#Forgive yourself and make it through the night

[harmonysanreads]

A muffled pitter-patter shook you awake from a burgeoning sleep, the insistent ring of that irritating doorbell stole you away from the slumber's clutch completely.

Still a little dazed as per the effects of what was supposed to be a free escape from your current grievances, you had to resort to blinking multiple times to make sense of your surroundings.

That cursed ring pierced through your ears again, reminding you very kindly that there is a social interaction brewing just beyond a doorframe. You should really change that tune, the thought passes by you as you approach the looming front door.

A loud splash follows the click of the lock twisting undone, you can't find it in your voice to spell it out, but your eyes kindly do — who is bothering you at this ungodly hour?

Then, you see it. Through the shadow that engulfs your form, beads of water dripping from the curve of his cheek, sliding down the skin of his throat and catching a break at the curve of his collarbone ; before melting into the white, soaked fabric of his shirt.

You can see his left hand fisted close to the doorbell from your peripheral, you draw in a breath (and pray he didn't catch it) upon noticing that the action inadvertently caged you.

Your hand still clutches the doorknob and a small shift against it reminds you to investigate the sight before you again — meeting those blue eyes, dulled in hues of dejection, regret and apology. You swallow dryly, feeling utterly lost before this spectacle, unknowing of what you should do with this drenched, kicked puppy.

“Phainon... I can see the garden's hose in your other hand.”

Silence. Your eyes close as a few drops of water sprint to your face, the sound of running water splattering everywhere clashing with the stillness of the clear, rain-less night much more apparent now. You taste a long, exasperated sigh on your tongue.

It has been mere twenty minutes since you kicked him out of the house — not without a reasonable cause, of course. Just for some much needed reflection upon his behavior for half an hour.

You reflexively take a step back from the waterworks flooding your front porch. That little action must've rang alarms in Phainon's head, as he discards the still running hose at lightning speed and drops to his knees. You're pushed even farther inside as his arms coil around your knees, soaking your nightclothes and the floor.

“My globi... please please please take me back! I've learned my lesson, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—”

His ramblings make your breath stutter, hands flailing around for a moment before settling on Phainon's head, a habit. You sigh again as his words blend into your mind, he could've just used the spare key to enter if he was so desperate. But no, he had to drag you to him and make you take him back by putting on this show!

Some more muttered apologies from him return you to reality once more, you notice his pitifully drenched state and a thought, a habitual worry about him catching a cold as a result of this passes by, and you no longer have it in yourself to continue being angry.

“Okay, okay, I forgive you. Stop this and come inside already.” you grumble, tugging at his wet white locks gently to bring him back to his senses.

Your brows furrow as he refuses to budge from his position. At this rate, he's going to wake the whole neighborhood up with his theatrics.

“... Only if you promise to take a warm bath with me.” he finally, finally poses his condition. You feel another sigh bubbling in your chest but, you push it down. It's your fault for not spelling this bait out before him first anyway.

“Alright, alright! Go turn off the hose and come inside.” you acquiesce completely.

As if he's been anticipating those exact words, he springs from his knelt position with a vigour that paints a funny contrast to his previous deflated begging. Following your words like the obedient lover he is, truly.

[oneofstarkskids]

professional

clark kent x fem!reader

genre: hella fluff, slow burn!!!

summary: what starts out as a quick visit ends up with you staying the night at your coworkers apartment.

warnings: sexual desire??

note: i saw superman (2025) today and got straight to writing. !!no spoilers!!

2k-ish words

it was another late night at the daily planet. you had stayed after hours, organizing the stack of piles on your desk and making sure tomorrow's articles were ready to go out.

the yellow glow of a desk lamp was the only thing illuminating the room, besides the metropolis light pollution just outside of the large office windows.

as you set aside the last of the prints, you noticed a briefcase leaning against the legs of the desk across from yours.

you didn't need to see the KENT plaque just above the clasp to know it was clark's.

he'd been working on something new this morning too and all of his research was probably still laying between the dividers of that brown case.

so you did the polite thing and tucked it under your arm before locking up the building.

as soon as you stepped outside it began pouring rain. just your luck. you tried calling him, but it kept going straight to voicemail.

you went back through your text messages to the day clark had sent you his address for a gift you had mailed him. nothing special.

just a new pencil sharpener. every article at the bugle was typed up and then printed, but clark preferred to do things the old fashioned way.

he'd write out all of his thoughts, scratch things out, crumble up the really poorly written papers, and then type up the fully revised version.

the only problem was, all he had was this tiny handheld sharpener that had seen hell and back. so, you bought him a new one. as a 'thank you' for supporting you and sticking up to perry when you were first starting out.

you scrolled until you found the location pin. was it rude and probably inappropriate to show up to your co-workers house in the middle of the night, unannounced? maybe.

but hopefully clark would see your intentions for what they were. to return a belonging to a friend.

it was a bit of a walk, but you seemed to be distracted the entire time. were you really just helping out? being a good coworker?

or not-so deep down, was there another reason you were making your way to his place this late?

it didn't matter.

before you knew it, you were standing at his door soaked from head to toe.

he nearly opened the door before you had a chance to knock, saying your name with surprise.

"what are you doing here?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.

you shifted from foot to foot a bit as you held the briefcase out to him, "you left this at the planet. thought you might need it."

he looked over it for a moment before taking it from you. his fingers brushed yours as he reached for it, sending a shiver through your entire body.

clark seemed to notice, then took note of how drenched you were, "did you walk here in the rain?" he asked almost rhetorically.

"yeah, but it's not that far," you said with a smile, contradicting the rosy color of your nose.

clark's dark brows pinched together, trying to understand why you would've done such a thing.

he stepped aside, letting the door swing open, "i have towels and you really should change into something...warmer."

he swallowed, noticing that your pencil skirt and blouse were now clinging to your skin from the rain.

"that's really sweet, but i should probably get home," you said with a soft smile, but his arctic blue eyes could've convinced you otherwise on their own.

"you could get hypothermia. i wouldn't be able to forgive myself," clark said.

you let yourself laugh, it always seemed easier around him, "alright then."

you walked into the apartment, following after him as he went on a hunt for towels.

by the time you'd made it to the bedroom, he'd already set one out along with a pair of his clothes.

"i don't know how well they'll fit, but i figure it's better than wet clothes," he says with his signature grin.

you brush your hair out of your face before whispering a thank you, and that's when you notice how close he is. towering over you and only a few inches away.

your heart seems to beat a little faster.

clark looks down at your chest and blushes suddenly before clearing his throat. "i should probably...sorry. the room's all yours," he mumbles awkwardly before stepping out.

as you get changed, you can't help playing the interaction in your head over and over.

clark is the sweetest man you've ever met. he's insanely talented, really intelligent, and genuinely funny. and yet, there's always something in the way.

something you can't quite see, but feel. on paper, he's perfect. but something tells you there's more to clark kent than he lets on.

now draped in his oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that you had to triple fold over, you leave the room.

he's only a few steps away, in the kitchen, pouring hot water over a blue mug.

"i wanted to make sure you had something warm before you go," he said without looking up.

you involuntarily blushed at his considerate nature, "thanks."

he handed you the mug, "careful. it's hot."

"coffee?" you asked hopefully before peeking into the ceramic cup.

he gave you an apologetic look, "tea."

you snickered at his expression before blowing on the beverage to cool it down.

clark leaned against the counter with one arm.

you tried your best to focus on the drink. to not notice the way the muscles in his biceps rippled from holding his weight. to not let your eyes linger on the veins in his forearm too long. or the way his palm was spread out over the marble-

a loud buzz interrupted, yanking you out of your thoughts.

clark raised his eyebrows, reaching for the phone in his pocket. "looks like a flash flood watch," he said quietly.

your fingers curl aroud the mug nervously.

he noticed this, looking down at you sympathetically. "hey, it's going to be okay."

"but...you should probably stay here for the night. if you're comfortable with that, of course," he stutters.

you think it over for a moment.

clark is a gentleman, so it's not like he would try anything. and besides, the rain was coming down hard. flash flood warnings don't get sent out for no reason.

sure, you worked together and this could probably affect your professional relationship if any lines were to be crossed.

so...you would just have to make sure they weren't.

which was easier said than done when he was always looking at you that way.

"you're right," you nod in agreement.

he analyzed you for a moment, as if he was making sure you weren't uncomfortable in any way.

"okay. you can have the bedroom. i'll sleep on the couch," he said politely. you finished what was left in your mug.

"thank you, clark," you said for what felt like the hundredth time tonight and made a mental note to return the favor some time.

you began handing the mug back to clark but the handle slipped through your fingers and it went plummeting towards the tile.

before it could shatter, clark was on his knees, cradling it with one hand.

your breath hitched at the sight of him down there looking back up at you.

maybe you should've apologized. or even laughed it off.

but he stood up so slowly, barely an inch from your face, and you forgot how to think at all.

"careful," he whispered, eyes flickering down to your lips.

ignoring the magnetic force between the two of you, you went your separate ways.

as you crawled into his sheets and rested your head on his pillow, you were sure that was the last you'd see of the raven haired man for the night.

until, a crack of thunder woke you from your sleep. you jolted forward, hand on your chest as your lungs heaved.

clark was already by your side, hand on your shoulder, "it's okay. just breathe. deep breaths in and then out slowly."

you tried to focus on his voice, do what he said. it wasn't easy, but after a few minutes your breathing had slowed.

he'd held onto you the whole time. "are you okay?" clark asked, sincerity in his eyes.

you nodded, "how did you-"

he blinked, trying to understand what you were asking. then it clicked, "oh. i heard you shout. you were crying."

you felt embarrassment wash over you. this didn't happen often, but when it did you'd be plagued with a dreadful feeling all day long.

how fucking perfect for it to happen the one night you choose to spend at someone else's house.

"i'm so sorry," you let your head fall against your bent knees. on the bright side, you'd forgotten what the dream was even about in the first place.

clark's gentle touch fell from your shoulder to squeeze your hand, "don't say that. it's not your fault."

"it's not your fault." his words echoed in your head.

you let your fingers brush against his, "i woke you."

he shook his head, a single curl falling against his forehead, "i wasn't asleep."

clark wasn't going to tell you it was because he'd been worried about you, listening for the slightest sniffle in case you'd caught something out in the rain.

he just gave you a once-over, double checking that you were okay, before straightening his posture, "you should get some sleep."

your heart dropped as he let go of your hand. as he began to leave, you looked out at the window behind him.

the clouds crackled with fury.

"clark," your voice came out weak.

he turned back to you without hesitation.

"do you wanna stay? maybe talk?" you asked.

clark's eyes went slightly wider and he seemed at a loss for words.

you fidgeted, "it's just, i don't think i'll be able to go back to sleep. and it's kind of awful being alone in here."

"i don't know how you do it," you laughed.

the smile he gave you reached his eyes and he sat beside you without a word.

you moved over, making sure he had enough space before leaning back against the headboard, "tell me about your latest piece."

clark began rambling on and on about news in metropolis. how big corporations were affecting small businesses and something about climate change.

you weren't really sure. at some point you began falling asleep, your head slowly sinking down onto his shoulder.

he stopped talking as he felt you curl up against him, taking a moment to admire your peaceful state.

after making sure you were fully asleep, he gently laid you down against the pillows, pulling the covers up over you.

"goodnight," he whispered before making a move to slip out of bed. but before he could, your arm was flung over his lap.

he let out a short, breathy laugh before trying again.

this time, your fingers curled around his shirt and tugged him closer.

so clark had no choice but to stay there by your side all night long, even dozed off sitting up a few times.

by morning, you'd completely forgotten where you were.

that was until you saw his face. his jaw slack, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he snored quietly.

the morning glow hit his features just right and he suddenly didn't look like shy, quiet clark kent.

he looked like something carved by greeks. he looked like a god.

almost as if he could feel you staring, he blinked, slowly waking up. clark gave you a curious look, "were you watching me sleep?"

your eyebrows shot up, "what!? no, of course not. that would be weird."

he nodded slowly, "it would be weird. but, i don't mind weird."

you chewed your bottom lip nervously as your thoughts ran wild. it had only just seemed to dawn on you that you were currently at clark kent's apartment, laying in clark kent's bed, wearing clark kent's clothes.

"you talk in your sleep, ya' know?" he smirked.

you frowned, "um. no, i did not know that."

he looked at you like he knew something you didn't.

"what?? what did i say," you asked, bracing yourself for impact.

clark shook his head reassuringly, "nothing."

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in as he pulled off the covers and walked over to his dresser, taking a sip from a glass that you hadn't noticed before.

"and i'll make sure that you dreaming of my strong arms is off the record," he said smugly and casually.

you gasped in horror, "CLARK!" you threw a pillow at him, missing terribly and being subjected to the sound of his chaotic laughter.

[dissolved-g1rl]

stars fadin’ but I linger on ⋆˙⟡

Dream would never stoop so low as to describe the situation with vulgarity, but he feels as though Hob describes it best, Morpheus “really really fucked up”. He will fix this, at least…he’s trying. Flowers was the first step, then was an expensive perfume, next was a stormy nightmare. He’s not targeting you, despite what his siblings think, he has learned his lessons from past relationships. In fact many people have had rather stormy dreams, the king of dreams grief is palpable to millions all over.

You’re summoned to the dreaming, thats how you know Morpheus is through with quarreling. The halls seems impossibly long as you make your way down his castle halls. It’s a little embarrassing to be here, wearing your pajamas. A pinch to your skin, a light slap to your cheek, and a mantra of “this is just a dream” are the methods you try to wake yourself up, all to no avail. The halls seem to twist, only certain doors unlocking as the dreaming is bent to the will of its ruler, leading you down to the throne room. Surprisingly, the king of dreams is not residing in his throne.

“You came.” A familiar voice appears from behind you, you don’t need to be a genius to know who it is.

“Did you really give me a choice?” You ask, he set you loose like a rat in a maze, just tempting you towards the sharp taste of cheese. “I suppose not.” Morpheus replies, “Though you didn’t give me much of a choice but you call you to my realm.” He rebuttals, he looks pleased when you take a seat in his throne, bold little thing you are, even in your cute pajamas. The feeling is unlike another, like a fine wood, sturdy, more comfortable than you thought. “I needed some space.” You shrug tapping your nails against the arm of the chair. “And I’ve respected that, have I not?” Morpheus’ voice is a tinge of frustration and a tinge of want, nervousness twists in your stomach as he makes his way up the steps. He won’t hurt you, you know that, but he is still very well known for being temperamental towards his lovers.

Finally Dream stands in front of you, looking down at you. What he does next surprises you, he kneels. Morpheus resides between your legs, resting at your feet. Instead of looking down at you, he’s looking up at you with reverence. His lips are slightly parted as he looks at you with an almost pained expression, “Angel, my northern star, forgive me, I was a fool to push you away.” Morpheus grabs your hand, placing apologetic kisses from the tips of your fingers to you wrist. Each one slow and methodical. “Dream…” You murmur, totally stunted at the sight before you. The king of dreams kneeling whilst begging for your forgiveness, no one in a million years would ever believe you. His hand clasps yours and he lays his head in your lap like a lowly animal begging for scraps of attention. He looks up with you with his dark eyes, you take pity on him, caressing the side of his face, he sighs with relief, you touch is like a soothing balm upon his aching heart. “How I’ve missed you.” He mumbles, you want to laugh at how melodramatic he is, it’s half neurotic half charming. “C’mere…” You murmur, leaning down, cupping under his jaw to tip it upwards, your mouths fit together, Dream gets eager, chasing your mouth with his when you try to pull away. You laugh, it makes him smile, and things feel as though they’ve been mended again. That night millions all over are no longer subjected to dreams with hail and lighting, but instead replaced with soft clouds and the warm sun poking out after a dwindled storm.

dividers by @strangergraphics

a/n: sorry for lack of fics lately i have been busy preparing for a trip (っ- ‸ - ς)

[kafkaisnotdead]

Hector character analysis

I'm tired of Hector's mischaracterization (it's eather "he's an innocent cutie" or "he's a creepy stalker") so I decided to write a list of his traits first. Feel free to add your own opinions!

