for something.

His throat is dry. “Who are you?”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick and unyielding. And then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, as if considering the question.

“Does it matter?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft, but it cuts through the noise around them like a blade.

He blinks, thrown off balance. He expected — he doesn’t know what he expected. Something more. Something less. But not this.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “I think it does.”

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest, but your eyes never leave his. “And why is that?”

He hesitates. Why does it matter? He’s not sure. All he knows is that standing here, with you in front of him, he feels something heavy pressing down on him. Like time is slipping through his fingers, like he’s running out of chances, running out of-

“You’re in my head,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you in my head?”

You don’t answer right away, but your gaze sharpens, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “Maybe because you’ve been looking for me.”

His breath catches. “What?”

“You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve been waiting for this. For me.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, like everything he thought he knew about himself is crumbling.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

You raise an eyebrow, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. It’s not a kind smile. It’s knowing. Cold.

“Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The world around them feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like it’s closing in on him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That sound again. It’s louder now, reverberating in his skull.

“You’re scared,” you say, and it’s not a question.

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. Because you’re right. He is scared. But not of you. He’s scared of what you represent. Of the way his pulse pounds in his ears, the way his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t understand.

And you know it. You see right through him.

“This season,” you say, your voice low, “it’s your last, isn’t it?”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t expect to come out of this alive.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “I don’t have a choice. I either win, or …”

“Or you die.”

His breath hitches. The way you say it, so matter-of-fact, so final — it shakes him. Because it’s true. He’s been feeling it for months, this gnawing sense that if he doesn’t win the championship, there’s nothing left for him. He’ll push until he breaks. And he doesn’t care anymore.

But how do you know that? How could you possibly know?

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends.

You don’t flinch. “You’re right. I don’t.”

The implication hangs between you, unspoken but loud. There’s something inevitable about this. Something neither of you can control.

He takes a step back, suddenly needing space, air — anything to break the tension building between you. But even as he moves, he can still feel the weight of your gaze on him, can still hear the ticking in his head, louder and louder, counting down to something he can’t escape.

“You’re wrong,” he says again, though this time, it’s more for himself than for you. “I’ll win. I’ll be fine.”

You don’t argue. You just watch him, that cold, knowing smile still playing at the edges of your lips.

“We’ll see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as you appeared, leaving him standing there, heart racing, mind spinning.

He should be focusing on the race. On the championship. On everything he’s spent his entire life chasing.

But all he can think about is you. And the way his time feels like it’s running out.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The roar of the engine fills his ears, drowning out everything else. The speed is intoxicating, the way the car moves beneath him, barely hanging on to the asphalt, the tires biting into the corners with every turn. He’s pushing harder than he should — he knows it, and he doesn’t care.

Spa is unforgiving today. The clouds hang low, threatening rain, and the track is slick, treacherous. Charles feels the tension in his body, every muscle taut, every nerve on edge. There’s no margin for error here. He’s on the edge, teetering, dancing with disaster. But that’s where he’s been living for months now — on the edge.

He downshifts hard coming out of Blanchimont, the rear of the car twitching beneath him. His heart pounds against his ribcage. He’s faster than he needs to be — faster than is safe. But he can’t let up. The rest of the field is closing in, and the gap between him and the car ahead is shrinking. Just a little more, just-

Then, suddenly, the car snaps.

A violent jolt sends him skidding off the track, the rear tires giving way, and for a brief, horrifying second, he loses control. The world tilts, and all he sees is the blur of gravel and barriers rushing toward him. Instinct takes over. His hands are a blur on the steering wheel as he fights to regain control. The tires scream against the ground, the car skidding sideways, throwing him against the seat belts with bone-rattling force.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his heart pounding in his throat. He’s losing it, the car sliding further into the runoff area, the barrier looming closer.

But then — somehow — he recovers. The car snaps back into line, and he breathes out a shaky breath, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel. He’s back on the track, the car steady beneath him, but his heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Charles, are you okay?” His engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, tense and urgent.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. His hands are trembling, his vision is still blurred with the image of the gravel, the barrier — the almost crash. For a split second, he saw it. Saw what could have happened. What should have happened if his reflexes hadn’t kicked in.

He pulls the car to a slow halt, off the track now, coming to rest just inside the gravel trap. The engine hums, a low, steady sound that does nothing to calm him.

He sits there, breathing heavily, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed. He’s been reckless before, but this? This was different. He came so close to-

And then he feels it.

A presence.

His eyes snap open, and there you are. Standing just beyond the fence, not more than twenty feet from where his car rests. You’re watching him, the same way you did in Melbourne, your gaze locked on him with that unnerving calm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s imagining it. The adrenaline is still pumping, his mind is spinning, and maybe — just maybe — you’re a hallucination. But no. You’re real. You’re standing there, just beyond the track, watching him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Charles, talk to us. Do you need assistance?” His engineer’s voice comes through the radio again, but he can’t respond. He’s frozen, staring at you through the shattered remnants of the race.

“Charles?” The voice repeats, more urgent now.

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if you’re considering something, as if you’re weighing his fate in your hands. And then, without a word, you take a step closer to the fence, your eyes never leaving his.

“Not yet,” you say, your voice somehow carrying through the din, through the chaos of the race and the pounding of his heart. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as if you’re standing right next to him. “But soon.”

His blood runs cold.

He knows what you mean. He knows, deep down, that this is a warning. He can feel it, the weight of it pressing down on him, like the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to something inevitable.

He swallows hard, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words stick in his throat. “Who — who are you?” He manages to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer. You never answer. Instead, you just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you already know how this ends.

The world around him feels distant now, like everything is moving in slow motion. The sound of the engines, the cheers of the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just you and him, locked in this strange, silent moment.

“Charles, we need you to respond,” the engineer’s voice cuts in again, breaking the spell for just a second.

He fumbles for the radio, his hand shaking as he presses the button. “I’m — I’m fine,” he says, his voice strained. “Give me a minute.”

There’s a pause on the other end, but they don’t push him further. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s been reckless, yes. But this? This feels like more than just a close call. This feels like a warning. Like you’re here to remind him of something he’s been trying to ignore.

“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. But your eyes — they tell him everything. You’re here because of him. Because of the choices he’s making, the risks he’s taking. You’re here because he’s running out of time.

“You said … in Melbourne …” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He remembers what you said. That he’s been looking for you, even if he didn’t realize it. That his time was running out.

And now, here you are. Again. Watching him.

“I don’t need you,” he says suddenly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m not done yet.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t flinch. It’s as if you’ve heard these words a thousand times before.

“I will win,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to win.”

You take a step closer to the fence, your gaze unwavering. “We’ll see.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. Maybe it’s both.

He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin. He wants to shout at you, to demand answers, to make you go away. But deep down, he knows you’re not the kind of thing you can just wish away. You’re something else. Something bigger. Something he doesn’t understand.

And yet, you’re here. Watching. Waiting.

“I don’t have a choice,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “I have to win.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The truth is already hanging between you.

Tick. Tock.

He can hear it again. That ticking. It’s louder now, more insistent, like the hands of a clock speeding up, racing toward some unseen finish line.

Charles shakes his head, as if trying to clear the sound from his mind. But it’s no use. The ticking is there, buried deep in his skull, a reminder that time is slipping away.

“I can still do this,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I can still win.”

Your gaze softens, just for a moment, and he wonders if you feel sorry for him. If you pity him.

“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the closest thing to compassion he’s heard from you. “But at what cost?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die in his throat. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it will cost him. He doesn’t want to know.

You take one last, lingering look at him, your eyes scanning his face as if memorizing every detail, and then you turn, your figure disappearing into the haze of the track, swallowed up by the world beyond the fence.

He sits there, still trembling, still shaken. His fingers slowly unclench from the steering wheel, and he lets out a long, ragged breath.

“Charles?” His engineer’s voice again, but softer this time. “Are you okay? We’re ready to bring you back in.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is still reeling, still stuck in that moment when you stood there, just beyond the fence, watching him. Judging him.

“I’m coming in,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

The car hums back to life as he nudges it forward, back onto the track. But his hands are still shaking. His pulse is still racing.

And in the back of his mind, the ticking continues.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The rain is relentless in Suzuka. Sheets of water hammer down on the track, turning every corner into a hazard, every straight into a test of nerve. The spray from the tires rises like smoke, blurring the lines between the asphalt and the dark sky.

Charles can barely see more than a few meters in front of him, but he doesn’t let up. His foot is heavy on the throttle, fingers gripping the wheel like a lifeline. He’s teetering on the edge of control, dancing that fine line between dangerous and deadly.

Every lap feels like a gamble. He’s driving blind, trusting the car to hold steady, trusting himself not to make a mistake. But the mistakes are creeping in. He can feel it. The tires are slipping, the rear end twitching beneath him as he pushes harder, faster. The rain pounds against his helmet, and the world outside the cockpit is a chaotic blur of water and noise.

“Charles, we need you to back off,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, thick with concern. “Conditions are getting worse.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, every muscle in his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to keep pushing. He knows the risks. He knows what’s at stake. But slowing down isn’t an option. Not for him.

“Charles, can you hear me?” The voice comes again, more insistent this time.

He blinks, his vision briefly clearing through the rain. And then he sees it.

A figure. Just beyond the barriers, standing at the edge of the track, half-obscured by the downpour. At first, it’s just a blur of motion, but as he hurtles closer, the figure sharpens into focus.

His breath catches in his throat. It can’t be.

Jules.

It’s impossible, but there he is — Jules Bianchi, standing on the side of the track, just where the runoff ends and the grass begins, his face calm, serene. Just like Charles remembers him. His heart leaps into his throat, a wave of emotion crashing over him, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Jules?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

He blinks, just for a second. But when his eyes open again, Jules is gone. And in his place, there’s you.

Charles’ chest tightens, his hands shaking on the wheel as the car skids slightly on the wet track. You’re standing where Jules was, your gaze locked on him, calm and unyielding. The rain pours down around you, but you don’t move. You don’t blink. You just watch him, lap after lap.

“What the hell …” His voice cracks, his heart pounding harder than it should.

He can’t take his eyes off you, not even as the car barrels down the straight. The rain is coming down harder now, a relentless torrent that threatens to drown him in its fury. His mind spins, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. First Jules, now you — both of you standing there, on the edge of the track like ghosts from different parts of his life, haunting him.

Lap after lap, you’re there. Always in the same spot, just beyond the barrier, watching him. He blinks through the rain, but you never leave.

“Charles, please, respond,” his engineer’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “You need to slow down. The rain’s too heavy. We’re going to box.”

“I’m fine,” Charles snaps, his voice strained. “I’m staying out.”

He can hear the hesitation in the silence that follows. They don’t want to argue with him — not now, not when he’s like this. But he knows they’re watching, knows they can see the telemetry, knows they can see that he’s pushing the car beyond its limits.

He doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has to — for Jules.

But why are you here? Why now? Why after Jules?

His hands shake on the wheel as he takes another corner too fast, the rear tires sliding out before he regains control. His heart is racing, his mind a mess of emotions, and still — you’re there. You’re always there.

Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “What do you want from me?” He mutters under his breath, his voice trembling. He knows you can’t hear him, not through the roar of the engine and the crash of rain, but it doesn’t matter. You’re in his head now. You’ve been in his head since Melbourne.

And now, Jules too?

It’s almost too much. The memories of his godfather crash over him, a flood of grief and guilt he’s been pushing down for years. Jules’ voice, his smile, the way he believed in Charles even when Charles didn’t believe in himself.

But Jules is gone. Has been for a long time.

So why did he see him?

“Charles, box, box,” the radio crackles, cutting through his thoughts again.

“I said no!” He snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. His breath is coming fast, too fast, his chest tight with something he can’t name.

He takes the next corner harder than he should, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his body tense, rigid. His mind is racing — too fast, too chaotic. The rain pounds harder against the car, and visibility is almost zero now, the track a slick, treacherous river beneath him.

And then, as he speeds past the spot where you stand, something shifts.

He swears he hears your voice. Soft, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. “Charles.”

It’s like ice down his spine. His heart skips a beat, his grip faltering for just a second.

He jerks the wheel, the car sliding as he corrects it, narrowly avoiding the barrier. His pulse is racing, his breathing erratic. He glances toward where you’re standing, but you don’t move. Don’t say anything else. Just watch. Always watching.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else. “Damn it!”

The ticking is back. That familiar, maddening sound in the back of his mind. It’s been there for months now, growing louder, more insistent with every race, every lap. And now it’s deafening, drowning out everything else, a reminder of the time slipping through his fingers.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“You’re running out of time.”

Your voice echoes in his head, soft and calm, but laced with something darker. Something inevitable.

“I know!” He shouts, his voice hoarse, desperate. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s known it for months. Every race, every moment, feels like it’s pulling him closer to the edge, closer to you.

But he won’t stop. He can’t stop.

Jules wouldn’t want him to.

The thought of Jules — of his godfather, watching him, believing in him — gives him a surge of strength. He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he pushes the car harder, faster, through the rain-soaked chaos.

“I’ll win,” he mutters, his voice fierce. “I’ll win for him.”

The car slides again, the tires struggling for grip, but he doesn’t care. He pushes harder, faster. The track is a blur beneath him, the rain blinding, but all he can think about is Jules. About you. About the ticking clock in his head.

And still, you’re there. Lap after lap, you watch him. Unblinking. Unwavering.

“You don’t have to do this,” your voice whispers in his mind, soft but relentless.

“I do,” he growls, his teeth gritted against the storm. “I have to.”

There’s a flash of lightning overhead, illuminating the track for a brief moment, and in that instant, he sees you clearer than ever. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, everything falls away. The rain, the track, the car — it all disappears, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.

“You can’t outrun this,” you say, and there’s something almost sad in your voice. “You know that.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “I can try.”

You don’t argue. You never do. You just watch him, like you always do, waiting. Waiting for him to understand.

He takes the final corner, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall, and as he crosses the line, the checkered flag waving in the rain, he feels it.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in months, there’s silence.

But it’s not a relief.

It’s a warning.

Because he knows — deep down — that this isn’t over.

Not yet.

You’re still watching. And he’s still running.

But he can’t run forever.

***

The lights of Abu Dhabi shimmer under the night sky, illuminating the track like a stage set for the final act. The crowd is a sea of red, Ferrari flags waving in anticipation, in hope. This is it. The final race. The decider.

Charles sits in his cockpit, the engine vibrating beneath him, the roar of the crowd a distant hum behind his helmet. He’s been here before — so close — but this time, it’s different. This time, he feels it. The championship is within his grasp. The ticking in his head has been growing louder all season, but tonight, it’s almost deafening.

Lap after lap, corner after corner, he’s been inching closer to victory. Every second matters, every move counts. His heart pounds in sync with the car, the pressure of the moment squeezing at his chest, but he doesn’t let it crack him. Not now. He can’t. Not when everything he’s fought for is just beyond the finish line.

“Stay focused, Charles,” the voice of his engineer comes through the radio, calm but urgent.

“I’m focused,” Charles mutters, his voice tight with determination. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirrors — no one behind him. He’s clear.

The laps tick down, and with each one, the championship feels closer, heavier. The car is holding together, despite the heat, despite the pressure he’s putting on it. Ferrari has given him everything, and now he’s about to repay that faith. The Tifosi will finally have what they’ve been waiting for.