1. He is shy and deeply insecure (obviously).

2. However, he does not hate himself entirely. He takes pride in his role as the HVAC system. It is the way he looks that makes him self-conscious. I also feel like this confidence helps him to fight his fears so quickly, stand up for himself in the Hate Route, or even indirectly confront Keyes' arrogance.

3. He's a yearner and deeply devoted person. I feel like his intense devotion can come across as obsession to some people.

4. He lives a life of enforced solitude. His deep-rooted loneliness fuels both his devotion and his yearning. In the player, he finds the sole focus for his profound need for connection.

5. He's kind of melodramatic (he said so himself). This could be a self-defense mechanism for him - over-exaggerating his feelings to make potential rejection feel less painful.

6. He's more sensual than sexual. I'm basing this opinion on his teasing at the end of day 2 and on his fanfic.

7. But that doesn't mean he lacks a freaky side (teeth getting involved at the end of his fanfic reading… or the fact that the fanfic exists at all 😅). If you decide to spend the night with him after his Realization, you can see for yourself that he's not all talk.

8. Deep inside, he kind of feels entitled to the player's attention and affection, seeing it as a natural response to his care and devotion. This comes through more clearly in the Hate route. I feel like this entitlement is the reason he would even threaten to freeze the player to death if they were being extra mean. Although he never actually acts on his threats, using the excuse that he takes too much pride in his work.

This is probably partly his melodramatic tendencies coming through, a signal of the hurt feelings of a devoted servant. Therefore, his sense of entitlement is fundamentally different from that of the stereotypical "nice guy" who's been rejected by a girl he felt entitled to.

9. He's playful and mischievous, but this is deeply buried under his shyness. He does tease you on several occasions, and even chuckles if player get flustered by his fanfic.

I feel like him creating carnival masks in his ending really suits this trait.

10. He seeks considerable control in his life. While he enjoys the player's ability to tell him what to do, in some aspects he's adamant about doing things his way (you can see this if you pester him in the attic for 3 days in a row at the start of his route). He also easily accepts it if the player states that they don't want to control him. Perhaps his submissiveness in the relationship with the player is also a conscious choice rather than his inherent trait; that's why he freaks out when things don't go according to his plan - such as if the player approaches his grate again after he has invited them to the attic.

11. He is also kind, cares for those around him, and is ready to forgive the player's missteps (but not cruelty, not without candy, at least).

12. But most importantly, he isn't afraid to be vulnerable. He acknowledges his feelings (albeit melodramatically), his devotion, and his need. This requires profound courage, especially from someone so inherently shy.

I think that's all. Thoughts? Prayers, perchance? 😅

[cigsaftsx]

GUILTY CONSCIENCE

namgyu x f!reader

inspired by anonymous request!

Synopsis: You & Namgyu were together for just over a year. A rocky relationship however. His addictions being the main reasons for this - and you had reached your limit eventually. You threw his shit out of your apartment and him along with it. He would show at your door every night - begging. But after a while, he stopped. Only a few months later, you sign up for the games but you instantly regret it when you see the familiar face of your very recent ex boyfriend.

warnings: toxic behaviour, sexual tension, sexual content/ nsfw, mentions of violence, rough content - punishment, mentions of death & threats.

You didn’t believe in hell, the devil or the consequences of sin. You lived in blissful ignorance.

Though your beliefs were tested after a game of Red light Green light.

People shot dead like cattle. Without mercy or chance. It without a doubt terrified you. This was not worth the money you so desperately needed.

During that, you hadn’t noticed him. Namgyu. Your ex. It had been a few months now so it was still fresh. Only a month ago had he stopped showing up at your door in the middle of the night - pleading for you, for your forgiveness. One night he even begged you for your pussy — you remember watching him through the keyhole, how he clung to the door, muttering against it ‘fuck, i miss you - please, baby - fuck, even your pussy. that fuckin’ pussy — c’mon, open up - you know I can make it up to you.’

You knew better than to give in, although he begged so sweetly. And, oh, how you wanted to take him back - but your anger had outweighed your pity. You’d long had enough of how his loyalty lay with his addiction more than you. Acting like his carer, a babysitter - your self respect knew better than that.

Your senses had been so blinded during the first game that you hadn’t seen him - but he saw you. Shaking and crouching down behind the player in front of you as you all formed lines of protection. His gaze set on you most of the game despite his own stress. Perhaps you being there had gave him the push he needed to get through it.

As soon as you leaped across the finish line, you fell with a thud. The impact knocking a gust of wind out of you. You sat, legs bent as your hands laid palm flat on the floor - heavy pants ripping out of your chest as the after shock set in. Tears burnt the edge of your eyes - but you can’t blink, so they don’t fall. Only when the game ends do you look around at the rest of who had made it - there was still a lot of you, but there was a significant loss. Your eyes glaze through the crowd, until they land on him. He’s staring at you across the field, stood there, his expression almost blank - but a longing laid behind his eyes. A shock that you were there, and a relief that you had made it.

You both remain like that for a moment - acknowledging each other.

Till you come to your senses - remembering how it had been, and that anger slowly slips back - so you rip your eyes away, inhale a sharp breath and force yourself to stand.

You intended to stick by your word.

You and him were over. You only hoped that your current situations didn’t pull you back together.

You headed back to the main hall. It’s sickeningly quiet as everyone climbs the stairs - no doubt in fear and shock. You’d never seen someone die before - in that way, so brutally. A million questions ripping through your head as you keep your eyes pinned to the floor. Was there a way out? How many games are there? And how long would you last until your luck would run out. You could die here.

You feel a tug on your sleeve, the weight causing you to stumble down a step as you whip your head around.

Namgyu looks up at you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He says, clutching to your sweaters sleeve. You try to tug your arm away but his grip is too tight. Players start moving around you both to carry on up the stairs.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You hiss, challenging him.

He shifts his footing, swallowing a hard lump in his throat. You both knew the answers. You both needed the money. Although he hadn’t expected you to be in a place like this - playing for money. He remembers how you would scold him for gambling. Yet here you are.

His silence lets you realise that this place wasn’t actually out of character for him, so asking him now seemed a little silly. You are both aware of his greed — how he blows through his savings for a score. You exhale, yanking your arm hard enough so that your sleeve leaves his grip properly this time.

“I have bills. Outstanding ones.” You explain, turning away to continue up the stairs. He’s quick to catch up, walking at your side like a lost puppy.

“Listen — we’ve been played. These fuckers are killing people — like this is some SAW movie level shit, so we gotta stick together, yeah?” He says, eagerly, almost pleading with you as his hand comes up to grip your sweaters material. You could laugh in his face if you weren’t so sick to your stomach with what you had just witnessed. You simply shake your head, keeping your eyes ahead.

“You don’t know anyone here, right? So you’ve only got me. Let’s just —"

You cut him off before he gets the chance to continue, snapping your head to him.

“Are you fucking dumb?” You snap, glaring at him.

“We’re split, Namgyu — over. Okay? I have no intention of rekindling that, especially not here — not when my life’s at risk.” You come across mean, you can admit that. But for him to be so clingy and caring now? After everything? Yeah, it pisses you off.

He glares at you.

“So let’s just - not. Okay? Leave me the fuck alone.” You finish, staring into his eyes for a moment before turning away and heading up the stairs one by one. Your heart aches — as though seeing him now had brought all your old feelings back. You knew your feelings for him hadn’t gone, not really. But you have to stay strong - for yourself, for your own respect. You figured you had to keep a clear head to survive this and being around him wouldn’t help that.

“Fucking cunt.” He mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

You whip your head over your shoulder at him - he’s smiling. Not a nice smile, but one of those smiles he’d pull when you would once argue. A bitter smile. An evil one. You don’t even bother to reply, so you turn back and continue up. An argument deemed pointless.

When it came to voting, you felt relieved. The idea that there could be a way out was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You only hope everyone else shares the same mindset - surely they would? But that concept left your head whirling when people voted for O. Your stomach twisting — unbearably so, an anxiety you couldn’t just ignore as the pace of your heart batters against your chest. They were taking the lead. And as Namgyu approached the podium and hit O without any hesitation? Your jaw fell slack. Though you didn’t feel so surprised. Just sick. Sick of him. Your eyes follow him as he heads over to the O side of the arena, standing next to Thanos who you were vaguely familiar with. Namgyu had spoken about him to you before - rather passionately at that - you remember telling him not to get involved. Of course, he hadn’t listened.

When your turn came, you stood there for a moment, staring down at the buttons. You really needed the money. But was it enough to risk your own life? You shudder at the intensity of the choice. You hear a little whistle from behind you so you turn and Namgyu is staring at you, smiling darkly. He makes an O shape with his hands as though to sway your choice. That was enough for you to whip around and bring your fist down onto X.

You take the badge and strap it to your chest.

You wanted out.

You don’t even spare him a glance as you head to opposite side. He watches you all the way there, jaw visibly clenching in frustration.

O still won the vote.

The hall was quiet when it came to dinner. You kept to yourself, sat on your bottom bunk as you looked down at the serving. Sweet potato and water. That was it. Despite not having the appetite, you settle on keeping your strength up. You reluctantly take the potato and sink backward till your back hits the wall of your bunk. A soft sigh escaping you as you take a bite.

Your eyes flicker over to Namgyu’s group. They’re all taking, plotting probably. But Namgyu is staring at you. He felt bad about calling you a fucking cunt — kind of. More so like he is kicking himself, knowing that wouldn’t be the way to win you over and as soon as he sees you looking, he gets up. You’re quick to avert your gaze back down to your food, burying your head. You know he’s coming over, but you pray he doesn’t. You just take another bite - your face heating up, not wanting another confrontation.

You only hear his foot falls coming closer and stopping at the edge of your bed.

You don’t look up.

He knocks on the metal frame of your bed. As though knocking on a door. You squeeze your eyes shut before looking up at him, he’s leaning his forearms on the overhead of the bunk beds frame. Food box in hand.

Your annoyed glare is enough for him to bring his hands up into a surrender pose.

“Easy, baby — I come in peace.” He mocks, the slight grin on his face making you grimace.

“Go awa—“ He sits down on your bed with an exaggerated exhale before you can tell him to leave. You huff, pulling your legs upward and away from him, eyes rolling as he gets comfy, crossing his legs boyishly.

He places down his food box between you, his potato untouched. You stare at it before your eyes flicker up to him.

He’s smiling proudly, nodding down at the food before nudging the box toward you.

“Eat.”

You frown. “I already have.”

“Then eat more. I saved mine for you.” He picks up the potato and holds it in front of your face, nodding his chin toward it as though enticing you to have a bite. Was this really his idea of apologising? Some weak attempt at winning you over? You wouldn’t fall for it. Though inside? You’d love to lean over and take a sweet bite, all the while keeping your eyes on his. To tease, but you shrug the thought away. You’re over, you remind yourself.

“What is this? A peace offering?” You mock, harshly.

Namgyu’s arm slacks slightly, his elbow coming to rest on the bed though he keeps his hand upward with the potato in his grip. Almost giving in, but he’s not so easily defeated. He likes the chase, admittedly. Though his patience isn’t his strong suit.

“Call it what you want. I’m being kind, aren’t I?” He says, his tone sort of defeated, his smile faltering ever so slightly. You don’t say anything, dumbfounded by his stupidity. His full smile comes back then, convinced that your silence means you’re coming round to him. He extends his arm fully again.

“See? Now drop the bitch act and have some. I know you want to.”

You figure you’re still hungry. But you wouldn’t give into him so easily. You swat his wrist away from your face, the potato falling from his grip and rolling away onto the floor. You both watch it go. You didn’t exactly intend to discard the food like that - to dirty it on the floor, but you figure it would help get your point across. He looks back at you, smile gone - mouth agape. You look back.

“Fuck off.” Is all you say.

You look back down and unscrew the lid of your water cockily, bringing it to your lips but it splatters over you when he smacks it out your grip - then leaning forward to twist his grip into your sweater - pulling your toward him. You grip his wrist with both hands as you come face to face with him. Alas, you knew his patience was hanging thin. You took some pleasure in that.

“What do I gotta do, hm?” He hisses out, close enough that shouting wasn’t necessary. A pleading laced his tone - almost desperate and it reminds you of he would beg outside your door of a night time.

“Tell me — What? You wanna hear me say sorry? Hm?” He tugs on your sweater a few times. You just stare at him. He had been a shitty boyfriend. An apology would be nice — but you knew that wouldn’t cut it. Not at all. You’re not frightened or intimidated in the slightest - in fact, hearing him like this washes a sense of longing over you which you wished would go away. It would be so much easier to hate him. Spit in his face and call him a loser. Curse him. Push him away. But you don’t. You just watch him, your eyes flickering into both his eyes.

He stares back, his face a frustrated scowl.

A few moments pass like that and he visibly calms down. Eyes dropping downward. He unlaces his hand from your sweater and you thinks he’s done until he places his palm firmly on the side of your neck. Fingers groping the back of your head. The placement alone felt familiar to a threat. You swallow hard. A shaky exhale leaves him, the warmth of it fanning your face from the proximity.

“Here’s what’s ‘gonna happen.” He says, nodding to himself with his eyes shut. Though he’s talking to you, it also looks like he’s talking to himself - like he’s confirming the plan in his own head.

You only glare quietly, almost a little worried for what he’s about to say.

“In the next game, whatever it is — you’re with me.” He opens his eyes. They’re dark, menacing - but keen. Almost protective and extremely demanding.

“You’re also gonna press O for me tomorrow, aren’t you? Not like you did today — pressing X like a fucking traitor.”

You go to shake your head no but he stills your head with his grip and nods yes.

“Yes. You are.” He says firmly. A sly smile creeping onto his expression. You’re too tired to argue, so you let him have this. You know inside that come tomorrow? You won’t be anywhere near him. You feel strong inside knowing that. Knowing you can take that power from him. But for now? Play the game. So you stay silent.

“I’m gonna take care of you.” He continues. He speaks so confidently and proud. As though in his head he feels like he’s wooing you. His grip on your face loosens and he pats your cheek condescendingly. Before you know it he’s swinging his legs off the side of your bed and standing up - leaning forward to rest his forehead against the frame, looking down at you.

“You know where I am if you get cold in the night.” He drawls, as he runs his eyes down your figure before they snap back to your eyes. You can’t deny the flutter in your stomach when he says that, and a soft little exhale pushes through your lips as you glare upward to him.

He smiles, and steps backward a few times — looking proud before he spins around to walk back over to his group.

Once he’s a fair distance away, you let the breath you’d held escape.

By the next day you had managed to avoid him all morning. Stayed out of sight - even switched to a bed further away from your old one so he’d be confused.

And even better, come the next game - the six legged pentathlon? You’d already wormed your way into a nice group before he could even get near you. You could hear him pleading with Thanos to keep one space available in their group while he looked for you and it didn’t take him long to find you standing with a bunch of strangers. He paces over to you, frowning.

“Been lookin’ for you all morning, let’s go.” He grabs your sweater and goes to pull you but you yank your arm back.

“I have a group.” You say sternly.

Namgyu eyes the group and scoffs a laugh. “Please. These fuckin’ losers?”

You cross your arms, clearly standing your ground. His jaw flex’s sternly, and before he goes to say anymore, Thanos calls for him.

“Nam-Su! We got a full team - move your ass!” Namgyu doesn’t look over, his sight still harshly trained down into you - viper like. You can’t help but smile at Thanos getting his name wrong.

“Go on, Nam-su.” You tease.

He grinds his teeth - annoyed that you picked up on that. It’s one of his biggest pet peeves. Instead of arguing, he steps backward and turns on his heel, heading back. Shooting you a glare over his shoulder as he does. You knew that you’d hear what he has to say later. But for now, you needed focus.

As people played in the groups, the crowds of the players slowly began to celebrate them. Shouting and encouraging them - and it felt wonderful. During this, your team had befriended another. Gi-Hun’s team. Both your teams celebrating together as the playing teams won each individual game. And it was quick how friendly you and Dae-Ho became. Clutching onto one another in rejoice when other teams actually passed the game.