The last corner comes too quickly, but his hands are steady on the wheel. He navigates the turn, his body leaning into it as if willing the car to stay glued to the track. And then he’s there — the straight before the finish line, the end of the race.

“Go, go, go!” His engineer’s voice rises, the excitement breaking through. “You’ve got it, Charles!”

The chequered flag waves ahead, and in a breathless moment, it’s over.

Charles crosses the line. World Champion.

For a second, he’s still. Then the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave. He’s done it. He’s won. The championship is his.

The radio crackles again, his engineer’s voice cutting through the noise. “Charles — Champion of the World! You’ve done it! We’ve done it!”

A shaky laugh escapes Charles’ lips. “We did it. We actually did it,” he breathes, disbelief and euphoria blending together.

He can hear the team screaming over the radio, their joy contagious. “Grazie, Charles! Grazie! You’re the World Champion!”

He laughs again, more freely this time, his body shaking with adrenaline. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

His eyes well up as he glances at the sea of red in the stands. It’s everything he ever wanted. Glory. History. His name etched forever in the annals of the sport. He lifts a hand, a small wave toward the crowd, though they can’t see him from inside the cockpit.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I actually did it.”

His heart is racing, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s relief. It’s joy. It’s everything he’s sacrificed for, everything he’s given to this dream.

He presses the brake pedal gently, ready to slow down for the cool-down lap, to take it all in, but-

Nothing happens.

A frown creases his brow. He presses again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Panic flickers at the edge of his mind. “No … No, no, no …”

He pushes the brake pedal to the floor, but the car doesn’t respond. It doesn’t slow. The speedometer remains steady — too fast, too uncontrolled.

“Brakes aren’t working,” he says into the radio, trying to keep his voice calm, but his heart is pounding again, this time for a different reason. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“What? What do you mean?” His engineer’s voice is sharp, laced with fear.

“The brakes!” Charles snaps, his breath quickening. “They’re not working. I can’t slow down.”

He can feel the car resisting him, the engine still pushing forward, the barriers coming closer. The panic is rising now, clawing at his throat, tightening around his chest. He tries to steer, to find some way to slow the car, but there’s nothing. The barriers are closing in, the speed too high, too dangerous.

“Charles, try the emergency system-”

“I already have!” His voice cracks, desperation breaking through. The car is screaming beneath him, the speed a deadly weapon now, not a tool of victory.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing right by the barrier, just ahead, as if you’ve been waiting for him all along.

His heart stops for a second, time freezing around him. You’re so still, so calm, watching him. Watching him as the car barrels toward you, toward the barrier, toward the inevitable.

“No …” Charles breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands are shaking on the wheel now, his vision blurring from the speed, from the fear. He can see the crash coming, can feel it in his bones.

But you don’t move. You just watch.

His chest tightens, and the ticking is back, louder than ever. It’s all he can hear now, that maddening, relentless ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows. He’s always known. He’s been running toward this moment, toward you, since the beginning.

“Charles, try to-” His engineer’s voice cuts in again, but it’s too late.

The car slams into the barrier with a deafening crash, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world explodes around him, spinning, breaking apart. Pain flares through his body, white-hot and sharp, and then everything goes dark.

He’s still. Silent. The only sound is the faint crackling of the radio, his engineer’s voice distant, broken by static. “Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Charles?”

But Charles can’t move. He can barely think. The pain is numbing now, his body heavy, unresponsive. His vision is blurry, the world around him fading in and out of focus.

And then, through the haze, he sees you again. You’re walking toward him, slowly, steadily, through the wreckage of the car. The world is quiet now, eerily still, as if time itself has stopped.

Charles’ breath is shallow, his heart struggling to keep up. He can feel it — the end. It’s here. It’s always been here, waiting for him.

You come closer, your footsteps silent, your face calm, almost peaceful. You stop just beside the cockpit, your eyes meeting his.

“Is this it?” Charles whispers, his voice barely audible, his chest tight with the effort of speaking. His vision is fading fast, the darkness closing in. But you’re the only thing he can see clearly.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows.

You kneel beside him, your hand reaching out, and for the first time, you touch him. Your fingers brush against his skin, cold and soft, and in that moment, everything stops.

The ticking in his head goes silent.

The world fades.

And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, breathes his last breath.

He’s gone.

But his name — his glory — will live on forever. He gave everything. Sacrificed everything.

For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. For the dream.

And now, he is part of that legacy, forever written in the stars.

He won.

He died for glory.

***

The streets of Maranello are overflowing with grief.

Charles stands next to you, or at least what’s left of him does. His soul, untethered from the wreckage, feels weightless, though the weight of the moment is crushing. He can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore, can’t feel the warmth of the sun or the bite of the wind. All he can feel is the suffocating sorrow of the crowd, pressing in from every direction.

And the crowd. Dio mio, the crowd. Thousands — no, hundreds of thousands — of Tifosi flood the streets, a sea of red and black, their flags raised high, but there is no joy in their colors today. No triumphant cheers. Just the sound of sobs, muffled by hands pressed to faces, by the raw weight of a collective heartbreak that can’t be put into words.

The Ferrari factory looms behind them, draped in mourning banners, the Prancing Horse emblem hanging in black, somber and silent. The air is thick with the scent of incense, flowers — and death.

It’s impossible to look at them, and yet Charles can’t tear his eyes away. Grown men, hardened by life, stand with tears streaming down their faces. Fathers and sons alike, clutching each other as if holding on will somehow stem the flood of loss that grips them.

Charles looks at you, his breath — if he had any left — shuddering in his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You’re silent, standing beside him, your presence both a comfort and a reminder. This is what it means to be gone. To be remembered, but no longer part of the world.

“Do they …” He trails off, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do they miss me this much?”

You glance at him, your eyes calm but unreadable. “What did you expect?” Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge of inevitability to it, as if the scene before him was always written in the stars, just like his fate.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Or at least, he tries to. The motion feels more like a memory than a reality. “I thought … I thought they’d move on.”

You tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across your lips. “They won’t. Not from this. Not from you.”

His eyes flicker back to the crowd, his chest tight. There’s no end to them. They fill the streets, every inch of space, like blood rushing through the veins of this small Italian town. He sees children on their fathers’ shoulders, wearing tiny Ferrari caps. Women clutching scarves, their eyes red from crying. He’s never seen this kind of devotion, not like this. Not for him.

He spots an elderly man near the front, his face weathered and lined, but the tears falling down his cheeks are fresh. He’s holding a photo of Charles — young, smiling, a memory of a better time. A time when the world still held onto hope.

Charles feels his throat tighten, his eyes burning despite the fact that he can’t cry anymore. “Why …” He swallows hard, his voice cracking. “Why are they all here? Why does it hurt them this much?”

You turn to face him fully, your expression steady, knowing. “Because you were theirs. Il Predestinato. The one they believed in. You gave them hope, and you gave them your life. They will never forget that.”

The title rings in his ears. Il Predestinato. The Chosen One. It always sounded so heavy, a burden he could never quite shake. And now, he wonders if it was ever truly his to bear.

A sudden commotion pulls his attention back to the crowd. The sea of red parts for a moment as a car rolls slowly through. Charles recognizes it immediately — a Ferrari, sleek and dark, the hearse that will carry his body through the streets of Maranello. It’s draped in the Italian flag, and atop it sits his helmet, the red and white standing stark against the backdrop of mourning.

The Tifosi bow their heads, some reaching out as if trying to touch the car, as if touching it will bring them closer to him. The car stops in front of the factory, and Charles watches, numb, as his casket is pulled out, carried by men he’s known for years. Faces he recognizes, but that seem distant now, like shadows from another life.

“They’re broken,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for this.”

You don’t respond immediately, just watching the procession with the same stillness you always carry. Finally, you speak, your voice low and quiet. “Sacrifice always leaves something behind. Even if it’s pain.”

Charles inhales sharply, though the air doesn’t fill his lungs the way it used to. He’s not sure how to process what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. There’s a weight in his chest, heavy and suffocating. It’s not like the fear he felt in those final moments before the crash, but something deeper. Something that feels permanent.

The casket reaches the steps of the Ferrari factory, where the company’s executives, drivers, and engineers are gathered. They stand in silence, heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. Charles feels a pang of guilt, sharper than he expected.

“Was it worth it?” His voice is barely a whisper, almost lost in the overwhelming noise of the crowd.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to decide.”

He clenches his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But I gave everything! I died for this!” He gestures toward the casket, the crowd, the broken faces of his friends and family. “I sacrificed everything for Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “And now, you have to decide if that sacrifice was worth it.”

Charles looks away, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — aching. He doesn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As the casket is carried up the steps, a priest steps forward. Charles recognizes him immediately. The Pope. The sight would almost be surreal if it weren’t for the gravity of the moment. The leader of the Catholic Church, come to bless his body, to give him the final rites. It’s more than Charles ever expected, more than he ever thought possible.

The Pope raises his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd in solemn Latin, offering a prayer for Charles’ soul. The crowd is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of flags in the wind and the distant sobs of those too broken to hold back their grief.

Charles watches, his chest tight with emotion he can’t quite name. “Will they remember me?” His voice is small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.

You don’t hesitate. “They will never forget you. The Tifosi will name their children after you. They will pray for you, mourn for you, even as they themselves fade. Your name will live on, even when their names turn to dust.”

He blinks, trying to process your words. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he worked for. To be remembered. To be loved. To be immortal in the eyes of those who mattered most to him.

“But will it be enough?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper. “Will it ever be enough?”

You turn to him, your gaze softening just slightly. “That’s something only you can answer.”

Charles looks back at the crowd, at the faces of the people who loved him, who believed in him, who now grieve for him. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe he never will. But for now, all he can do is watch as the people of Italy — his people — mourn the loss of their hero, their champion, their Il Predestinato.

And perhaps, in their grief, in their endless love for him, he will find the answer he’s looking for.

As the Pope finishes his prayer, the crowd begins to chant.

“Forza, Charles! Forza Ferrari!“

The sound rises, a wave of devotion and heartbreak that crashes over the streets of Maranello. Charles listens, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

He is gone. But his name, his legacy, will live on forever.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

***

The afterlife is nothing like Charles imagined.

For one, it isn’t dark. There are no flames licking at the sky, no eerie fog swirling at his feet. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel either. Instead, there’s an odd stillness, like time has stopped moving but everything else remains in place. It’s hard to describe, really — neither peaceful nor unsettling, just … different.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. Time doesn’t seem to exist in the way it used to. Days blend into one another, or maybe there are no days at all. Just moments strung together in an endless loop.

The one constant in this strange new reality is you.

You’re always close by, never too far, but never imposing. It’s a strange sort of companionship, one that Charles hadn’t expected to find in death. He watches you sometimes, your presence steady, your movements fluid and quiet. You’re not like anyone he’s ever met. And it’s no wonder — how could you be? You’re death.

But there’s something else about you, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re not cold or distant, despite the weight of your title. There’s a kind of sadness that clings to you, something that pulls him in even when he tries to resist it.

He’s sitting beside you now, his back against an old stone wall, looking out into the expanse of … wherever this place is. It’s quiet, as always, the only sound the faint rustling of something distant. Neither of you speak, but the silence between you is comfortable, not awkward.

After a while, Charles breaks it.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

Your head tilts slightly, as if the question surprises you. You don’t answer right away, and for a moment, Charles thinks you won’t. But then you shift, your eyes focused on some point in the distance, and your voice, when it comes, is soft.

“I suppose I do.”

It’s not what he expected you to say. He always thought of you as solitary, but not necessarily lonely. You were death, after all. You weren’t meant to have attachments, were you?

“How could you?” He asks, genuinely curious. “You’re … you. Death doesn’t get lonely.”

You let out a soft sigh, one that’s more resigned than sad. “Death doesn’t exactly allow for much companionship.” You glance at him, your eyes steady. “Most souls don’t stick around for very long. They move on. They’re not meant to linger.”

Charles absorbs your words, turning them over in his mind. It’s true — he’s the only one here, the only soul who hasn’t moved on. But the idea that you might be lonely, after all this time, unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.

“Do you know why I haven’t moved on?” He asks, his voice quiet.

You shake your head, your expression soft but unreadable. “No. I don’t understand it.”

He leans back against the wall, his mind racing. Why hasn’t he moved on? There’s no reason to stay, no unfinished business, no regrets strong enough to tether him to this place. And yet … he’s still here. With you.

You shift slightly beside him, your gaze drifting out into the distance again. “I’ve never had anyone stay this long,” you say, almost to yourself. “Most souls are eager to move on. They want peace, or closure, or something more.”

Charles frowns, looking over at you. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want them to stay?”

You pause, considering the question. “No,” you say eventually. “That’s not how it works. They’re not meant to stay. Neither am I.”

“But you get lonely.”

Your lips press together, and for a moment, Charles thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you nod, just once. “Yes.”

There’s something in your voice, something quiet and raw, that tugs at something deep inside him. He doesn’t understand why, but it matters to him. Your loneliness matters to him.

“Is that why you’re still here?” You ask, turning the question back on him. “Because of me?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. He’s not sure. Maybe it is. Or maybe there’s something else at play, something neither of you understands.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and there’s a softness in your gaze that catches him off guard. He realizes in that moment how much time you’ve spent alone. You, the embodiment of death, the one who has seen everything end but never experienced the simplicity of someone choosing to stay.

He leans forward, his voice quieter now. “Have you ever-”

He hesitates, the question hanging in the air between you.

“What?” You prompt, your voice gentle.

“Have you ever … I don’t know. Experienced anything like this?” He gestures between the two of you. “With anyone else?”

You shake your head, almost sadly. “No. Death doesn’t leave room for that.”

Charles watches you for a moment, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. It seems so unfair, that you should be condemned to an eternity of loneliness, of watching others move on while you remain.

“Everyone deserves at least one thing,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean?”

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours. “Everyone deserves to experience their first kiss.”

Your breath catches ever so slightly, your eyes widening just a fraction. “Charles …”

“I’m serious,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You should have that. You deserve it.”

You don’t respond, but your eyes search his, and for the first time since he met you, he sees something flicker there. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You stay still, watching him, waiting.

And then, gently, Charles presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to make the world tilt on its axis for a moment, enough to make the weight of everything around you both fall away.

You don’t pull back immediately. Neither does he. For a few seconds, it’s just the two of you, suspended in the stillness of the afterlife, sharing something fragile and beautiful.

When he finally does pull away, your eyes are still closed, your lips parted ever so slightly. Charles watches you, his heart — or whatever it is that beats in his chest now — pounding in a way that feels almost human again.

You open your eyes slowly, blinking as if coming out of a dream.

“I-” You falter, your voice soft and uncertain. “Why did you …”

He smiles gently, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Because I wanted to. And because you deserve it.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, just looking at him as if trying to make sense of what just happened. But there’s a warmth in your gaze now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new.

“I don’t understand you, Charles,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t understand myself, either.”

You stay like that for a while, in the stillness of the afterlife, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on either of you. There’s no rush, no need for answers right now.

For the first time, in a long time, neither of you feels alone.

***

Time is strange in the afterlife.

Charles doesn’t know how long he’s been here — whether it’s days, months, or even years. There’s no ticking clock, no sun moving across the sky. It’s just … still. He’s gotten used to the quiet, to your presence nearby, and to the sense that nothing is rushing forward like it used to.