Namgyu, however, seethes in rage as he watches you cling to Dae-Ho’s arm when you yell in thrill. Thanos bumps his shoulder into Namgyu’s.

“Hey — bro, isn’t that your ex señorita?” He quips, eyeing you - frantic mid high.

Namgyu doesn’t reply, glaring ahead.

“Shit, it is. Bro — that’s crazy disrespectful, bro. Shit — look at the way she’s clinging onto that guy.” Thanos continues, not helping Namgyu’s obvious frustration. In fact it only fuels him. Dangerously. This was his limit.

You watched Namgyu’s team then. Finding yourself hoping they’d pass, annoyingly. Yes. Yours and his situation was very rocky - bordering toxic. Yet deep down, your feelings still remained. Rather strongly. You pushed him away only in the hopes that it’d be easier to get over him. And obviously, the last thing you wanted was him dead.

They passed, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

Your team then passed with flying colours too. The occasional stumble but you had made it and as you head back to the hall, you can’t help but think about Namgyu. You’re just glad he’s okay, nothing more, you tell yourself. You had to keep strong against him. Against your own mind.

You gnaw at your lip though — remembering you would have to deal with him once you’re back. Your disobedience earlier would be an issue for him.

You decide to avoid him and stick with your group until the next vote rolled around.

They call your number up and make sure not to spare him a glance. You decided the cold way was the best way.

You press X.

You suspect you’d get an ear full from him eventually.

But surprisingly, he didn’t try for the rest of the evening. Maybe because you were sat with your new friends, or maybe because he’d truly given up — that your coldness toward him had shooed him away. Either way, as hard as it is, you feel a relief. That you don’t have to worry about him hanging over your shoulder any more.

So you head to bed at peace.

You wake at some point however. It’s dark — only the sound of breathing and an occasional snore was all that could be heard. Everyone sleeping. You squeeze your eyes shut and roll over. Then roll over again. Trying to get back to sleep felt impossible. You roll onto your back with a huff - staring up at the ceiling, reaching up to rub your eye when you feel the texture of long dried blood on your face still. Probably from the first game.

The thought of it still being on you makes your stomach churn so you roll out of bed and pace toward the door — knocking twice — a moment passes. A pink guard answers.

“I need the bathroom.” Is all you whisper. They grant you the access.

You hadn’t noticed Namgyu trailing not far behind.

You’re very precious about your hygiene. In here, it isn’t a concept. Not respected. So as you look into the bathroom mirror, you grimace at the sight of old blood scattered across your face. Wasting no time on running the tap and scrubbing yourself clean of it. Once you’re done, you only sigh, gripping the sinks counter as you look into the mirror.

You need to go home.

Dropping your head as a tear brims your eyes — having a moment alone meant time to think — reflecting on the actual weight of this situation. Thinking about your family — friends.

You miss them.

How you had taken them for granted so.

You sniff and dry your tears and face with your palms, combing your fingers through your hair frantically until you look reasonably put together. The last thing you wished for was to look weak.

With a heavy sigh you looked upon yourself again and nodded - trying to encourage yourself. You push your weight off the sink and head back toward the door. You open it.

And there’s Namgyu, waiting.

Looking erratic and unkept. Your mind races for a moment — quickly deciding this was a bad situation and instinctively you slam the door in his face. He’s quick to react though, pushing against it — wedging his body through the remaining gap.

He’s a lot stronger than you.

And he overpowers you with ease, slamming the door open - causing you to stumble backward into the bathroom. Your eyes blow wide — scared. He fucking followed you here in the dead of night. Had he been awake the whole time — watching you? Waiting for the perfect opportunity?

“Hey, you fuck.” He seethes, taking a few steps in before slamming the door behind him. It was the only way out and now he’s blocking it. Leaving you with no options. You continue a few more steps backward before you buck it toward a bathroom stall with the hopes of locking yourself in. But he’s too fast. It’s merely a second before you feel him twist a fist into your hair and yank you backward - falling into him. You cry out, helpless — but not quite as you seize the opportunity to bring an elbow backward and into his gut — hard.

You hear an oof noise gust out of his mouth and he releases his grip momentarily. That hurt him, you note. You turn and he’s clutching his stomach, hurdled over so you step around him fast — making it toward the door as you yank it open desperately with a cry.

His hand shoots out next to your head — palm flush against the door, slamming it shut. Caging you in.

“You fucking traitor —" He says into your ear, his tone different — more erratic and frantic, emphasising the word traitor. Sounding how he would when he’d come home late at night, high. But he couldn’t be high. Surely? Then you think about Thanos. His reputation makes you question whether he smuggled something in.

“Namgyu—“ You choke out, about to plead with him until he yanks your body around to face him — shoving your back against the door.

“Look at me when you use my fucking name.”

You look up at him, your expression showing worry — unsure of his intent. A silent plea glosses your eyes as your chest heaves heavily.

He peers down at you like a predator to prey. A line of sweat across his forehead, his hair messed and greasy — curtaining his face.

“Did you enjoy yourself today?” He asks sarcastically, a sickening grin forming on his face as he grips your jackets collar with both hands.

“Get the fuck off me.” You hiss - gripping at his wrists to give yourself some stability in his clutches. You raise your chin up at him to show whatever bravery still remained in you. He breathily laughs at that. He’s reached his limit now, remaining patience he had has finally spanned out of control - gone. He’s like an electric wire - snipped in half, whirling and sizzling.

He makes a sad awww noise lowly, as though to mock you - pouting his lips out as if to feel sorry for you. “I tried to play nice, y/n.” Namgyu whines out childishly, a hand coming around the back of your neck to hold there firmly. You try to resist his clutches but he’s too demandingly strong - his other hand coming to pet the side of your face.

“But you didn’t want to — What? Was me being sweet to you not good enough?” He continues with his tone, as though he were speaking you as if you’re lower than him — his childish and condescending tone being enough to irritate you beyond. Yet you can’t say anything, admittedly scared. Not scared of him — or maybe a little, but scared about your willpower. You’d grown less angry toward him — which only meant you were growing soft. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take before your act would crumble and you come crawling back to him.

You merely whine in his grip — he enjoys that, smiling.

“So wha’ do I gotta do to make you drop this bitch act?” He says, craning his head down to meet your eye level - brows raising.

“Do I have to fuck it out of you?”

Your eyes widen a little. Oh god. Your mind betraying you in an instant when you think back to all the times you were both up late — fucking. About how he’d sometimes take you bent over the kitchen counter, stuffing his cock in you from behind — your bodies riving together like dogs in heat. All sweat and name calling —— telling you how much he loves your sweet fucking cunt.

You instinctively press your legs together. Desperate to ignore the growing heat between them.

Of course, he notices that. His eyes flickering down briefly to your legs before snapping them back up to you. An ever so soft gasp — exaggerated, leaves his gaping mouth. You forget he knows you. Like, really knows you and not just that but your body.

He knows when you’re happy - sad, but especially knows when you’re turned on. He takes pride in that now, wearing that realising expression on his face with pride as he straightens up, mouth agape and still dragging out his degrading gasp. You can only glare - your resolve slowing pulling down that facade you’d held for so long.

He brings his lower lip into his mouth to gnaw on it, humming a uh uh - with a head shake saying ‘no.’ He jams a foot in between yours and kicks your legs apart. He knows exactly what you’re fucking feeling and he won’t let you get away with it.

“You haven’t got a door to hide behind now, have you?” He mutters, referring to the times he’d show up begging for you back - and how you’d hide behind your door to avoid him. Not this time.

He leans in close.

“I fucking see you.” He seethes, face dangerously close to yours. You can’t help the quiver of your lip and desperate plea across your face. You feel your kept responsibility fading - slowly crumbing beneath him - the ache in your pussy now turning into a throb.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the door - trying to muster your remaining strength to resist him.

“Yeah.” He drawls out slowly, nodding — “That’s right, you’re just a fucking tease, aren’t you?”

He’s playing his own game now. You had managed to push him over the edge, to break his patience. You’d took great pleasure in that. But now it was his turn. His turn to break you.

And you simply can’t take anymore.

“Stop this, Namgyu — please.” You whine out — breaking your silence. Your hands hesitantly come up to curl into his shirt - clutching tightly - pulling yourself forward to rest your forehead against his chest in defeat with a thump. Burying your face to hide the shame of your surrender. You just simply melt against him — finally. Inhaling softly, smelling his smell - the familiarity of it - even the warmth of his chest as it heaves against your head. You swear you hear his heart thrumming.

You don’t feel any distain toward yourself as you press against him like this. Maybe a sense of guilt — but your feelings for him come plummeting back in the second you touch him. Smell him. This is you giving in. Waving the white flag and you only hope he accepts it.

You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime. The anticipation of his next move eating you alive.

You feel his hand pet through the hair on-top your head. The corner of your lips upturn a little — relieved.

“So, who’s the cocksucker you got all cosy with today from that fuck-head group?”

You still, eyes opening with an impending sense of dread.

He isn’t done. You swallow the hard ache now forming in your throat.

“What?” You whisper, unable to let yourself look up at him - shocked that your psychical submission hadn’t worked a charm. You note how he’s still petting your hair, softly — too softly, given the context of his question.

“You heard me.” He replies — his voice eerily calm.

You already know he’s referring to Dae-Ho. But you also know that it wasn’t anything like that. You realise how hard it’s gonna be to convince him otherwise. You take a shaky breath in - mustering courage as you crane your head to look up at him slowly - still clutching to his chest as though he were keeping you afloat.

He looks down at you with a soft, expecting smile.

You can’t find your words — too worried to say the wrong thing.

He raises his brows once - nodding ever so slightly, like he’s encouraging you to reply. But there was nothing you could say that would explain the situation better than a:

“It’s nothing like that.”

Namgyu stays smiling. “Clutching and smiling with a man you’ve never met? — that’s nothing?”

You can’t move — speak. The idea of defending yourself felt suddenly useless. All you can do is nod your head - rather frantically - desperate to plead your innocence. He’s still petting his hand through your hair — and you’re starting to become overly aware that his actions, expression and tone aren’t aligning with the things he’s saying. It makes you anxious.

“You did it to fuck with me. Didn’t you?”

“ — No, Gyu.”

“Gyu? Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking idiot and get cute — it’s a little late for that.” He retorts quick, smiling fading - shutting down your attempts at calling him by the shortened version of his name that you had done when you were once together.

He looks away from you and ahead - as though in thought. You still remain holding onto him - looking upward, not liking the silence he know plays into. Suspence being your worst enemy.

“Please.” Is all you can muster - not liking the contemplation on his face.

He takes in a sharp inhale - his shoulders dropping dramatically on the exhale.

“Maybe in the next game I’ll make sure he doesn’t see it though — and his little shitfuck group.” He begins, returning his gaze downward to you.

“Just to set an example.” He finishes, bringing his head downward a little closer to you as he says that — to whisper, to twist the knife. Your blood runs cold — a shudder rippling through your body which breaks your stillness — shifting your footing. He’d kill them. He’d fucking kill them.

Just to prove a point.

“No.” You plea, moving your hands upward to clutch onto his shoulders now - desperate. You don’t want their deaths on your conscience — to be responsible for it.

Namgyu only nods sweetly, his smile vaguely returning as if to shut down your debate.

“Or maybe I’ll take you out there now — lay you down,” He pauses to clutch either sides of your face - thumbs pressing into your flushed cheeks. You whine at his grip.

“And fuck you. Nice and loud — make sure to wake ‘em up — make ‘em watch. Just so they know exactly who you belong to.”

He’s close enough to place the slightest ghost of a kiss against the corner of your mouth — barely touching — before putting his forehead against yours, eyes staring heavily into your own. He sways you softly in his hold and despite the seeming sweetness of it — you know it’s a threatening one.

“How’s that sound?” He asks.

As much as his words, shamefully, sent your head into a spin — you knew he’d actually do it. The killing or the fucking. But surely those weren’t your only options here, so you bravely decide on a third. Which means complete submission, which honestly? You didn’t now mind the idea of.

You’d lost the slither of self respect you had.

He won.

You needed him.

As shameful as it is.

Your eyes roll closed, pushing against his forehead with yours — cat like, needy. Flexing your hands on his shoulders to tighten your grip — clinging onto him, raising onto your tippy toes in order to feel closer. Though your height against his doesn’t give you much more of an advantage.

“There’s only you.” You whisper. The truth now spilling out your mouth - a confession. A sick one. Proving that he had won - and that you didn’t mind.

You hadn’t been with anyone else through the duration of your time apart. It wasn’t possible for you — even the concept of someone else’s hands on your body that weren’t his made you sick. You had been incapable of moving on — all you had left during that time was your self respect. That had been enough to close him off.

But now?

That fell apart.

You’re close enough hear his breath hitch.

“Say that again.”

You hear him say — his voice low. The sound of it enough to make your stomach twist — your pussy clench, and your head spin. You writhe in his hold sweetly - uncontrollably moving to graze your lips across his cheek, smearing.

“There was never anyone else.” You continue, your voice low and timid despite the confidence of your confession. You hear his lips puff out a breath — his jaw going slack as your continue your lips across to the other side of his face, only the slightest touch though — no kisses, just a soft graze.

You remember him enjoying that in the past.

Yet you can’t take anymore as your lips move above his — hovering there. As soon as you plant a kiss on him — you’re truly done for. You wouldn’t be able to be apart from him ever again — you wouldn’t want to be.

You softly come closer to plant the ghost of a kiss on his bottom lip - so soft he hardly feels it. You gulp hard - and as you move in to properly kiss him, he pulls his head back.

You let out a desperate gasp from the separation - eyes shooting open to look at him. His expression — blank. You can’t help the furrow knitting your brows together, confused. Desperately confused. You open your mouth to say something - but you can’t find the words.

“Say you’re sorry.” He says blankly.

You don’t say anything - your expression remaining.

“Say you’re sorry for playing the bitch — and fucking mean it.”

A little noise leaves you. Your eyes batting into his — you knew better than to think you could just get your way after that shit you pulled with him. You conclude that maybe his willpower is much stronger than yours. Proving so when after a moment or two in silence, you apologise.

“I’m sorry for playing the bitch, Namgyu.”

He doesn’t look convinced. You swallow hard.

“I acted like a bitch when you were trying to be nice. I should’ve been grateful — I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, Namgyu.”

He smiles then, almost condescendingly proud of you. He likes it when you play nice.

“Good.” He says.

“Now beg me for it.”

“Beg me for a kiss like a good girl.”

You practically shudder at that. He knows exactly what you want but he tells you exactly how you’ll get it. If it were you from yesterday, you’d give him a good slap to the face. But the mumbling mess you are now? Clinging to him? Like a desperate bitch? You don’t find much issue in it despite the shyness now parading your body.

“P-please.” You mumble out, eyes darting downward and back up to him — struggling to look him in the eyes, your new timidness achingly obvious.

“Kiss me — please, kiss me, Gyu.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” He cuts you off, almost laughing. His degrading makes you feel so fucking small beneath him — like every emotion you’re feeling is crashing down and suffocating you. You stutter to a silence when he cuts you off — unsure what you did wrong.

“That’s not how you beg.”

“Get on your fucking knees and beg me properly.” He bites, taking a step back away from you, his expression hard and demanding. Making it very obvious that he’s not fucking joking.

You could whine as he steps away from you — the lack of his warmth as the cold air of the bathroom hits your body. Standing alone like this - in such a mess - only adds to your shame.

And the shame only adds to your desperation.

You hesitate for a moment - before you slowly kneel, keeping your eyes pinned to the floor from embarrassment. Your limp trembling — so fucking upset at how easily you had lost your control. But more so upset at the realisation that you truly needed him — generally. Not just sexually.

Your palms flatten against the cold floor - sheepishly raising your eyes to look up at him.

He tightens his jaw - lips pressed into a straight thin line, just waiting.