But something shifts one day. You’re sitting beside him, as usual, but there’s a new energy in the air, something that tugs at the quietness and pulls at the stillness. You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a softness that he can’t quite place.

“I have something to show you,” you say, your voice quiet but clear.

He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

You don’t explain. Instead, you stand, offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second, but then he takes it. There’s always been an unspoken trust between you — something that keeps him tethered to you, even in death.

The world shifts around him, the stillness breaking apart. For a moment, everything spins, the ground slipping from beneath his feet as if he’s falling — but it’s not unpleasant. It’s more like drifting. And then, as suddenly as it starts, it stops.

Charles finds himself standing in a hospital room.

His breath catches, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he is. The sterile smell of disinfectant clings to the air, and the beeping of machines fills the silence. He looks around, trying to orient himself, but nothing feels real.

“Where-”

You don’t answer his question directly. Instead, you nod toward the center of the room. “Look.”

Charles follows your gaze, and his heart — if he still had one — stumbles in his chest. His older brother, Lorenzo, stands by the bed, his face soft with emotion. He’s holding someone’s hand. Charlotte, his wife, is lying in the hospital bed, her expression tired but glowing. But it’s the small bundle she holds against her chest that steals Charles’ breath.

A baby.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he’s seeing. Lorenzo’s wife. His brother. And a baby.

Charles steps closer, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid the scene will shatter if he gets too close. He watches as Lorenzo reaches down to stroke the baby’s tiny head, his face filled with a tenderness that Charles hasn’t seen in years.

“Lorenzo?” Charles whispers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him. His eyes are fixed on the child in Charlotte’s arms, a strange sense of awe and disbelief washing over him.

You step beside him, your voice soft as you speak. “I wanted you to meet Charles Tolotta-Leclerc.”

He freezes.

“What?” His voice barely makes it past his lips, and he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, searching your face for any hint of a joke. But you’re serious.

You nod toward the baby again. “They named him after you.”

Charles stares at the tiny bundle, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’ve just said. They named the baby after him? His head spins, a strange mix of emotions swirling through him — shock, disbelief, and something that feels dangerously close to pride.

Before he can fully process it, Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“I miss him,” Lorenzo says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish he could be here. I wish he could’ve met him.”

Charlotte smiles up at him, though there’s a sadness in her eyes. “He would’ve loved him,” she says, her voice gentle. “He’ll be watching over him, I’m sure of it.”

Lorenzo’s expression tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I hope he’s watching over us. Over Charlie.”

Charles stands frozen, his entire body — or soul, or whatever he is — going still. The weight of Lorenzo’s words crashes into him like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless. He watches as his brother’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and it breaks something inside him.

“I wanted him to be here,” Lorenzo says, his voice cracking. “I wanted him to be part of this, to see my son …”

Charles can’t take it anymore. He feels the pressure building inside of him, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes — not physical tears, but the kind that burn and sting nonetheless.

You’re beside him before he even realizes it, your presence calm and steady. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. He can feel your understanding, your quiet reassurance.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m watching.”

But no one can hear him.

Lorenzo’s voice cracks again as he continues. “I named him Charles because … I want him to be like you. I want him to grow up knowing who you were. What you stood for. And maybe … maybe he’ll feel like you’re with him, even if you can’t be.”

Charles presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. The emotions are too much — grief, pride, love, all tangled together in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart.

He looks at the baby again, the tiny life cradled in Charlotte’s arms, and something breaks open inside him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so much after death. He thought everything would fade away, that he wouldn’t have to feel the weight of the world anymore.

But watching his brother, watching this moment … it’s almost unbearable.

You step closer, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel it,” you say softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “I-I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I thought … I thought I was ready to move on.”

Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding him. “You gave everything for glory,” you say gently. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”

Charles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he watches his brother, his nephew. “I don’t know if I can,” he chokes out. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

You don’t rush him. You let him stand there, watching, crying. He can feel your quiet strength beside him, your understanding. You’ve seen it all before, but for him, it’s new, raw, overwhelming.

Lorenzo leans down, pressing a kiss to his newborn son’s head. “He’s going to know all about you,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Charles can’t stop the sob that escapes him this time. He crumples forward, his hands covering his face as the grief finally spills over, uncontrollable. He feels like he’s breaking apart, like everything he’s held inside for so long is crashing down around him.

And then, you’re there. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, letting him cry into your shoulder. You don’t say anything, but your presence is enough. It’s steady, grounding, and for the first time since he’s been here, Charles feels like he isn’t alone in his grief.

He cries for a long time, the emotions pouring out of him in waves. He cries for the life he left behind, for the family he didn’t get to see again, for the child named after him who will never know him. And through it all, you stay with him, holding him, comforting him.

When the sobs finally subside, Charles pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes. He feels raw, drained, but there’s a sense of release, too — like something heavy has been lifted from his chest.

“He’s going to be okay,” you say softly, your voice gentle. “Lorenzo will take care of him. He’ll grow up knowing who you were, what you meant.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. He looks back at the hospital bed, at Lorenzo and Charlotte, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something like peace in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

You smile softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But he does. Because in this moment, he knows he couldn’t have faced this alone. Not without you.

Charles watches his brother one last time, his heart heavy but full. And though he knows he can never return to the life he once had, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that a part of him still exists in the world — in the form of the tiny child cradled in Charlotte’s arms.

“I’ll watch over him,” Charles says softly, his voice steady now. “I promise.”

***

The air between you is different today. Charles can feel it before you even say a word. It's in the way your eyes linger on him a little longer, the way your silence stretches. You’ve been together for what feels like an eternity, yet time is meaningless here.

He looks at you, waiting for the explanation, the gentle unspooling of whatever truth you’re about to offer him.

Finally, you speak. “I think you’re ready.”

Charles frowns. “Ready for what?”

“To move on.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than he expected. His chest tightens, and he shakes his head, the instinctual reaction coming out almost before you finish speaking.

“I don’t want to move on.” His voice is sharp, edged with panic. He doesn’t fully understand what “moving on” means, but he knows it sounds final. It sounds like goodbye, and he’s not ready for that. Not now. Not after everything. Not after you.

You watch him quietly, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “Charles, you’ve already moved on in so many ways. This-” you gesture between the two of you, “-this isn’t goodbye.”

He stares at you, his mind racing. “Then what is it? You’re telling me I have to leave, but I can’t — I can’t leave you.”

You laugh softly, the sound rich with irony. “I’m death, Charles. You’re dead. Why would you have to leave me?”

The realization hits him, and his protest falters. His hands fall to his sides as he processes what you’re saying. You’re death, and he’s already passed beyond life. There’s no need to fear separation, because you are intertwined with whatever comes next.

“So, I’m not really going anywhere?” He asks, cautiously hopeful.

“Not in the way you think,” you assure him, your voice softening. “But this place — it isn’t where you belong anymore. There’s something else waiting for you.”

Charles exhales slowly, relief and uncertainty swirling in his chest. “Something else?”

You step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm. “You’ve done everything you needed to do here. You’ve won. You’ve found peace with your family. Now … it’s time.”

He looks into your eyes, searching for something — reassurance, maybe. He’s been with you through all of this, and yet, the idea of leaving this limbo, this stillness, feels daunting.

You tilt your head slightly. “Trust me.”

He wants to. He does. But there’s a tightness in his throat, a reluctance that refuses to fade. “What if I don’t want to go?” He murmurs, almost to himself.

You give him a knowing look. “Charles, you’re not going anywhere that I can’t follow.”

Something in him eases at your words. He nods, but there’s still a lingering hesitation. His life — his death — has been defined by choices. Choices to race, to sacrifice, to push past every limit. Now, there’s nothing left to fight, no championship to chase. This is the last choice he’ll have to make, and the finality of it shakes him.