You knew he had an insecurity issue. When you were together you could remember him rambling on about Thanos — how he tried to win him over, to get into his group. Attempts of free drinks - drugs, he’d even complain about Thanos getting his name wrong. All signs of an insecure man. You thought it was cute really - but it was obvious here that he wasn’t gonna let you get your way until he was certain in himself that you fucking meant it.

He needed to hear it from you.

To stabilise his insecurity — his jealousy.

But he also takes a great pride in seeing you this way. On your knees — below him, like a beggar to scraps. It makes him feel strong.

Your lips tremble as you struggle to find the words.

“Namgyu —” You try, already dropping your head to the floor from embarrassment and struggle. You breathe deep - bringing your head back up.

“ — I need you. Please, I — I’m sorry. I tried to stay away, I did.” You pause, your words achingly truthful and you come to clutch the ankle of his pants desperately.

You stay like that for a moment.

“I can’t help myself around you.” You confess - lips parting as you stare up at him. Yet his expression doesn’t change — he doesn’t move, nothing. Your chest burning as you try to think of something better to say — something to gage a reaction from him. You’re desperate.

“I’ll even stay away from everyone else in here — I mean it, I don’t need them — just you,” You continue to plead.

“Just you.” You finish with a genuine whisper.

But still, nothing.

And the next second, you crumble with an aching sob — not crying, just a noise of defeat as you lower your eyes away from him. You’d never felt shame so sore, eyes burning into the floor — unblinking — trembling. Feeling like the world around you is swallowing you whole.

Namgyu slowly kneels down to meet your height a moment later - your eyes shooting to him as he does.

His mouth slightly agape, almost looking fascinated by you. Almost surprised that you actually did what he asked. He settles into a squat position in front of you - his wrists on his knees as his hands dangle. You can only stare in anticipation, hoping and hoping that it was enough to let him set you free of this shame.

You both let a moment of silence pass between you.

“You’re a fucking mess.”

You stare in disbelief — his cruelness exceeding anything you’d ever witnessed from him.

He’d truly broke you down.

He stays staring at you and you see the contemplation on his face — you could only wonder what he’d have you do next. His eyes drop down, then back up.

Yet, he decides you’ve had enough. His expression softening, a hand reaching out to you.

“C’mere.” He says and you waste no time and take his hand — letting him pull you against him, your head slack on his shoulder as you move together to find a comfy position on the floor as you slot sideways into his lap - your legs slinging across his thighs.

“That’s it.” He encourages quietly, muttering against you as you melt into his arms as they wrap around you - one hand coming to guide your face to look at him.

“C’mere.” He whispers again, palming beneath your chin and planting a soft kiss on your lips, “There, all better — see?” He mummers, lips still against your mouth and you practically melt, your stomachs knot untwisting — a low whine that you held in for so long pouring out of you - nodding slowly in bliss.

He plants another one on you — less firm and more lazy, slow, like he’s also giving into it - you return it with the same amount of effort. Your lips both smearing against one another’s — slowly wetting with spit, the wet sound of that alone pools a growing wetness in between your legs.

His hand slips behind your head, fingers threading into your hair — petting, like he’s easing you down from the brink of humiliation you were in a second ago. Though his pride still remains - his ego now had been fed, a belly full.

“I knew you’d come around.” He mutters into your mouth in between kisses — like he has to carry on, to degrade despite giving in to what you want. To twist the knife — to keep you on your toes. You’re too carried away to even reply — like an addict getting their score, hungry and eager. Deprived for so long.

“Hmm?” He hums, hand slipping from your head, sloping down your neck and moving to palm one of your tits over your top with an abrupt - hard squeeze. A soft moan leaves you though it’s captured in your mouth mid kiss. You bring a hand to cover his - encouraging him to squeeze again - but he swats your hand away like a fly.

He pulls back from the kiss to look down to see better - you latch onto his neck with your mouth as he does which draws a soft hiss out of him - baring his teeth a little.

He pushes his hand under your top - soothing up your side till he pushes under your bra blindly — pinching your pebbled nipple with his index and thumb. This causing you to gasp, your body jolting in his lap.

Namgyu looks back to you, teeth still lightly bared in a gritty smile as he continues playing with your nipple below your top.

“Still like that, huh?” He hisses, swirling his index finger.

You nod, dazed, so he squeezes your nipple hard again to coax out a reply.

“Yes!” You pant out, “I like it — feels good.”

“That’s better, use your words like the little slut I know you are.”

He looks back down to your body riving and twitching in his lap - humming low in his throat as he pulls his hand out from under your top - palm flush against your skin as it travels down to your lower stomach, rubbing softly. The mere touch sending shivers through your body.

“Dunno how you resisted this like you did — I mean, shit — look at you, you’re practically shaking.”

He mocks, a single finger slipping under your waistband — stroking the skin there — toying with you.

Your hips instinctively twitch upward - unable to bare with the suspense of his lingering touch. “Namgyu.” you whine, pleading with him.

You grab his wrist, silently telling him to carry on - the feeling of your pussy wetting, going untouched - felt unbearable. Your head rests on his shoulder, your eyes peaking up at him.

“Please.”

He smiles to himself before looking at you.

There’s a pause in the air — the look on his face giving you slight concern.

“You’re gonna vote O tomorrow.”

Your mouth slightly falls open. He isn’t asking, he’s telling. But you don’t want to. You still wanted to leave — leave with him.

“I want to go home.” You whisper.

His smile stays, a low single laugh in his throat causing his shoulders to bounce in amusement - his hand now working it’s way under your waistband - all the way down to greedily palm your clothed pussy — firmly. He keeps his sights pinned on you as you gasp at the sudden connection - the firmness of his grip giving you a mix of unease and pleasure.

“Don’t be so fucking selfish.” He coos, smile dropping into a harsh expression - his face twitching meanly as he grinds down the ball of his palm firmly into your clit, still shielded by your panties - no doubt already feeling the dampness collecting there. Your breath hitches, a soft whimper slipping out.

“Please Gyu —” You groan out, tightening your grip on the wrist of his hand in your pants.

“Get your fucking hand off me.” He cuts you off - tone so harsh that you withdraw your hand instantly.

Your lip quivers - your mind unable to balance out the dread of the conversation and the pleasure whirling in your stomach.

“You could press X — we could leave together.” You mutter out between pants, foolishly really. You should’ve thought before you said that as his face stills. Within a second he’s pushing under your panties and running his fingers through your wet folds - a cracked moan ripping out of you.

“Is me playing with your pussy making you dumb?” He hisses, wasting no time in slipping his fingers down and pushing two into your tight hole with a harsh, wet plunge. The intensity of it causes your body jolt upward, a pleasured cry coming from your parted lips as you cling to him tightly to his chest - your eyes rolling closed in bliss. Your head rolls forward and down but he’s quick to grab a fistful of your hair with his free hand and yank your head back up.

“Eyes on me.” He says through gritted teeth, curling his fingers against your walls harshly — sweetly as you tremble, barely managing to keep your eyes open but you try your best as you look at him.

“What’s tomorrow’s vote?” He says, raising his brows slightly as he pulls his fingers out to only push them back in, softer this time though, the sound of your pussy squelching around his digits loud enough for you both to hear.

Your need to go home is excruciating—your need for safety and stability. Wishing for all the simple things like the sun on your skin and the comfort of your own bed. Your family. Friends. In here, you can’t handle the crushing possibility of never having see or feel those things again. Yet those needs crumble away under him. Your mind whirling out of control, unable to even comprehend the right thing to do. All you feel right now is how your tight hole clenches around his ruthless fingers as they sloppily plunge in and out of you.

You look at him through heavy lids that so desperately want to close over and enjoy. Your face showing your inner battle as it contorts - the tremble in your lip making it apparent to Namgyu that you’re about to give into his wishes.

“O.” you whisper faintly - sadly.

He presses his lips into yours — roughly.

You don’t even have a second to adjust - opening your mouth for a breath but he shoves his tongue in to swirl against yours greedily, his fist in your hair pressing your head closer - your jaw already aching from the feverish kiss. He slides his fingers back out briefly you feel before he adds a third, pushing them in slower as they struggle through the tightness of your seeping hole. You only return the kiss more aggressively then, feeling so full - so fucking full.

Your lips smear and slide wetly against his - open mouthed, breathing growing heavier as your mind plummets. You can’t get enough of it as you unleash all that pent up aggression back onto him - taking his bottom lip into your teeth as you bite — drawing a hiss from him. He places his thumb onto your clit then - grounding onto it in a circular grind and you yank your head from the kiss - throwing your head back, a loud moan leaving you.

“For someone so fucking scared, you shouldn’t be this wet.” He mutters, bringing his head near yours just to be able to see the look on your face as he fucks you with his fingers.

“I mean, listen to that.” He says, twisting his fingers in you - a loud sloshing noise apparent as you ooze around his fingers. Your breath catches when you feel your orgasm building - a ripped whine coming out of your gaping mouth. He grins small knowing you’re close.

“Yeahh, there you go.” He coos, picking up the pace of his fingers as they plunge deep against that sweet spot - lips placing a kiss on your chin. Your chest heaves suddenly, on the brink of cumming. He yanks your head back up, wanting to see your face.

It comes crashing down on you the next second - your muscles seizing and your pussy clenching around his fingers tightly, gushing onto them. You cry out a moan, burying your head into his neck as he fucks you through it - slowly slowing the pace of his fingers.

“That’s it.” He whispers, your hips rocking against his hand - any noise coming out of you being complete nonsense, all mumbles and dying moans which slowly change into gentle pants.

He pulls his fingers out of you, whispering a faint “fuck” when he sees your wetness and cum slathered all over his fingers. You open your heavy eyes - he’s already looking at you.

“Made such a mess.” He says, showing you his fingers before brining out his tongue to lap them once - tasting you. You can only whine at the sight of it and he hums softly in enjoyment.

He looks to you after a moment — noting the tired expression on your face. He simply leans to place a soft kiss on your lips, a hand holding the side of your face. You wished it could last forever. That you didn’t have to go back to face the reality again — the reality that by tomorrow you’d be dead. Or him.

So you decide to make the most of tonight.

So that night you slept in his bed.

Authors note: this took me way longer that it should’ve but i fucking loved writing this. ty for the request and hope you all enjoy. please please send more requests for fics so i can bring them to life. love you all. ❤️❤️❤️

[mournlily]

god no longer answers

mdni - cw: oral (reader receiving), reader has a vulva, reader is said to wear lingerie, robby and his religious troubles, religious themes, robby being a tease, soft dom!robby, sub!reader, begging, beard burn 😝

author's note: DARLINGGGG guess who's back from jailll (exams) 😈😈

[600~ words]

robby's beard always rubs into your thighs. it feels harsher after an especially hard day at work. he's feral, as if he needs to rid himself of it all; cleanse his thoughts, his body.

he spreads your legs so easily, placing them over his shoulders with a twinkle in his eyes. he pretends he's fine, and for now, you let both yourself and him believe that. the creeping knowledge that a long conversation will follow this ordeal overtakes your mind.

breathe in, breathe out.

for now, you allow yourself to relax, turning your attention back to the man below you. he needs this.

god, his shoulders. wide, thick, and utterly massive.

when he gazes up at you – big, brown doe eyes meeting yours – you know you're in for a long, pleasure-filled night. robby shifts a little to bite and suck at your inner thighs, decorating the soft skin with teeth imprints and tender splotches.

when you moan, needy and desperate, robby looks up. he pulls away to give you a cheeky smile.

"need something?" he croaks, his voice a little strangled from shouting orders in the ER all day.

you nod and your brows upturn. to prove your point, you buck your hips into him. but, much to your disappointment, robby moves even further away.

evil, you think.

"nuh-uh, sweetheart. what do you say?" he whispers.

you stare down at him, eyes flicking back and forth between his. finally, you relent.

"please," you mumble.

"what was that?" robby hums and angles his ear up to hear you better.

from the wide grin that stretches his lips, you know he's playing it up. you hesitate for a moment, and robby raises a thick eyebrow.

"please," you reply, a little louder this time.

"what else?" robby coaxes.

"please make me feel good," you recite.

"brilliant manners, pet. such a sweet thing you are."

with a teasing smile, robby leans back down. his beard brushes your abdomen, and the hairs scratch at your skin slightly. with a small burst of confidence running through you, your hand slips into robby's soft, downy hair.

he glances up at you. his pupils are massive, and your breath hitches at the sight of him between your thighs. still maintaining eye contact with you, robby reaches down to slowly slip off your panties.

"i like these ones," he whispers. "pretty."

robby's fingers gently trace over the lace. slowly, he places the underwear to the side and rubs his hands over your hips. you tremble slightly.

"breathe," robby reminds you.

you inhale shakily before letting out a more confident exhale. you give him a quick smile.

"that’s it,” he coos.

robby leans in once more, his tongue slipping out and licking up the seam of your pussy. you groan and throw your head back into the pillows. he constricts the muscles in his tongue to form a point before using it to trace gentle circles around your clit.

the combination of saliva, lube, and arousal causes a mess between your legs, but your boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind – he never seems to mind. if anything, this is his form of repentance. between your thighs is where this wrecked man turns when god no longer answers his prayers.

this is how robby asks for forgiveness, how he confesses, and how he expresses regret. this is how robby acknowledges the holy when holding his necklace tight and repeating recited prayers no longer works.

because giving you pleasure? edging you to release? that's as close to god as he's ever felt.

[kruegerspillow]

worth waiting for ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: wtf did i just create? i have no idea. but, hey, life works better with surprises (it doesnt). i got too carried away with this one so um... yay. considering making another part just for the smut..mmm i dunno

warnings: trauma references, implied past violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mild language, subtle PTSD cues, unresolved past, yearning, slow burn, dex being lowk touch-starved, not proofread.

word count: 6.5k-ish

part one — part two — part three

The cold surrounded you.

You shifted slightly on your bed, eyes fluttering open to the rays of sun peeking through the curtains. You looked around your dim bedroom, still groggy from sleep, before taking your phone from the nightstand. The screen on your phone lit up, and you read the time. 7:30 AM. An hour after the time you're supposed to wake up from the alarm.

You placed your phone back onto the nightstand and turned to lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to get yourself to fully wake up. Your mind recalled the memories of last night, and you momentarily tensed up at the realization that Dex had stayed for the night. Just for the night, he had told you. You scrambled to sit up, a blanket loosely draped over one of your legs while the other was bare.

Then, you pushed yourself down to the floor, standing up before walking. Your footsteps made a soft tap against the wooden floor. One of your hands went up to rub over your face, as if it could rub away the sleep, while the other twisted the doorknob, opening the door with a soft creak.

“Dex?” You called out, just to test the waters.

No reply.

And you weren’t shocked, not really.

You stepped out of the bedroom, eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of your living room. Dex sat there, already awake, clutching the spare blanket that you’d given to him last night. He wasn’t lying down. His back pressed against the couch, eyes trailing away from the blanket and locked onto you. Like his mind was still processing everything.

“Hm,” you hummed to yourself. “Slept well?”

Dex paused, then nodded.

“I did.”

You didn’t say anything, just acknowledged his words with a nod. Your eyes drifted away from him, and he noticed that. He let his gaze follow you as you walked towards the kitchen.

You opened a cabinet, not really thinking, fingers brushing against a mug before pulling it down. Everything felt routine—automatic. The click of the kettle echoed through the quiet kitchen as you filled it, set it on the stovetop. The soft flame beneath it was the only real noise left.

Really, you didn’t want to treat him like he was innocent. Didn’t want to treat him as nicely as you did in the past.

But you did, anyway.

And you confirmed it when your hand moved to grab a second mug. You didn’t ask him if he wanted any, you just…grabbed another mug for him. Like it was some kind of muscle memory. Like you had done it before. Well, maybe because you did last night.

And, Dex? He hadn’t moved from the couch.

You could still feel his eyes on you, in that quiet, uneasy way of his. The way he watched like he was trying to memorize everything—every motion, every sound, every breath. Like he didn’t want to forget it once he walked out the door. This was all he had left, and the both of you knew.

That’s why you didn’t ask him if he was leaving.

You didn’t want to know the answer.

Leaning back against the counter, you crossed your arms, eyes darting over to him again. His hands were fidgeting now. Thumbs rubbing together. One leg bouncing, then stopping, then starting again. The blanket he held was gripped tightly around his shoulders even though it wasn’t cold.

“Was supposed to leave,” he said finally.

You raised a brow.

“I was going to,” he added, quieter now. “But I fell asleep.”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” you said simply, but your voice came out softer than you meant it to. You didn’t want it to sound like forgiveness. You didn’t want to open that door.

And again, you still did.

He watched the steam curl up from it when you placed it on the coffee table, just a few inches from his knees. You didn’t offer it to him. Just left it there. He didn’t reach for it yet, either.

You sat on the chair across from him, mug in one hand, eyes gazing at the city outside your building.

“Um…” he paused, mouth parting. “You don’t have work today. So… I turned off your alarm. It was ringing nonstop before, but you didn’t wake up. And… I thought you needed sleep after everything last night.”

You don’t have work today.

A small, breathy laugh escaped your lips at those words. He didn’t say it with shame or guilt. He knew that for a fact, and delivered it as if it was merely a fact. As if it didn’t mean anything for him to remember so little things about you.

“So it was you who turned off my alarm.”

That shut him up.

He didn’t know why. Your words sounded like an accusation, but your tone lacked it. His eyes roamed over you, searching for something behind it. Was it disbelief? Were you annoyed by that?

His thoughts spiraled within seconds, lips pressing into a thin line.

You didn’t say anything more. Just took a slow sip of your drink, letting the silence stretch thin and taut between you. Dex’s hands stilled over the blanket in his lap, clenched there now like he was bracing for impact—bracing for a new version of you to come with raised voices, doors being shut a little too hard, words thrown like knives that both of you would regret later. But that version didn’t come. You stayed still. You stayed quiet. And somehow, that made everything worse.

He shifted slightly, socked feet brushing against the floor as he sat up a bit straighter. That tension in his shoulders never really left. Like he was preparing himself for the door, for your voice to tell him to go, for something final.

“You were shivering,” he said, barely above a murmur. “In your sleep. Thought… you might sleep better without it ringing in your ear.”

You looked at him then, and his eyes flicked to you, hopeful, hesitant. You didn’t answer right away, which made his breath hitch slightly. He hated that about himself—how one single glance could undo every fragile wall he built up to make it through the night.

“I don’t even remember dreaming,” you said finally.

He gave a slow nod, unsure if that was good or bad. Everything with you felt like that now—a minefield of things unsaid, tiptoeing around the crater of what you used to be.

His fingers twitched again, his mouth parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t. Couldn’t. And in the space between you, that second mug of coffee—his mug of coffee—sat untouched.

You didn’t say anything more. You couldn’t. Not yet.

You were trying to protect something, maybe. Yourself. Your sanity. Your heart, what was left of it. Dex felt like a ghost in your apartment. He had always haunted you, even when he was right in front of you. Especially then.

“I can go,” he murmured.

His voice was low, careful. So careful it made something sting in your throat. He said it like he didn’t want to. Like he wanted you to tell him no. But the part of him that expected to be told to get the fuck out was louder, more certain. That part had already put his shoes by the door, and had already decided he’d leave without asking for anything more.

You didn’t say no. You didn’t say yes either. You just sat there, mug in your hand, heartbeat slow and steady and too damn loud in your own ears.

“I’m…I didn’t mean to stay,” he added, like he was defending himself now, like he thought the problem was that he’d overstayed a welcome that wasn’t even there.

“Don't.” You warned, “I know.”

That was all you said.

Dex looked down at his hands. There was a fresh cut healing on the side of his knuckle, red and swollen at the edges. Not from last night. Probably from the day before, or the day before that. Maybe from a job. Maybe from something he punched. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know. Not now.

You breathed in slowly, the warmth from your mug a small comfort, and exhaled through your nose.

“Dex.”

He looked up. So fast, like he’d been waiting for you to say his name the entire time. Like it was some kind of tether.

But you didn’t follow it with anything. You didn’t have the words yet. You just needed to say it. Needed to hear it in your own voice. That it was real. That he was really here, in your living room, wrapped in your spare blanket like he used to be months ago when things were—easier. When neither of you had crossed the lines you had. When he wasn’t unraveling, and you weren’t bleeding for him every time you looked.

You finally set your mug down on the table. Quiet, but firm.

His eyes flicked to it. His posture shifted again, alert. Like a stray dog who thought you were going to throw something.

“Why?” You paused for a moment, and his head tilted slightly. “Why…what exactly were you looking for? With Fisk?”

It wasn’t an easy question to answer. Hell, you could barely get the words out of your mouth without stumbling over them.

Dex paused for a moment. His gaze fell to the floor again, and his mouth parted. Like he was unsure of the answer. Unsure of everything, at this point. He closed his mouth, the corner of his lip twitching.

“I…” he trailed off. “I don’t…know. Structure, maybe.”

You tilted your head at that, “guidance.”

His jaw ticked at your word. Guidance.

He didn’t answer right away—just sat there with that hollow sort of stillness that he fell into when words caught in his throat and stayed there. He breathed through his nose, shallow, the muscles along his forearm twitching beneath the tight wrap of the blanket, like he wanted to react but didn’t know how. The air between you was still too fragile, too brittle, like the whole room might shatter if he so much as blinked wrong.

You didn’t look away from him. Not this time.

“You think he gave you that?” you asked, quiet but pointed.

He didn’t speak.

You pushed a little harder. “Fisk. You think he gave you structure?”

Dex’s gaze dropped again. And for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. That he’d lock it all up behind those blank eyes and that soldier-stiff posture of his the way he used to, the way he always did when things got too heavy, too personal.

But he didn’t. He leaned slightly forward instead.

“I think he saw me,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “More than anyone else did.”

You blinked once. The breath in your lungs felt colder now.

“Saw what in you?”

Another pause. Another pulse of silence that stretched too long to be comfortable.

Dex shook his head, just once. “Something I could be.”

The bitterness in your chest swelled before you could stop it. Something sharp. Something that pulsed with old wounds.

“…Something he could use,” you corrected flatly.

And there it was. That tiny, flickering tremor behind his eyes, the one that let you know it got through—cut deeper than he wanted it to. Because you weren’t wrong. And you both knew it.

He clenched his jaw again, shifting his weight on the couch. “Maybe,” he murmured.

“That’s—not guidance,” you said, quieter now. “That’s you trying to put a leash around your own throat and hoping someone else will pull it just so you don’t have to make choices anymore. Trust me.”

That made him go still.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked small.

Like your words had stripped something off him he didn’t realize he’d been hiding behind. His shoulders dipped just a fraction, and he looked down at his hands again like he couldn’t stand to meet your eyes anymore.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” he murmured.

And that made you shut up.

You didn’t expect him to admit that. Not that plainly.

Not from him.

He looked up at you again, and for a second—just a second—you could see something raw in his expression. Something so naked it made your throat burn. He had always carried his desperation like a secret, dressed it up in neat sniper’s precision and clipped movements. But this? This was just him. Bruised. Blunt. Bare.

“I needed something,” he said, “and he was the only one offering it.”

You stared at him. The cut on his knuckle. The way he was still wrapped in that blanket like he needed it to stay grounded. The way his eyes looked like they hadn’t seen real sleep in days, even though he told you he slept well.

Dex looked away again, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he hated how it tasted to admit this to you.

You didn’t speak for a long moment. Couldn’t.

There was something disorienting about hearing Dex admit things like that. Like peeling the skin off something you thought was already exposed. You knew he was broken. Of course you knew. But there was a difference between knowing and hearing. And right now, hearing him say he was lonely—like that was his whole reason for giving himself away to a man like Fisk—like that was the thing that cracked him open and made him do the things he’d done…

It made your stomach twist.

Because you understood it. On some level, you did. Maybe too much.

You stared at the steam curling up from your own mug, long gone forgotten and lukewarm now. The warmth it offered didn’t touch the weight in your chest.

He shifted again. Fidgeted.

“Shouldn’t’ve said all that,” he mumbled. “Wasn’t tryin’ to guilt trip you.”

You looked up at him, raising a brow. “Is that what you think I’m feeling?”

His mouth opened like he had a response ready—some kind of defense, some hollow dodge—but nothing came. Just that slight falter in his breath. He didn’t know what you were feeling. That was the truth. He didn’t know if you were going to scream at him or forgive him or break down in front of him. He didn’t know if he wanted you to do any of those things. He didn’t know what would be worse.

“I think,” you said slowly, voice steady, “that you got guidance from the wrong person, Dex.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. Not while your words still hung in the air like something delicate, like smoke curling around a match just before it extinguished. He looked straight at you this time, not through you or away from you. You could see the twitch in his jaw, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, but his gaze didn’t drop this time. He held it.

Maybe because there wasn’t anything left to lose.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. A breath. A whisper of agreement. “Yeah. I know.”

You studied him.

Not the way you used to—gently, fondly, like a home you knew every inch of. No. You studied him now like a ruin. Like someone trying to recognize the architecture beneath the wreckage. The corners of his mouth were chapped, like he’d been biting it all night. His fingers twitched again, like he didn’t know where to put them. You’d seen him break bones with those hands. Kill with them. Now he couldn’t even hold a coffee mug.

“That structure you wanted,” you continued slowly, a small bitter laugh leaving your lips. “It was never gonna come from a man like Fisk. He doesn’t give people direction. He gives them orders. That’s not the same thing.”

You sighed. This time, you didn’t ask for his input or an answer from him.

Because the look on Dex’s face said everything—that fragile tilt of his mouth, the flicker of something behind his eyes that didn’t have a name. He looked like he’d been caught in the rain without a coat, cold to the bone, not from the storm but from what it meant to be left standing in it alone.

You stood. The scrape of the chair’s leg against the floor was louder than anything either of you had said in the last five minutes.

“I’m gonna shower.” You paused, “you can…shower after. There��s some clean clothes on the drawer there and, uh, I’ll let you stay. Just…until you figure everythin’ out, Dex.”

Dex paused, and then he nodded. His eyes followed you, watched you until your figure was locked away behind the door.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you.

Water sputtered in the pipes before the shower roared to life.

And Dex was alone.

The couch dipped where you’d been sitting, empty now. The mug you left was still half full. He looked at it for a moment, like maybe it had something to say. Like maybe he could find something out from it.

But there was nothing. Just the faint whistle of steam from the kettle that had long since cooled, and the white noise of running water from the other room.

He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, palms open and empty.

He hated how good it had felt, just for a second, when you said his name.

Dex.

It rang in his ears like something sacred, something stolen. It felt like being pulled out of deep water just before drowning. He knew you hadn’t said it because you wanted him to stay. But you hadn’t told him to go either.

And now…you were gone again. Not really. Just behind a door. But for Dex, that kind of distance had always felt like forever.

He looked around your apartment again. He didn’t know why. He already knew where everything was. The clock ticking on the wall. The chipped corner of your bookshelf. The stack of old mail by the TV. He remembered all of it. He’d memorized this place without meaning to. The way he memorized exits. Escape routes.

He leaned back, the blanket still draped over him, pulled tighter now. Like armor. Like it could protect him from how stupid he felt. For staying. For sleeping. For hoping.

The shower was still running.

He tried not to think about you behind that door. About how the steam would cling to your skin, fog up the mirror. About how your shoulders would slope as the hot water hit the back of your neck. How you’d lean your forehead against the tiles, maybe. Let it all roll off you. Maybe cry. Maybe not. He didn’t know anymore.

And that scared him.

Dex stood up before he could think better of it. The blanket dropped to the couch, pooling like something abandoned.

He walked slowly.

To the kitchen first. He looked around. Saw the way you organized everything, the knives, cereal boxes, utensils. He didn’t touch. He just stood there.

Then, he moved again. Stood on the living room again, eyes locked onto the doorknob of the bathroom.

You hadn’t locked the bathroom door.

He knew that. He could hear the soft creak of the floorboards when you shifted. Could imagine your silhouette through the glass, water trailing down your spine.

But he didn’t go near it.

He walked past it, footsteps softly tapping against the floor to your bedroom.

Not to snoop.

Just to…breathe somewhere you weren’t looking at him like he was breaking in slow motion.

When he entered the room, the bed was still unmade. One half of it rumpled, the other mostly untouched. He sat on the edge of it slowly, a shaky breath leaving his throat. His hands braced on either side of him. He didn’t lean back. Didn’t lie down. He simply sat.

He could hear the water still running.

He could hear his heartbeat even louder.

Dex had never been good at silence. Not when it came from you. He’d grown used to chaos, to harsh orders barked down at him like gospel. But this quiet?

This silence between your walls, after everything?

It was unbearable.

He stared at the wall across from your bed. At the faint smudge near the corner. At the dent in the baseboard. Little things no one else would notice.

His eyes closed.

Not to sleep. Just to stop seeing. Just for a second.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. Just breathing. Just listening. Just being.

And when the shower turned off?

His body went taut again, then he stood.

Walked back out to the living room, slow and deliberate.

He picked up the blanket again—sat down right where he was before—right where he’d been all morning. The mug was still on the table, but it was cold now.

He didn’t reach for it.

He just waited for something. For a miracle. For hope, maybe.

And, little did he know, a miracle was bound to happen.

You stepped out of the bathroom with damp skin and water still dripping down your collarbone, the towel tucked around you doing a poor job of shielding the cool air of the apartment. You didn’t say anything when you crossed the hall into your bedroom. Didn’t spare a glance at the living room where Dex sat silent and hunched again, though you could feel his eyes latch onto you the moment you moved.

You closed the bedroom door without slamming it. Without hurry. Like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t there. Like he didn’t exist in the same space as you. That silence was louder than shouting.

Dex didn’t move.

Not until he heard the click of a drawer being shut, the shuffling of fabric, the dull sound of your footsteps. Then, like that was his cue, he stood up.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, careful. He kept expecting you to say something. Maybe to call after him. Maybe not. But nothing came.

The bathroom was still warm when he entered, the mirror fogged up with steam. His reflection was barely there. Maybe that was the point. Maybe that’s why he stayed in the mirror a moment longer than necessary, watching himself blur around the edges, like something unrecognizable.

He stripped out of his clothes slowly, folding them into a quiet pile by the wall. There were clean clothes on the sink counter, like you said. A shirt you didn’t want anymore, a pair of drawstring sweats. Nothing dramatic. Nothing you’d miss if he left with them. He stared at them for a long moment before stepping into the shower.

The water was still warm enough.

He let it wash over him, let it run over the planes of his back, his shoulders, his chest. Let it sting his knuckles. Let it dig into old bruises and new ones, into the aching muscles of someone who hadn't slept right in weeks—maybe longer. He didn’t scrub hard. Just stood there, head bowed under the stream like he was trying to let it baptize him. Like it could cleanse more than sweat or grime. As if it could wash guilt out of marrow.

It couldn’t. He knew that.

But he stayed under the water anyway.

When he stepped out, the steam was thicker than before. The towel was rough, cotton worn thin. He dried off in silence, wrapped the towel around his waist low, too low.

He wiped the mirror.

Saw just enough of himself to grimace.

Then opened the door.

The hallway was quiet. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards. Just the faint hum of the city outside the window and the thrum of blood in his own ears.

He padded into the living room barefoot, water still clinging to his skin in beads, damp hair flattened against his forehead. The towel slung low across his hips was barely knotted, hanging on by the smallest twist of tension.

And that was the moment you stepped out of the bedroom.

Your eyes landed on him immediately.

Your breath hitched.

Just a little. Just enough that he noticed.

And Dex froze.

Like a deer caught in headlights—except he didn’t move to cover himself. Didn’t fumble to reach for his shirt. Just stood there, steam still curling faintly from his shoulders, droplets trailing down the line of his sternum, disappearing beneath the towel.

His hands were at his sides. Open. Exposed.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Because your eyes were already lingering.