“Okay,” he says, his voice quieter than he expects.

You smile, your fingers wrapping around his hand. “Come with me.”

The stillness of limbo shatters. The world around them changes, the coldness and vast emptiness giving way to something warm and vibrant. Colors he hasn’t seen in years flood his vision — deep blues, rich greens, and the golden light of a sun he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever.

Charles blinks, trying to make sense of where he is. There’s no pain, no exhaustion, just … peace. He stands there for a moment, taking it in, but then, something — someone — catches his eye.

He freezes, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — stopping in his chest.

Jules.

Jules is standing just a few feet away, watching him with that same familiar smile. The smile Charles grew up with, the one that got him through the hardest days.

His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, he runs.

It’s instinctive, like muscle memory, like he’s a kid again chasing after his godfather. His feet carry him faster than he thought possible, and when he reaches Jules, he throws himself into his arms without hesitation.

The warmth of the embrace floods through him, and Charles buries his face in Jules’ shoulder, a sob catching in his throat. He clings to him like he’s afraid to let go, the weight of everything — of life, of death, of everything in between — finally crashing down on him.

“I missed you,” Charles chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.

Jules laughs softly, holding him tight. “I missed you too, mon caneton.”

It’s overwhelming, this feeling of reunion. The tears fall freely now, and Charles can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. He’s never cried like this before, not even when he won, not even when he died. But now, in the arms of someone who meant so much to him, it feels like everything is breaking free.

He pulls back, wiping at his face, but before he can say anything else, another voice breaks through the haze.

“Charles.”

Charles turns, his breath catching again as his eyes land on his father. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, watching his son with eyes full of pride.

“Papa …” The word slips from his lips, almost a whisper.

And then he’s running again, straight into his father’s arms. He feels like a child, all over again, seeking comfort and love and everything he’s missed. Hervé holds him, strong and steady, and for the first time in years, Charles feels like he’s truly home.

“I’m so proud of you,” Hervé murmurs, his voice full of emotion. “You did everything you said you would.”

Charles pulls back, his hands gripping his father’s shoulders as he looks at him, tears still streaming down his face. “I did it, Papa. I won.”

“I know,” Hervé says softly, his eyes shining. “I always knew you would.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. The pride in his father’s eyes is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever worked for.

But then, he turns.

You’re still standing there, watching quietly from a distance. Charles’ heart twists at the sight of you, at the thought of everything you’ve been through together. You’ve guided him, stayed with him, and now … now he understands.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.

He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he leans in.

His lips meet yours, soft and gentle, and in that moment, everything else fades away. There’s no race, no championship, no death. Just the two of you, together, in this place beyond life and time.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and he knows.

You smile at him, your eyes soft. “Glory was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Charles nods, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It was worth it.”

And somewhere, in the distance, the ticking starts again.

For someone else.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He knows what he has to do. The weight of it settles into his chest like a stone, cold and heavy, suffocating the brief warmth of your kiss. His hands tremble as they slip away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a second longer, as if he can’t quite let go.

But he has to.

His breath shudders, a ragged thing that cuts through the silence. His lips part, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say. You see the understanding in his eyes — he knows the truth now, the path that’s been laid out in front of him since the moment he died.

He belongs with them.

With Jules. With his father.

Not with you.

He turns, slowly, his back to you now. And just like that, the warmth is gone. It’s like the sun has disappeared from the sky, leaving nothing but the cold, endless void.

You want to stop him, call out his name, reach for him, something, anything, but the words die in your throat. He doesn’t belong to you. He never did.

“Charles …” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you anymore. He’s already too far away. Already slipping through your fingers like sand.

He walks toward them — Jules and Hervé — his pace steady, purposeful. The space between you grows wider with every step, a chasm opening up that you can never hope to cross.

Jules smiles at him, that same familiar smile, the one that Charles would have given anything to see again. And his father … God, the pride in Hervé’s eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s everything Charles ever wanted. Everything he fought for, died for.

But you …

You stand there, watching.

Helpless. Silent. Alone.

Charles doesn’t look back. Not once.

You knew he wouldn’t.

You knew this moment was coming from the second you saw him in Melbourne, when his time started ticking. You were never meant to keep him. You were just a part of his story — a brief chapter in the long, winding tale of his life and death.

And now, that chapter is closing.

The void stretches before them, a vast expanse of nothingness, and as Charles reaches the edge, Jules and Hervé step forward to greet him. They wrap their arms around him, pulling him into their embrace, and for a moment — just a moment — Charles is home.

He glances over his shoulder, but not at you. His eyes skim past you, unseeing.

“Thank you,” he whispers, but the words aren’t for you. They’re for the life he left behind. The glory. The fame. The endless pursuit of something more.

And then he steps into the void.

You feel it before you see it — the pull, the way the world shifts as he crosses the threshold. It’s like a part of the universe is being torn away, a piece of the puzzle you’ve held together for so long is finally gone. And you’re left behind, standing on the edge, watching as they fade into the distance.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone.

It’s funny, in a way. You’ve spent eons like this — watching souls come and go, guiding them from one world to the next. But with Charles, it was different. He stayed. He stayed longer than anyone else, long enough for you to feel something you weren’t supposed to feel.

Loneliness. Loss.

You told him you couldn’t be left behind, that death doesn’t experience separation, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because now, as you stand there in the cold, empty void, watching the space where Charles once stood, you feel it — truly feel it — for the first time.

Heartbreak.

It’s a strange, hollow thing, the way it grips your chest, squeezes your lungs until you can’t breathe. You’ve seen it a thousand times, watched as humans crumbled under the weight of it, but this is different. This is personal.

This is yours.

He’s gone. He made his choice. And even though you knew it would end this way, it doesn’t make it any easier.

You take a step back, your feet moving of their own accord, retreating from the edge of the void. There’s no point in staying here. There’s nothing left to hold on to.

Charles is gone.

You close your eyes, trying to push down the ache in your chest, but it won’t go away. It lingers, sharp and raw, reminding you of what could have been, of the brief moments you shared that weren’t supposed to matter but now feel like everything.

For a second — just a second — you wish things had been different. That you could have kept him. That maybe, just maybe, you could have been something more than death. Something more than a shadow in the background of his life.

But that’s not who you are.

You open your eyes, the void still stretching out before you, endless and unforgiving.

Somewhere, far in the distance, the ticking starts for someone else. Another life, another death, another story to watch unfold.

But none of them will be Charles.

You’ll carry him with you, even if he never looks back. Even if he forgets your face. You’ll remember the way he smiled at you in the moments between life and death. You’ll remember the way his voice cracked when he thanked you.

And you’ll remember the way he kissed you, soft and brief, like a goodbye he couldn’t quite say.

You’ll remember it all.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest part.

[fastandcarlos]

Rest Baby : ̗̀➛ Daniel Ricciardo

summary: when he wakes up to find you not by his side, daniel's heart his broken when he hears how his baby has been awake all night long

Glancing at Daniel fast asleep beside you only made you feel worse as your body jolted you awake once again. The hours were running away from you, and yet still you found yourself lying wide awake, with sleep evading you.

Each time you closed your eyes, your mind switched straight back on again seeming to overthink everything at the most inopportune times to keep you awake.

You were used to erratic nights, but tonight seemed to outlast the lot. You were on the verge of tears, desperate for sleep, but your mind had decided that it had other ideas as to how you’d spend your night.

Lying awake once again, frustration crept up on you. It only seemed like a matter of time before you disturbed Daniel beside you, opting in the end to slide yourself out from the bed. You were as silent as you could be, footsteps small and slow to make sure you didn’t wake the figure beside you. His light snores told you everything you needed to know, envious of how well he was resting next to you.

With a weak smile on your face, you left Daniel to catch up on his sleep, opening the door to your bedroom and stepping out of the room. You hated leaving Daniel, having him beside you was a great comfort in the night, but you couldn’t risk waking him.