They didn’t move past him. They didn’t politely avert. They didn’t pretend like this wasn’t exactly what it looked like—a man caught standing in your living room, wearing nothing but a towel and raw nerves. And he saw the way your gaze dragged across his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders, the long scar running down his spine from a job he never told you about.

He didn’t flinch under the weight of it.

But he didn’t quite know what to do with it either.

“…Didn’t mean to—uh.” He gestured vaguely, like the towel and the water and the steam were somehow not obvious. “Didn’t wanna use up all your hot water.”

You raised a brow. “It’s—alright.”

Your voice was neutral. Too neutral.

Dex’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He shifted slightly, the fabric of the towel hitching higher on one side, hanging lower on the other. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

He saw it.

That twitch.

That flicker of movement you probably didn’t mean for him to notice. But Dex had always noticed things—small shifts, the way your breath changed, the way your fingers flexed like you were fighting the urge to reach for something. Or someone.

His lips parted, and he stood a little straighter.

He hadn’t moved toward you. He didn’t dare. But something had changed between one heartbeat and the next. Like the fog still clinging to his skin wasn’t just from the shower, but from the fact that you were looking at him again—not through him. Not past him. At him.

And it felt dangerous.

You cleared your throat, gaze narrowing slightly like you were trying to gather yourself, realign whatever walls had cracked open in the last five seconds. “There’s clothes on the—yeah. You found them.”

Dex nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Right,” you replied, crossing your arms. “Great.”

A beat. Another beat.

Then, you spoke. “You hungry?”

“…I could eat,” he said finally, voice low. Cautious. As if accepting it might set something off.

You didn’t move for a second. Just looked at him—looked at the man standing in your living room with damp hair dripping onto your floor, wearing only a towel and a thousand pounds of regret he never figured out how to shed.

Then you turned.

“Alright.”

That was all. Just that. No discussion. No questions.

You moved towards the kitchen, shoulder brushing against his arm.

That was all. Just that. No discussion. No questions. You moved toward the kitchen like it was nothing. Like this morning hadn’t been made of glass.

And Dex stood there a second too long, eyes still tracking you, his pulse pounding in his ears. He finally exhaled when you opened the fridge and muttered something about eggs.

Dex blinked, then he strode to the bathroom without a word.

The eggs on your plate were half-cold by the time you finished. You hadn’t spoken once.

Not when you set the pan on the stove. Not when you slid the plate in front of him. Not even when your fork scraped softly against porcelain. The silence filled every corner of the kitchen like fog. Warm. Heavy. And impossible to see through.

Dex ate slower than you.

Or, well, you forced yourself to eat faster than him.

You didn’t wait for him.

You set your plate in the sink—didn’t wash it, didn’t look back—and crossed the room to the couch. The remote clicked in your hand. The screen lit up. Something loud. Colorful. Forgettable. You turned the volume up a little too much. Sat back with a blanket draped over your legs.

Like you weren’t just trying to avoid the ache sitting at your kitchen table.

You didn’t look when you heard the scrape of his chair. Didn’t turn your head when he placed his plate in the sink gently, like he was afraid to make noise. Afraid to disturb the peace.

There wasn’t any peace.

Just delay.

Just you, sitting like the couch might swallow you. Pretending like whatever was on the screen needed your full attention. Like your eyes weren’t stinging from how long you hadn’t blinked.

Dex sat beside you.

Not close.

Not far.

Enough that you could feel him there. The warmth. The tension. The hum of everything he wasn’t saying.

You didn’t look at him.

But he looked at you.

“So.” You started.

He looked at you, “so.”

“You thinking of going somewhere?” you asked, not unkind, not even sharp.

His hand reached up to rub his face, sliding down from his forehead to his mouth. He looked forward, thinking of an answer.

“Yeah, uh…maybe. Got some things I could check out.” He replied.

“Right. Like what?”

“Just...things.”

You huffed, “mm, things.”

You gave a little nod. Eyes still on the TV.

“Sounds specific. Real specific, Dex.”

He didn’t answer. Just shifted. His hands rubbed at his thighs, anxious.

You gave it a beat. Then another. Then pushed off the couch, the blanket falling from your legs.

“Okay. That’s fine.” You spoke, your tone clipped. Not angry. But final. “You don’t need’a talk to me.”

You stood.

And Dex grabbed your wrist.

“Wait.”

You froze.

“Dex—”

His hand slipped from your wrist to your elbow, then to your waist. And before you could breathe, before you could even ask what the hell he was doing—he pushed you back down onto the couch. Carefully. Not like force. It was like urgency. Like desperation.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Right in front of you.

His hands found your thighs. Not wandering. Just holding. Like he needed you to ground himself.

And he leaned forward.

His forehead hit your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist.

Tight.

Shaky.

Like his whole body was trembling with something he couldn’t name. Like the silence was killing him from the inside out and this—this—was the only thing that kept him stitched together.

He didn’t say anything for a long second.

Just breathed.

Just held.

Then, he spoke.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

Your fingers hovered over his shoulders, frozen. Your body went still.

His arms tightened, like he thought you might disappear mid-sentence.

“I—I didn’t think I’d still be here,” he whispered. “I woke up and I thought—I thought maybe you let me stay because you pitied me. And that was fine. I was fine with that. But then you were just quiet—and I couldn’t tell what it meant and I kept waiting for you to tell me to go and I—”

He choked off.

Your hands finally moved, found his back, the rise and fall of it.

You didn’t speak.

He pulled back just far enough to look up at you—eyes glassy, bloodshot, aching.

“Just...please don’t walk away.”

He took in a shaky breath, gaze unfaltering.

“You’re all I have left.”

And fuck, it broke something in you.

Because he didn’t even say “please let me stay.”

He just pleaded for you to stay.

He didn’t know how to ask for more than that.

He didn’t think he could.

Your other hand went to cup his jaw softly, too gentle for someone like him. You looked at him, really looked at him. The scar on his cheek. The glossiness of his eyes. The bobbing on his throat.

“Dex.” You started, but the words faltered in your throat.

His eyes looked at you, studied you the same way as you did with him.

Then, you leaned in.

You pressed a small peck on his lips, not enough for him to deepen it. Like you were still unsure if this was the right move after everything that had just happened.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t chase after the kiss when it ended. Just stayed there, kneeling between your legs, eyes flickering like he couldn’t believe it had happened. Like the weight of that small, hesitant press against his mouth was somehow heavier than everything else you hadn’t said.

You stayed close. Close enough that he could feel your breath against his face. Close enough to hear the way it caught.

“I don’t want to walk away,” you said finally, voice low.

His lashes fluttered. The muscles in his jaw twitched beneath your palm.

“But I…” you swallowed. “I’m as clueless as you.”

He blinked hard, like that somehow made less sense than anything else.

“I don’t—know how to want anything that doesn’t get taken away,” he said, voice so hoarse you barely caught the words.

And that—god. That landed like something sharp in your ribs.

Your hand dropped from his jaw to his chest, right over his heart. Felt it hammering there like it was trying to punch through his skin. His arms hadn’t moved from around you. Still holding you like he thought you’d vanish the second he let go.

You leaned forward again, slower this time. Pressed your forehead to his.

He made a sound then—a breathy, broken thing, half-whimper, half-relief. Like he hadn’t had someone that close in a long time and didn’t know what to do with the warmth of it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

His fingers dug into your sides, like that terrified him more than if you’d said you were leaving.

“But...don’t make me regret this, Dex.”

That made his head tilt back. His lips parted like he was going to argue, deny it, say it wouldn’t, but he couldn’t guarantee anything. His mouth closed again, and he dropped his forehead against your chest.

You let him breathe there for a moment. Let your hand stroke the back of his head, slow and steady. His whole body sank against yours, knees pressing into the floor, hands clinging like he’d drown without something to anchor him.

When he finally looked up, his voice was smaller.

“I—I didn’t think you’d still wait for me.”

You sighed, “Didn’t think so either.”

He kept his gaze on you.

“But you did.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t know how to answer that.

He leaned in, nose brushing against yours. Then, he kissed you.

His kiss was cautious. Careful in a way that almost hurt.

It wasn’t like before—not soft like a question, but not demanding either. It was the kind of kiss someone gives when they don’t expect it to last. When they’re terrified they’ll wake up and find it never happened at all.

You let him.

You let his mouth linger against yours, let the tremble of his breath catch between your lips, let your hand slide up the back of his neck like reassurance. Like grounding. Like maybe if you held him close enough, long enough, he’d start to believe this was real.

When he pulled back, it was only by an inch. His eyes searched yours, like he didn’t know what the hell he was looking for—only that he had to find it in you or he’d fall apart.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to be… anything you’d want.”

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to say something pretty. You didn’t want to lie.

“You don’t have to be anythin’,” you paused. “Just…be you.”

His brow furrowed. His lips pressed into a thin, unsure line. But you could feel it—his arms loosening just slightly around your waist, his knees shifting like he could finally feel the ache in them from the floor. His body, still tense, but not as locked.

You pushed the blanket from behind you and draped it over his shoulders. He blinked, confused, as it settled around him.

“You’re freezing,” you murmured. “Jesus, Dex.”

That startled something in him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Just a shaky exhale, and the faintest curl of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. But he leaned into the touch again when your hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing under the bruise-colored fatigue still shadowing his face.

You patted the spot beside you.

“C’mon. Off the floor.”

He hesitated. Like moving meant something bigger. Like standing up would break the spell. But then he nodded. Slowly. He stood—not all the way upright, just enough to shuffle beside you, still under the blanket, like he didn’t want to lose the closeness. Like he didn’t know if he’d get it back.

He sat beside you.

Closer this time.

Your thigh against his. His hand hesitating, then curling around yours.

Then, your lips brushed against his.

Your lips met his again—slow, intentional.

And this time, it wasn’t an apology.

You kissed him like you wanted to remind him that he was still here, still wanted, still tethered to something real. Your fingers tightened around his hand, and his other one gripped the couch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Like he wasn’t used to being touched so gently and didn’t know what to do with it.

He tilted his head just slightly, deepened the kiss—not by force, not by hunger—but by ache. By a need so tender it trembled beneath the surface of his skin. You felt the way his breath caught. How he didn’t quite let himself press closer until he knew you wouldn’t pull away.

You didn’t.

You stayed right there.

Letting him take from you in that slow, cautious way. Letting him lean into something that didn’t demand he fix it, or fight it, or run.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were still closed.

His forehead rested against yours, noses brushing, breath shaky against your mouth. You could feel the weight of it—everything he wasn’t saying. The guilt. The fear. The slow, staggering hope bleeding in around the edges.

“I don’t want this to be something you regret,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You shook your head.

“It won’t be.”

He opened his eyes, barely. They flickered between yours, searching, searching—like maybe if he looked hard enough, he could convince himself it wasn’t just a moment. That it was safe. And then he leaned in again—just enough to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Not desperate. Just quiet. Like he was memorizing the shape of you. The warmth.

His breath hitched.

He shifted closer, knee brushing yours, his blanket-covered shoulder pressing into your side. Your hand slipped into his hair, fingers combing through it gently, over and over. He made a soft, worn-out noise, low in his chest.

“Stay,” you said. Not a command. Not a plea. Somewhere in between.

And he nodded against you. Silent.

Praying to God that nobody will take this away from him this time.

mini taglist: @savvy-reyes

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[catchingfallingstars]

I BET ON LOSING DOGS | GETO SUGURU X READER & SASHISU X READER ♥︎

♡ CHAPTER ONE: i always want you when I'm finally fine

♡ SYNOPSIS: It's been a decade or so since you've last seen Suguru, when out of the blue, and when your other partners are away, he decides to visit you.

♡ WORD COUNT: 6K

♡ WARNINGS: 18+, polyamory, alcohol/drug abuse, suicidal thoughts/suicide attempts/passive suicidal ideation, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms and relationships, (f!receiving) oral sex, unprotected sex.

♡ A.N: This is, indeed, a repost so if it looks familiar, that's why! I decided I'd rather have a xreader-focused sideblog <3

AO3 ♡ M.LIST/TAGLIST ♡ NEXT

“I’m home,” you announce to an empty apartment as you slip off your boots and put on your slippers.

You flick the lights on, highlighting white walls and sparse furniture, and make your way towards the kitchen, to where your bar cart is. It is the only fully furnished thing you own, diligent to keep everything you could possibly want or need in stock. You don’t smoke anymore, not since the pact you swore with Shoko four years ago, but you’ve simply replaced one vice for another. At least you don’t pop pills or do lines anymore. Your suppliers went their different ways, one going rogue and murdering an entire village of non-sorcerers and the other throwing himself in missions and avoiding you like the plague after a bout of shared teenage angst that only two lovesick fools could share.

Quitting cold turkey had been an interesting experience, but Shoko had been there for you. She had seen you at your worst and had nursed you back to health a few times after some extremely idiotic decisions. She hadn’t judged you, even though you wished she had. She was so gentle with you in the aftermath of each attempt, forgiving you every time, and you hadn’t deserved it, so you swore to yourself that you’d stop being so foolish and had sworn to her that you’d do your best to take as long as you possibly could before joining the endless parade of corpses that eventually ended up in her morgue.

“Idiot,” Shoko had said, unbearably fond, before she whispered a quiet thank you into the crown of your head and laid a kiss there. You would break her heart one day, you’re sure of it. However, it’d only be because of a curse or curse-user and not by your own hand.

The next week after that, Satoru had slid up right next to you, wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and complained about his latest mission like nothing had changed since your school days and not like he hadn’t ignored you for an entire year.

To say that it had been a disastrous confrontation would be an understatement; an entire section of the mountains that hid the school had been blown to pieces, decimated by your bottled-up emotions and Satoru’s deflection. It took another year before the two of you could stand to be near each other and civil, and then one more until your friendship had repaired to a status similar enough to the one you both shared during your school years. It was different, of course, because there was a missing piece in your dynamic, a black hole that could never be filled, but that was fine.

You’re used to it now, a whole ten years after the fact.

How pathetic.

Going through your inventory, you deliberate on your choice for the night. A quiet night in dictates a few glasses of wine, but you’re feeling nostalgic tonight. You don’t go for something achingly sweet like something Satoru drank in his youth, or a whiskey cocktail like Shoko has stayed true to since her teen years, but rather you choose warmed kimoto sake. An interesting choice considering the warmth you’ve had to deal with during this month.

As you begin to heat it up, you think about your friends.

Shoko and Satoru are off in Kyoto for the Goodwill Event, and while you were invited to join them, it didn't feel right. You weren’t a part of the faculty and though you helped some of Satoru’s students a few times, it wasn’t enough to warrant a reason to come. Still, you would have liked to see the four of them in action, specifically Yuuta-kun. Kento hadn’t gone either, but then, he wouldn’t, seeing as he preferred to keep his personal and professional life as separate as possible. He’s stubborn, but you admire that about him. You’ll never admit it, but he is more brave than you’ll ever be, leaving so easily, even if he had returned in the end.

Sometimes, you wish you had turned your back on this society too. Only, you would have stayed gone.

Taking a sip from your now perfectly heated sake, you close your eyes and think of better times. Before you know it, the bottle is finished, and you decide it may be best to shower before forgetting to and getting into bed dirty. It was an entirely too humid day, and you’re still slick with sweat. You turn the lights and burner off. An alarm rings, but you swipe it away. Thirty minutes later, you’re slightly buzzed but clean, dressed in only an oversized band-tee that you’re certain you stole from one of your friends and a pair of panties. It’s a nice feeling, and you’ve had so few of those as of late since the approach of a certain ten year anniversary.

Maybe you should watch one of Tsumiki’s favorite dramas that you used to always indulge her in. No one else would catch her up on them, and it’s been a while since you visited her anyway. Now, you would have something to share with her that wasn’t anything curse related. If you were her, you’d hate hearing only of tragedy and misery. Surely, the main couple finally got their act together and became official.

Some more sake sounds like a better idea though. However, as you move further into your apartment, you realize there is a second presence with you, no longer hidden. You flick the lights on, and there on your couch is a splash of color in your otherwise dreary residence.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Suguru is just about the same as he was all those years ago. Only now, he’s grown into his looks. He’s no longer so awkward in his body, apparent in the way he sprawls so confidently in his monk attire as he stares up at you with that familiar fox-like smile. His hair is so much longer now, free from the bun he used to prefer. His gauges have grown in size. He’s wearing Satoru’s house slippers. It’s odd to reconcile the image you have of him in your mind with the man he now is. Your only thought as you take in all of him is that he’s grown up without you and has become a stranger when once he used to be your everything.

You blink, unable or perhaps unwilling to believe what you’re seeing, yet the vision of the man in front of you doesn’t change. It seems unlikely that after all this time, he would choose to visit you like this, so maybe this is just another dream. It’s been a while since the last one. Walking past him to light the burner once more, you wonder if you’ve had too much to drink even as you pour for a second cup.

As you make your way back to your living room, he’s still there, looking at you with that stupid smile still plastered on his face. You place your cup down first before handing him his own, his hands easily enveloping your own as you do.

He feels warm.

Real.

Oh.

Suguru is really here.

“Of course, I’m here. Did you believe otherwise?”

Ah, you spoke aloud. You may be more than slightly buzzed if you’re this bad already. You sit beside him, your thigh touching his own, and look him straight in the eye as you say, “I never know what to believe when it comes to you.”

His expression falters, and for a moment, he’s the boy you loved, before it’s paved over by that false congeniality you hate. He would have made it big as an actor if he hadn’t gone down the path of murderous cult leader, or maybe a politician. Those are certainly more likely to betray you than an actor would. Then again, that profession isn’t too far from a cult leader in all actuality.

He takes a sip from his cup, surprise and delight flitting over his features the moment it reaches his tongue. It feels good to break his facade because he’s already breaking all the walls you’ve built around your heart by simply being beside you like this; some reciprocity would be nice. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s had this particular drink and brand. It was his favorite once upon time, and you figured that if he threw just about everything else out from his previous life, he must have done the same to this too. It’s nice to know you still know the core of him even if you don’t know the exact happenings of his life.

“How have you been? You and Satoru have made up now, yes?”

Of course, he would bring that up. It doesn’t surprise you that he does, though. For a while, your fight with Satoru had been all anyone could talk about. A destructive fight between the last two loyal Special Grades shortly after the third went rogue? It was a scandal that didn’t abate until you and Satoru finally made up, until you’d shown up with him draped all over you, looking very obviously freshly-fucked, at a council meeting.

However, Suguru very well knows that you and Satoru had long made up. You may be foolish but you’re not an idiot. Not anymore. It’s not hard to determine where your not-quite boyfriend goes once a month like clockwork and why he comes back to you tasting of smoke and misery. Once, very early on, he had asked if you wanted to join him, and you had simply given him a scathing look before leaving his apartment to go to Shoko’s. He never asked again, but you knew that the offer was always open.

Confronting you like this, in your apartment and with no one near, Suguru leaves you no choice but to face him. Maybe he got tired of waiting for you to come to him. For once, you're not the desperate one. It’s a nice change of pace. Yet, there's always the possibility that he’s here to kill you.

If you’re going to die like this, so be it, but you’d like another drink before you go. A civil conversation would be nice too. You find that you’ve missed him dearly, ready to fall back into old habits with an old friend. Shoko will be disappointed in you for not putting up a fight, but if you hadn’t had the strength to do it while you helped him with the twins, you definitely couldn’t do it now. Satoru will understand though. You only hope he’s kind; you’ve had enough of his cruelty.

“Yes. We’re doing well now. As for myself, I’m the same as always. I don’t get up to much these days.” You pause to take a sip to wet your dry mouth. “Oh, I’m almost done with my teaching certificate, but don’t tell Satoru. He’ll be a nuisance if he finds out through you. I plan on joining him at Jujutsu Tech next year.”

Satoru hadn’t been wrong when he said you’d enjoy it. It’s fulfilling in a way that exorcising curses isn’t, and though you’ve always supported him in his endeavor to allow the children of your society to hold onto their youth for as long as possible, it’s different when you’re the one cultivating said youth.

“Oho, is that so? I’m happy for you,” Suguru says, and the thing is, he really does sound genuine. “Of the two of you, I always thought you’d be the one to teach there. You were always so diligent with our kouhai, Haibara-kun specifically.”

Hearing him speak so blatantly about Yuu-kun sends a stab straight through your heart. He had been a good boy, an average sorcerer at the time, but there had been potential for him to grow into a First Grade had he lived. You remember sitting beside his corpse, debating whether you should kill the window who miscalculated the curse’s grade and the elder who let it accumulate power for years before it became a so-called problem and reported it.

It had been Suguru who had convinced you otherwise. Hypocritical of him, considering he went on a murder spree not too long after for the sake of two little girls and his own twisted philosophy.

You had changed after that, even more after the short time you helped Suguru settle with Nanako-chan and Mimiko-chan before essentially being turned away from his new home and the bender you and Satoru went on. After that, you fell into a depressive episode so severe that it almost killed you. Only Shoko knows the extent of how close you were to giving up completely, and it will stay like that. During that time, Satoru had stayed far away from you, Suguru had been busy with handling his newly seized cult and raising the twins, Kento had pulled away from everyone, and Yuu-kun was dead.

You had lost your spark, unwilling to become attached to anyone else who could break your heart so thoroughly. Teaching, which had always been your secret passion, had lost all its luster after everything that took place during that nebulous time period, but children have a way of sneaking into your heart, regardless of any desire to avoid them. It had been Megumi first, the little boy who shadowed Satoru during a few of his easier missions, and later, Tsumiki, his non-sorcerer step-sister who admired your grace and poise when dealing with someone as troublesome as Satoru. Then, it had been sweet Yuuta-kun, who you had personally vouched for after Satoru brought you to meet him for the first time. Now, it was the rest of his classmates who have managed to worm their way right alongside the others.

You can’t say you’re fully healed from the heartache of your teenage years, yet you’d like to believe you can move past it enough to live the way you want and have been too cowardly to allow.

“It simply wasn’t in my cards, not until recently. It’s been nice to help the first years with Satoru, and I want a more active role in their education. Enough about me, though. How have you and the girls been?”

He’s been watching you with rapt eyes, and you wonder what it is he sees, what you’re giving away to him. He was always the best at reading you, but now that particular gift belongs to Shoko, who knows every dirty little secret that your lovers don’t… lover and ex-lover.

“The girls still ask about you, their beloved onee-sama, but they’re well without you. Speaking of which, I never managed to break them from the habit of calling me Getou-sama. They’re stubborn like that, but I like that shared facet of their personalities. Just the other day, they convinced me to abandon a meeting to go to the opening of a highly anticipated bakery. Perhaps I’ve spoiled them too much,” Suguru muses, taking a sip, and you, unconsciously, mirror the movement. He looks back up into your eyes, tilting his head as he asks, “As for myself, do you really want to know?”

Do you really want to know?

Do you really wish to hear of the people he slaughtered to further his inane goal? To hear about his new family, the cult he’s grown for himself? To hear just how far his insanity has spread?

Not particularly.

You shake your head, and instead, you ask, “Is this how it goes with Satoru each time he goes to you? Talking about nothing but the children before falling into each other?”

Suguru barks a laugh, like you’ve told a particularly funny joke, and you jolt at the sound of it. He sounds the same, and it’s breaking your heart. He sets his cup on the table, his hand warm on your cheek as he cradles your face tenderly. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re two teens falling in love for the first time. Your eyes stay open, mapping the constellation of dying stars found in his own.

“Always straight to the point with you, huh? I always liked that about you, you know?”

You nod. He had told you as such one time, and you remember everything from back then in startling crystal clear vision. His other hand takes your cup and places it beside his own. It’s a couple’s set, once belonging to your parents. No one else has used it alongside you because your friends would never drink sake if given the choice, none but Suguru.

“And you’ve always danced around it. Why are you here, Suguru?”

He closes his eyes then, perhaps relishing the sound of his name falling from your lips. Your voice almost broke when saying it, unused to saying it when once it was all that could escape you.

“I’ve missed you. Isn’t that enough of a reason?” He leans his forehead against your own, his breath intermingling with your own. Every one of your senses are filled with him. It’s a heady combination, the proximity, the intimacy, the familiar musk of decay with an added hint of incense, and it makes you dizzy with desire.

“You’ve had all this time to visit me. Why now?” You couldn’t sound more pathetic if you tried, but Suguru was the one to break ten years of contact. Surely, that must make him worse than you.

You know where this is heading, and it’s a bad idea, but you’ll just blame it all on Suguru. He’s the one who came to you, not the other way around. It’d be rude to turn him away, although you’d be well within your right to do so after what he did last time, but you can’t. He is your biggest weak spot, besides Shoko, and everyone knows it, Suguru most of all.

As if knowing he was losing you, he smiles at you, eyes open, with all of his teeth showing. It’s a distracting sight.

He finally answers, “I was feeling nostalgic.” He must deem that enough of an answer because he breaches the small gap between you and kisses you. You melt into him, allowing him to push you down on the couch as his thighs box you in beneath him. The secondhand taste of him you get from Satoru doesn’t compare to the real thing, and neither do your dreams or memories.

“You must be too, if you’re wearing this old thing,” he says as he takes your shirt off—and oh, it’s one that used to belong to him. He had left everything behind when he defected, and during your worst nights, you wanted something of his, so you snuck into his old dorm room and stole a few items of his clothing. His scent hadn’t lingered for long, but you kept everything you stole anyway.

Pushing past the twinge of pain those times illicit, you begin to undress him too. It’s not enough to simply be this close to him. You need to be skin to skin, mouth to mouth, body to body, until you’re both so tangled up in one another that you become one.

Sometime during stripping him to his underwear and kissing him senseless, he had picked you up because the next thing you know, he’s thrown you on your bed. You imbibed too much, but by now, you’re certain he isn’t going to kill you tonight. 

Not much, you think deliriously when Suguru pulls your panties down, his nose digging into your clit as he licks a stripe up your folds, but he’ll give me plenty of little deaths. Satoru would have liked that joke since he’s the one who told you about that term originally, too bad he’s not here to appreciate it. You’ll just have to save it for later.

You don’t attempt to keep quiet, couldn’t even if you tried, because you know Suguru likes his partners noisy and filthy. He’s as talented with his tongue as he was when you last saw him, more even, and you don’t want to think about why that is. Like this, you can stay in your favorite fantasy, where he stayed yours and Satoru’s and Shoko’s.

Pleasure swells in your belly, slick pooling between your thighs and right into Suguru’s eager mouth. He’s only playing with you, staying away from your clit as he laps up your arousal. Teases you until you’re molten beneath him. His tongue slides inside of you, and your back arches into his mouth.

“You taste the way I remember,” he remarks, his breath tickling your clit. You thread your fingers into his hair, forcing him to look into your eyes. His face shines with your slick in the low light, and his eyes are dark as he stares back at you, the black of his pupils eclipsing his pretty irises.

“Suguru, please. I need more.” A moan slips from you unbidden when he slips two thick fingers inside of your aching hole. He curls them upwards, massaging that soft spot that makes the coil in your belly snap and makes you tremble as your orgasm crashes over you. You’re not there yet, but you will be soon with the way Suguru decides to stop toying with you.

His tongue swirls around your clit before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.

Suguru’s already prepared for the way your hips buck. His grip is bruising as he forces your thrashing body further down onto your bedding, He hasn’t let up with his fingers, and he seems content to keep your clit warm and wet in his mouth.

It’s too much at once, especially since it’s Suguru bringing you to the edge like this. He’s nothing like your other lovers, and you’ve missed this. You’ve missed him. He adds a third finger, and the stretch stings pleasantly. He continues his assault on your clit, alternating between sucking it and using his tongue to play with it.

Tears prick your eyes, and you fist his hair tightly in your palms, pushing his face deeper into your cunt. You’re so close, yet you want him to stop because working you from the inside and out is enough to cause your mind to want to stop working.

“Suguru, Suguru, Suguru,” you whine, a litany solely for him on your tongue. He hums happily against you, and it’s enough to cause your body to still for a moment. “Suguru, I’m gonna—gonna cum,” you begin to warn him before you shudder all over, thighs trembling, vision narrowing, and cunt spasming around Suguru’s fingers.

He continues to fuck you with his fingers, but his mouth finally leaves your poor, abused clit as he maneuvers himself between your thighs and move your legs to wrap around his midsection. Only now are you aware of the raging hard-on he’s sporting. He leans down to kiss your lips, sharing the taste of your slick with you and breathing your name and sweet nothings into your skin once he’s had his fill of your needy kisses and left enough marks that there won't be a mistake of just exactly who left them there.

Reclining back up, he looks down at your debauched body. His mouth quirks up into a mean grin that makes your cunt flutter around his fingers. “There’s nothing but thoughts of me in that silly little brain of yours, hm?”

“Uh huh. Just Suguru.” He’s the only thing that matters, all you’ve longed for since he kicked you to the curb. It’s actually pathetic how much he still affects you, how much you continue to let him affect you like this. You’ll get over him one day, but one day isn’t tonight. You aren’t like Satoru, willing to debase yourself on a monthly basis. There’s only so much self-harm you can engage in before spiraling nowadays.

If you’re being honest, it’d probably kill you to leave Suguru or be left behind by him so often. Satoru is regarded as the Strongest for a reason while you, decidedly, aren’t.

“So good. That’s how it should always be,” he croons, and you can’t help but preen at the compliment. You deserve a reward for being so good. You tell Suguru as such and he laughs, agreeing, and asks what it is you want.

“Inside,” you answer immediately. “I want you inside me.” You feel like that statement is missing something, so you tack on a please at the end of the sentence.

“Anything for you,” he murmurs, like a liar. You let him get away with it, just like you do with everything else.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing your slick along his length, and slaps the tip of it against your sensitive clit before lazily rutting against your folds. He’s thicker than you remember, thicker than Satoru and most of Shoko’s slim fingers combined. You will strain to take him in, but what’s pleasure without a little pain.

When he finally enters you, your name falls from his lips weakly, mirroring the way you gasp his own as the head of his cock slips in. Your entire body goes taut at the intrusion, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as he sinks deeper inside you, inch by inch. This time, you don’t stop the tears from falling from your eyes, your whining and his ragged breaths filling the room.

“You’re taking me so well,” Suguru sighs when he's halfway inside of you. “But it hurts, doesn’t it?” You nod weepily. “It’s a good thing I know you can take it.”

Without warning, he shoves the rest in with a single thrust. It burns; you’re stuffed to the brim with him, spine stiff with unexpected pain as your cunt pulses around him. Your chest heaves with each irregular inhale you take. He’s kind enough to give you a few moments to collect yourself before he begins to rock into you.

Somehow, he doesn’t sound winded, even as his thrusts become deeper and harder and your walls cling tighter around him, as he says, “It takes me back seeing you like this. Do you remember how we used to be? Before you got your act together with Shoko and I got mine with Satoru? We used to fuck, just like this, but you tried to keep quiet while I encouraged you to be loud so they could hear.”

Of course, you remember. It’s all you ever do. “You used to—fuck me in Satoru’s room and leave—behind the evidence or—or shamelessly finger me during our study sessions with— with Sho—ko.”

The headboard bangs against the wall rhythmically in time with the way Suguru slams his way inside you with each thrust of his hips, the bed creaking on beat.

“It was good while it lasted. Wasn’t it?” His voice breaks.

You unclench your eyes to look up at him with cloudy eyes. His own have the slightest sheen to them, so you cradle the back of his neck, fingers finding purchase in the long silky strands you used to braid every night as you bring his face near yours.

Bodies connected, breathing the same air, sharing the same space, reminiscing the same memories, this is as close as you’re ever going to get with him. It’s not enough. He’s going to leave again, and it’ll kill you.

All these little deaths you bring me, you wish to say, and still, I crave you. An addict through and through.

Instead, you tell him through tears, “It was the best.”

And it was—but you need to stop living in the past.