Your footsteps were quiet as you headed downstairs, immediately taking a seat beside the window of your living room which overlooked your garden.

The fields felt as if they were never-ending that backed onto your house, in the daylight the views were breath-taking, and at night, as you were right now, you loved trying to remember where everything was in the pitch black.

It was by far your favourite part of your home, a place where you and Daniel loved to spend a lot of your time. You’d sit for hours, especially when he just came home and catch up on all of the things that you’d missed. Usually you sat with a big smile on your face, listening to all of Daniel’s funny stories, but now you sat there for another reason, purely out of exhaustion.

You hoped that lazily sitting, focusing your mind on the outside would be enough to help you fall asleep. You busied yourself for a few minutes, listening out intently out of fear that Daniel would end up waking up and wondering where you were.

After a few minutes you picked up your phone from beside you, cringing as you saw what time it was. You threw your head back as you let go of a groan, silently praying that someone would listen and help you finally rest.

As usual, you soon found yourself in a loophole of scrolling, catching up with what you had missed during your time battling with sleep. Time seemed to fly by as you scrolled and scrolled, hardly paying attention to what you were watching as you felt your eyes begin to get heavy. You were just about to place your phone down when a familiar voice called out from behind you.

“Babe,” Daniel sleepily spoke, rubbing against his eyes. He was just as quiet as you were as he walked down the stairs, taking a seat beside you, his hand resting against the top of your leg, squeezing it gently.

“Sorry,” you hummed, accepting Daniel’s invite to cuddle into his side. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No, I just turned over and suddenly you weren’t there, I was worried that something had happened to you.”

“I’m all good…just tired.”

"I’m sorry,” he whispered in reply, offering you a sympathetic smile. “One of those nights?” He then asked, knowing exactly how the nights could treat you sometimes. He squeezed against your frame as you nuzzled into him, feeling his fingertips run gently against your arm.

“I’m so tired love, it’s just not fair.”

“Is there anything I can do?” He curiously questioned.

“I don’t know, nothing seems to be working tonight,” you sighed, placing your hand against his chest. “I think I’m destined to just stay awake for the whole night.”

“You can’t do that,” Daniel sighed, knowing just how important sleep was.

“Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be,” you whispered, suddenly remembering the time and the busy schedule that Daniel had ahead of him.

His eyes rolled as you spoke, “you don’t need to worry about me.” “I always worry about you.”

“I know, it’s why you’re so annoying.”

Your hand hit against his chest as Daniel sniggered back at you, relief appearing on his face as he saw a small glimmer of a smile on your face again.

“I’ve got an idea to help you.”

“What’s that?” You smiled, feeling Daniel tighten his grip around you once again, resting his head against the top of yours as he stretched his legs out in front of you.

“We’ll stay here together until you fall asleep, this is one of your favourite spots to nap after all,” Daniel smiled down at you.

“You’re not going to be comfortable sleeping here, are you insane?”

“I don’t care, as long as it helps you.”

“But I-“ you spoke, only to be cut off.

“Just trust me babe, it’s a great idea,” Daniel insisted, pressing a soft kiss against the side of your head. He refused to let you move, hoping that his hold against your frame would leave you feeling so warm that you’d have no choice but to fall asleep.

As you allowed your eyes to close, your chest soon rose and fell at the same time as Daniel’s, unaware of his eyes fluttering shut above you too. Or so you thought. Daniel tried his best to pretend to sleep, eyes flickering open every so often so that he could check on you, making sure that you were finally getting the rest that you deserved.

Once he was sure that you were asleep, Daniel carefully slid his arms underneath your frame, gently lifting you from the seat and pulling you tightly in against his chest.

He was incredibly cautious as he moved up the stairs, placing you back in the same spot that you had vacated just under an hour earlier. “Sleep well my love,” he mused, tucking you in tightly again underneath the duvet. .

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sukuna

[Chapter 2] Arrangements

← Previous Chapter - Story Masterlist - Next Chapter →

Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

Warnings: MDNI Sukuna joins reader bath without permission (nothing crazy), Nudity

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

You’re still in the process of retaining all that has happened while your arms and feet are being washed. You’re smelling a fragrance that is way out of your means and while it does smell nice, you want to puke. This is all too much for you. You weren’t even given an option, you were simply just dragged away as if you weren’t your own person.

“Can you stop, please?” Your voice comes off as weak, and it’s easy to dismiss. You feel as if you’re drowning, even though the water doesn’t reach past your breasts. They’re being gentle with you, not wanting to damage the skin of the mistress that will carry King Sukuna’s heir, though their hands feel so rough for you. 

“Can you stop?!” You yell, which makes everyone come to a halt. They’re all staring at the ground, not daring to make eye contact with you. You have yet to realize the power you have in this situation since it’s quickly overshadowed by the fact that you’re… Expected to carry a monster’s heir. You can’t afford to look at them, simply telling them, “Leave, please.”

They got strict orders to bathe you and not leave you alone, but the orders were from Uraume. Right now, they’re more terrified of you than anything; even when you’re frail and soft spoken, they don’t see you as your own being but rather an extension of King Sukuna. They end up leaving you alone per your request.

This is the perfect opportunity to run away– No, you can’t. You came here for a reason, and while you’re still shell-shocked, you can’t leave. You sigh, knowing that even if you wanted to, getting caught would result in a gruesome death. You begin to wonder if you’re able to reproduce with him, Sukuna is one of his kind. He’s not exactly a human… What would he be considered?

Too lost in your own thoughts, you fail to listen to the heavy footsteps that approach you. You only notice his presence when the water reaches your collar bone, and suddenly your chest feels too heavy for you to breathe. He’s decided to join your bath. You divert your gaze, scared of what he might do if you look directly at him.

“Look up.” Sukuna tells you, and you don’t waste a second before staring at his unusual face. He truly isn’t like anyone you’ve seen before, but you don’t think that’s bad. The longer you stare at him, you realize that there’s something charming about his face, you’re not quite sure what it is though. “The servants outside are lucky to be alive. You don’t get to come in here and order people around, Uraume relays my word and you have no say against it.”

“Will you kill me if I do?” You ask, purely out of curiosity. His eyes are practically burning into you, wondering how to answer the question. His immediate answer would be a yes, but he really wouldn’t, at least not when he wants you to carry his heir.

“I’ll kill everyone that’s involved.” He answers, knowing that with that look in your eyes won’t let you allow it. You give him a slight nod, not daring to question him further on the matter. He’s joined you for a reason. Either he joined simply because of you dismissing everyone, or he wants to begin the heir making process.

“How is this going to work?” You ask, but you're not specific enough. You’re thinking about producing an heir. You aren’t a fool to sex, you have somewhat of an idea of how it works; Sukuna isn’t a man though. He has aspects of a man, but he isn’t one. Four eyes, four arms, a tummy mouth, and twice the size of any human being, he’s truly one of a kind.

“You will carry my heir, and I will heal your brother.” He answers, and you let out a low laugh, making him frown. “What’s so funny?”

“I was referring to something different.” You respond, and he rolls his eyes. “But… What will you do with me after I have your baby?”

Sukuna takes a moment to think about his answer because he hadn’t thought that far ahead. After he’s ruined you in each possible manner, what does he want to do with you? He’ll already have his successor, he has no need for you. What do humans do?

“You’ll nurture it until a certain age, then I’ll take over.” Is the best answer he can give. What happens then? He answers all questions you may have by saying, “And if I see fit, you’ll be having more.”

He doesn’t want to let you go, even after you’ve fulfilled your agreement. You’re giving away your freedom for your brother’s health and wellbeing– It’s fine though, it’s not like you had much going for you. Though you don’t want to be someone’s breeding mule for the rest of eternity. You don’t want to be someone that’s easily forgotten.

“Can we get married?” You blurt out, and of all things you could say, he certainly wasn’t thinking that. A marriage proposal from you is certainly… Odd. He smirks though, intrigued..

“What for? You know you won’t be the only one.” He tells you, although you aren’t all that interested in his love affairs. He knows it’s not that though, you aren’t bothered by that. You’re splashing the water, unable to look at him as you answer. You’re too embarrassed.

“I want to be someone, not just the mother of your child.” You respond, and he scoffs at the pitiful request. You were no one before, so why do you suddenly have the need to be respected? He doesn’t care enough to ask.

“If you expect loyalty, you won’t receive it.” He warns you again, but that doesn’t spark your interest whatsoever. You really just want the title of being his wife, and he doesn’t see it as a title of much importance, so he’ll grant it. “I’ll speak with Uraume for the arrangements of a traditional wedding then.”

You hum in response, your eyes looking back up at him. He looks bored. Though your next question does make a smirk appear on his face, “Do you have traditional male genitals?”

“What is a traditional male genital, please enlighten me.” He sounds as if he’s about to burst into laughter at any moment, which makes you want to bury your head under the water. You know exactly how it is, you haven’t been sheltered from the world since you weren’t born into an aristocratic family to be protected– Although you hear the stories, the aristocrats are anything but pure.

“A penis.” Your answer is short and correct, but you can’t even look at him as you say it. Your hand sways in the water, feeling yourself calm down with the sound that it makes. “I used to work near a brothel so naturally I befriended some of the women that worked there.”

“It will be similar to what you’ve been told.” He says, and you can’t help but notice his choice of words. Similar. Now you’re worried. 

“Uraume!” Sukuna yells, and within a second they’re in the room. Sukuna rises from the water, finally giving you a glimpse of what you missed when he got into the water. Your eyes couldn’t get any wider, and your face burns up when you realize why he said the experience will just be similar; he has two of them. “Finish getting her ready.”

Uraume’s hands go to your shoulders and they lift you up from the water. You’re unable to say anything, shocked at what you just discovered. Uraume dries you off with a cloth, acting as if they hadn’t seen the same thing as you. They’re more than likely used to it but it’s weird. He’s referred to as a deity for a reason, he isn’t like anyone you’ll ever meet. Four eyes, four arms, a tummy mouth, and twice the size of any human you’ve ever met, that alone should explain everything.

You still can’t help but question, “Why does he have two?”

It feels hard for you to breathe with all the layers of clothes that you have on. You thought that with the place and Sukuna being unusual, you would have some wiggle room in your attire. However, you’ve been proved wrong. You have six layers of clothes on, for the first time in your life feeling like a noble. There’s too many layers, but at least it’s silk.

“The king will be here soon.” Uraume tells you before sliding the door to the room shut, leaving you to kneel on the tatami floors. You click your tongue as you look down at your attire. All of these layers of clothes for nothing. You wonder if he’ll get mad at the fact that he has to remove each garment. A smile comes to your lips, knowing that he’s definitely not the patient kind. 

You try not to think about what’s to come because you’re nervous. The thought of having sex for the first time is enough to make your stomach churn, thinking about what you just saw makes the nerves even more prevalent. You try to take a deep breath, though the action is unnecessarily difficult due to your attire.

You hear his loud footsteps as he approaches the room, your body slowly trembling out of pure nerves. Your breath gets caught up in your chest as the door opens. He walks into the room, and his eyes stare you down. You try to remain composed, but it’s hard when you know what’s about to happen.

You’re scared… Yet, you can’t help but feel excited at what’s to come. Though your fear is what reflects through your body language. It’s going to happen either way so you try to calm yourself down.

“Where’s your makeup?” Sukuna crouches down to be on your level, one hand going under your chin and lifting your face, forcing you to look at him. You thickly swallow, finding it hard to speak now. He’s impatient, though he won’t raise his voice now because of what’s to come, so he repeats the question, “Where’s your makeup?”

“Uraume said I looked better without it so they wiped it off.” You tell him, and he rolls his eyes. He won’t argue with Uraume though, he trusts their judgment. “Next time–”

“Next time you won’t do anything. You’re going to listen to them.” He’s quick to cut you off, and you nod in response. You’re still shaking in his hand, and he finds himself annoyed. But there’s also this unusual feeling at the pit of his stomach, something that he’s never felt before… Pity? “Have I done something to you? Why are you trembling like a mouse?”

“I’m nervous.” You confess, and he scoffs. Nervous, and he has yet to do anything to you. You have a multitude of layers on, you have no reason to shake as if you were naked. You weren’t acting like this when he was in the bath with you, he doesn’t know what’s changed.

“I haven’t even properly touched you.” He practically whispers. He inspects your face before letting go of you. He has no interest in having fun when you’re this pathetic. You’ve successfully killed his mood to do anything. 

Sukuna loves when his prey fears him… But you aren’t considered prey anymore.

“Uraume has arranged everything for tomorrow. We’re getting married.” He announces. He’s given in, and this is another task he must complete before having his heir. He sighs before saying, “You’re so pathetic, I can’t even touch you.”

“Sorry.” You blurt out while he stands up.

“Don’t embarrass me. My wife will never apologize for anything, not even to her king.” He scolds you before opening the door and exiting the room. He’s announced your wedding and left as if it isn’t a big deal, and you guess it’s not a big deal to him.

You can finally take a proper breath, proving that the clothes had nothing to do with your inability to breathe properly. Uraume walks into the room within a minute of Sukuna leaving. They don’t have to ask what happened, he simply just didn’t want to engage with you yet.

“Let’s get you ready for bed.” They say, and you stand up from the floor. You wish you could follow behind them, but they drag you out as if you were a child. 

It’s your first day amongst the walls, you haven’t gained their trust yet, nor do you have a title to have any say in how you’re treated. It will all soon change though, tomorrow you’ll be King Sukuna’s wife. 

[whomeidontknowthem]

okay but do you ever think about the inherit twisted intimacy of torture?

two people spending hours together, lost in the same process. fingers on your skin. the only voice you hear for days on end. the only presence you know. the closeness of having your skin be torn apart under their fingers. having another understand perfectly just how much pain you're in. having to rely on them to treat your wounds, being you water and food so you survive and heal. cry before them, break and have your every emotion on display. having them turn into your whole world.

do you get it?

and then -- the way the torturer can use it as another tool.

torture that leans into intimacy. hands stroking your hair as your warm blood pours out of you. soft whispers urging you to stay awake when the pain is overwhelming. strong arms holding you as you cry, those same arms holding you down as you thrush from agony. suddenly gentle fingers pulling your skin back together because you need to heal before you can take more. having your begging be answered with words of comfort that don't stop the torture. waking up to their gentle smile before the pain begins anew. hearing your name on their lips. taking all the comfort from someone who hurts you, because that's the only comfort you'd ever get.

or -- torture that is clinically, intentionally devoid of intimacy. no questions, no words spoken. the only touch you feel is that of the blade and the thick gloves. not being allowed to see their face. knowing no matter how much you beg not a single word of yours will be acknowledged. never being addressed until you forget that you're still a person. being trapped in a hell with not an ounce of comfort. isolation while still seeing someone daily.

or -- a torturer that combines the two. that goes from all the intimacy to none if you do something wrong or if their mood changes. they come in in gloves and you cry and beg to be acknowledged. constant anxiety from not knowing what kind of day it'd be. getting used to their hands closing your wounds before they're gone. breaking down and trying to do your best to fix whatever mistake you've made to have it back. getting used to no skin contact until they take off the gloves. flinching away from touch as if it burns only to immediately lean in. twisted gratitude when they hug you. always fearing losing what little comfort they give you.

you get it, right?