He makes it impossible to do that, though, and really, you’d have it no other way. You’re unsure what you’d do if he became a definitive thing to move past, rather than just pretending to. Death comes for everyone, but you hope it comes for you before it does for Suguru. Same for Satoru and Shoko.

In an ideal world, the four of you would live until you were all grey and wrinkly, but it’s not. You all will never again see eye to eye and live happily together, even the thing you have going on with Satoru and Shoko is shaky. Everything fell apart when Suguru fell apart, but the cracks in the relationship had started forming during the direct aftermath of the Star Plasma Vessel mission.

You kiss him before you say something stupid, something you’ll regret, something he’ll hold over you like he did the last time you saw him. It starts gentle, but he deepens it, threatening to swallow you whole like you’re just another curse for him to consume. To be with him forever sounds nice; you hope he curses you, so you’re with him always.

He lifts your legs to his shoulders, bending you in half, and his strokes lessen but are no less bruising. He reaches deeper inside you in this position, making a home for himself. If you can’t live within him, he can live within you, at least for this short amount of time.

Warmth curls in your belly when he starts kissing, sucking, and biting his way down your jaw to your neck to your decolletage to your chest, proof that he was really here. It’s not enough. You want something more permanent.

When your body goes taut again, Suguru coos mockingly, “There we go. You’re almost there. Come for me, You can do that for me, can’t you, sweetheart?”

It's the endearment that does you in, completely throwing you back to another time.

Your vision goes spotty, clenching around him tighter than before and whimpering SuguruSuguruSuguru as he fills your every sense. You continue to clamp down on him even as his pace falters and he cries your name in your ear.

Body going slack, your legs fall back to wrap weakly around his waist as he slides home one last time before he cums inside you. It’s warm and wet, filling your insides up. He slumps against you, resting his head on your shoulder as you both catch your breath.

When he pulls out, a gush of cum and slick oozes out of you and onto your sheets. You’ll clean it in the morning. He pulls you into his arms, laying you on his chest; your heartbeats are one.

After a beat of silence, you tell him, “I—I missed you too. So much, Suguru.”

He presses his lips against your temple as he hums “I know.”

Your eyelids grow heavy as sleep threatens to consume you, but you keep them open, gazing up at the man you still love despite everything he’s done. He looks so handsome like this, in your bed and staring at you with adoration in his eyes. The only thing that could make this better is if Satoru were here. You would have joined them in their trysts if you knew it would have given you soft moments like this.

Softly, hesitantly, you make a single request. “Please stay,”

“Of course,” Suguru agrees.

You rest your head on his chest, fingers trailing over his x-marked scar. They’re so faint now, but you remember a time when they were fresh and gushing red with blood. His heart beats steadily in tune with yours, a familiar melody to lull you to sleep.

You’d like one untainted memory of him, but there’s something you’ve been thinking about since the moment you saw him. It’s been bothering you this whole time, and you need to know. You recognize the look of someone who knew death was in their future. Except, he seemed to accept that potential outcome wholeheartedly while you had only begrudgingly accepted it. This is where you differ. He’s willing to die to achieve his goals, but you wish to live to see yours though.

“You’re planning something stupid, aren’t you?”

He chuckles. “You know me so well.”

It may as well be a confession. You don’t want to say goodbye to him. Not ever, but you don’t ever get what you want.

Everything becomes hazy.

“Don’t cry. Everything will work out one way or another,” Suguru consoles you, and since he’s found his way home inside your ribcage, the knife slips easily into your heart. He kisses your lips softly, swallowing your quiet cries until they’ve all run out.

“S—Suguru,” you whisper, your voice suddenly failing you as it breaks on the name you’ve avoided saying for years. You clear your throat, making another request. “Kill me if you must, but leave those two out of it. Especially Shoko. She’s innocent.”

He looks so sad once you’ve said your peace. It’d be nice if you could read minds. Maybe if you could, you would have noticed he was lying about the deteriorating state of his mind in your third year. Maybe if you cracked his skull open and placed his brain beneath a microscope, all his secrets and thoughts would spill out. It’s a silly thought. You’re not a scientist or doctor like Shoko, after all.

“Why would I kill you? Or Shoko for that matter.” You notice how he deliberately leaves out Satoru. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “I’m doing this for you, all of you. You deserve to live in a curse-free world where you don’t need to be strong. Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down without the fear that settles in your gut every time you think about starting a family?”

So cruel to mention your best kept secret, a future you will never have—can never allow yourself to have. So gentle it makes you want to curl up and die. Maybe you could take him with you, stop him before he attempts to pull off whatever plan he has brewing. Satoru always says that sorcerers die alone in the end, but you wouldn’t be alone. Not when Suguru is right here, and all you’d have to do is drain him dry of his cursed energy and then life vitality. You would be kind, like how you hoped he would be in return. It would be romantic, in a way, to die side by side, arm in arm, body to body, together forever.

“It would,” you admit, “but it’s impossible, and you know it.”

He merely hums in response.

A stalemate, but he doesn’t leave you.

You’ll take it. You’ll take anything he gives you. Even if it’s heartbreak.

Sleep takes you in its cold embrace after a few minutes of silence, but before it does, you swear you hear Suguru say, “I was foolish to turn you away, but it was for the best. You’d have died a slow death with me.”

Not like it would have made a difference, you’ve been dying a slow death since the moment Yaga-sensei scouted you.

Such is the life of a sorcerer.

-

He’s gone by morning; you’d almost believe it was a dream.

There'd be no trace that he was even with you if it weren’t for the marks he left behind and the mess he made between your thighs.

You’re undoubtedly a fool for how easily you let him back in, but Suguru has always had a particular knack for making you pliant to his every whim. He managed to knock down every wall you’ve built up in the past decade in a single encounter.

Shoko is going to be so disappointed.

You wonder if Satoru feels this used after their hookups. You hope he’s always the one to leave first, so he doesn’t ever feel like this. It’s a terrible feeling that you wouldn’t wish on anybody, especially not on Satoru. He deserves good things even if he chases after what many consider to be the most twisted man in recent jujutsu history.

Entering your living room, you find one of the sake cups shattered on the ground. Another broken thing he’s left in his wake.

Suguru really is the worst.

[trinketstar]

Hai! :D

First of all, I LOVE your art style,and your tadc designs ('specaly pomni<3) but also, I had 2 questions :3

Okay, #1, I don't know if you take requests for doodles,but if you are, do you think you could draw my pomni design in your style? (Art for it is pictured) (actually, I think you need to copy and paste it into a search tab and it will work) (maybe)

https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1255241224609206382/1392984862968774676/Untitled107_20250710174055.png?ex=6872d73f&is=687185bf&hm=4691bdc8c911f05b95c00b68a2d1196720ed8b992f88f75838d91313fe424965&

And #2, is you pomni an age regressor? As one, I've noticed that she has some similar coping mechanisms as me, and also I've seen her with a paci in a bunch of drawings :3

Well, have an amazing (digital circus) day/night! And tysm for doin what u do!

Such a cute design! Thank u!

And HAH I was waiting for someone to notice that! It's not something I talk about a lot since it's a sensitive issue and misunderstood a lot. But learning more about age regression and how it works has Really helped me overcome some deep seated stuff in my brain over the last year. (Imma get a little real here sorry)

For the uninitiated, age regression is an often involuntary dissociative state caused by repressed childhood neglect or trauma. With certain triggers, your brain kinda puts you back in that vulnerable mindset where you feel like a scared little kid again. It makes it harder to control your emotions and it can be really disorienting and frustrating, especially if you don't know why it's happening. When you calm down you're like "whyyy was I acting so immature?? I know better than that!"

I use characters to work through my thoughts a lot, and Pomni just felt very fitting as an outlet for that feeling? Idk, the way she gets defensive over being treated like a kid, the way she spaces out when stressed, the whole premise of being suddenly turned into a tiny thing in a huge overwhelming childish looking world with a room full of baby toys, it felt like a big metaphor for how it feels lol. I've written fics and comics with her as I've been learning more about how to cope.

The healthy way to work through it is to kinda become the parent you needed. It's similar to other types of anxiety recovery with the positive affirmations and self-soothing, just more focused on the stuff that would have helped you when you were younger! Take good care of yourself, have a gentle and positive inner monologue, forgive the mistakes, bring back positive memories with fun shows and games, let yourself scribble color, get some chewlery, give yourself stickers and rewards for finishing chores, have fun with it! It can feel VERY SILLY, but when you begin to heal that part of your brain, you can kinda.. let the baby go take a nap and get through your regular adult responsibilities! As long as you keep yourself grounded in reality and don't get TOO stuck in the past, I feel it can be very healthy.

Most important to remember is that it is VERY DIFFERENT FROM "AGEPLAY". That term refers to a type of sexual role-playing. I wish I didn't have to clarify this.

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ almost, again — gojo satoru x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: relapsing into someone you should have survived by now

includes: emotional manipulation, mentions of low self worth/self-blame, mentions of sexual content

word count: 1.4k

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

The first click of the receiver swept through you like an earthquake does to the ground. The click, static, and the sound of his breath on the other side of the phone brings back memories freshly buried.

“Hello?” You say, and it sounds a lot like a loaded question. What you really mean is: do you remember me? Do you remember what we had?

“Hi,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Something in your chest blooms, just like it always did back then.

This is important to note: this is not the first time this has happened. You are not lovers reuniting after the war. There is nothing heroic or romantic about this story. You had met, fell in love, broken up, and fallen apart—and now you spend each odd month crawling back to each other, unsure of what else to do. Rhythm more like ritual than romance.

This is your fourth coming back—five months after the two of you had officially ended things, a month and a half since your last attempt. The wound has never been allowed to heal, the both of you pick and pick again. It’s still fresh, throbbing, bleeding, like it has nothing better to do. Maybe there isn’t.

But you try again. You try again because you’re too stupid to realize that things won’t change, they never do. And he tries again because he doesn’t yet know how to make sense of a life without you. Still, that’s not enough to save either of you. The two of you don’t learn—and when something doesn’t grow, it rots. The moment the phone call starts, you can already hear the ticking of the countdown timer, you can already picture the way this ends. Just like last time: no fighting, no screaming, just stillness. Just silent resignation. It’s always him that gives up before you.

But before all the bad, things would be wonderful.

For seven days, he’d call you things nobody else was allowed to call you. Baby, honey, my pretty girl—like he used to. In return you’d call him: love, my love, my life. You’d spend every waking hour on the phone with him, talking about your days, your plans, where it hurt and where you were sore. You’d talk about why things ended the last time and how the both of you were sorry you ran away the way you did, but only one of you will mean it. You’ll fall asleep with the phone pressed to your ear, trying to hear his voice a little clearer, and wake up late for class. You will send dirty pictures to each other and he will send voice notes for you to listen to when the night gets dark. In the voice notes, he never says anything vulgar. He’ll moan and pant but his voice will break at the mention of your name. He will tell you you’re beautiful over and over again until you almost believe it.

When you signed on to love him, which never really stopped—even after the breakup—you promised a lot of things. You promised to be understanding, forgiving, patient. You promised to care about the big things and the little things. Especially the little things. He was the kind of person to call you around mealtimes to ask what you were eating, and then, for a picture of it.

“Soba noodles? That sounds so good,” he’d said once over the phone.

“They’re amazing,” you’d say, “come over here and taste them yourself.”

“Already on my way.”

He showed you things. Stupid things. Paper cranes and doodles he made while bored out of his mind. Cute things. Dogs and cats and bunnies he saw. A cloud that reminded him of you. Things only you and him would understand. Perfect quenelles. The shade of blue his eyes were. The way blood splatters on a sidewalk and doesn’t wash off easy.

That’s what I love you was like to him. It slips out your mouth when you’re exhausted and you don’t catch it until you hear his breath catch in his throat on the other side of the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “I didn’t mean to say that. I-”

“I love you too,” he cuts you off, “I love you too.”

And that’s when you know the damage becomes irreparable.

After every jarring confession, the countdown timer looms further. Closer. Persistent and without mercy. The morning after will be met with jarring silence. The texts become more scarce. The check-ins less and less. Try and fight it, time and time again, and you’ll find you can’t. You’re just as powerless as you were the first time it happened. No amount of trying to be good and perfect can fix this. Nothing and no one can stop him from leaving.

Every time, it’s the same thing that he’ll tell you.

“It got too real and I got afraid,” he’d say. “I’m sorry.”

You were tired of hearing sorry. He said sorry like he said Hail Marys during the rosary—too much. How many more sorries until you can build a church out of your forgiveness? Sorry, sorry, sorry. He’d been sorry all his life. It seems like he’ll be sorry all his life. Always apologizing, never actually getting better. If he tried and failed, it’d hurt less, but he didn’t even try, he never does. Where he finds he’s in danger of not being enough, he packs up his bags and leaves. You wanted to believe it was because of his upbringing. It’s what gifted people do, you excuse. You want so badly to believe that he did what he did because of some internalized trauma, not because he didn’t care about you.

When time came again for things to wrap up, you left with whatever dignity you had left. Repeating: loving someone is never a waste, over and over to yourself. No fighting. The two of you never fought over anything. It made leaving all the more easy; nothing to fight for is a good reason to leave. Keep telling yourself that to make yourself feel better. Joke with friends that he’s got major daddy issues and other things to work out. None of that will mask the hurt of knowing you weren’t good enough to make him stay. None of that will subdue the sting of having been left over and over again. Someone always has to leave first, Richard Siken had said, and that was his part that he played brilliantly well.

So before he leaves, that in between lull when you know things are going to start snowballing downhill, you start packing your things. Hell, you know better than to unpack now. You leave your luggage by your bed, unopened, because you know the stay is temporary. You know, everytime, it’s not meant to last. You savor each good morning, each I love you, every I’m not over you, even if it’s not sincere. Not because it was necessarily good, but because it was rare. Sometimes things acquire value just because they’re rare. You’d take anything of his if it had his scent, reminding you that there was once a time when you were good enough, that you were worth staying for—worth coming back to.

24 hours after your last ‘are you okay?’ goes unanswered, life resumes as if the two of you never happened. Writings in the sand. He goes to work and posts about the report he’s working on. You wake up from dreams of him calling you to apologize, then get on with the rest of your day. You cry in the shower and linger by the frozen food section of the supermarket until the memory of him is hazy. If you’d ever meant anything to him, he buries it well. There is no guilt, no remorse, no sadness that shows through him. You are the body he dumped in the forest to rot. You are the grave he doesn’t visit. He will be cold, and you will act like you’re above feeling sorry for yourself, but you’re not.

The thing about having someone know the deepest, most intimate parts of you, is that they know exactly where to twist the knife.

But if he called again, you’d answer. If he says: “I’m sorry it took me this long, let’s make this right”, you’d believe him, because that’s what you do best. Because that’s all there is to do, really. Until you grow a backbone and some self respect, you forgive, and ache, and hurt—over and over again. And when the calls become scarce, when he declines your calls saying he’s tired, or busy, or sick—when he stops answering your answers and runs away again, slipping through your fingers like sand, you’ll curse and think: almost, again.

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

author’s note: call me america and my last relationship 9/11 the way i’m never forgetting about it and it’s left a lasting (damaging) impact on my psyche resulting in paranoia and increased defensive methods. i guess whatever doesn’t kill you comes back six months later to finish the job.

[perdidosbucky-yyo]

Finally have the time to do this!!! 🤭

Tysm for the tag beautiful🥰

Rosa (part I): “Move” your mother reprimanded. You wanted to, you did, but your body wouldn’t listen, your chest was so heavy you felt trapped under the covers. The sky was so blue, it reminded you of the blue puppies you once had in the garden. You cried all night when you came home from a trip to find them wilted and forgotten by your husband, they were the same shade as those eyes… every time you tended to them, it was like he was looking at you.

Wicked Little Town (chapter I): “Say hi to the camera Daddy” you chirp, your cheeks heating up from the slip of the term of endearment you had for the man who swooped you off your feet and carried your entire world. Looking away from the window he gives you the most maddening smile, making the butterflies in your stomach sing and your heart jump. It wasn’t a grin, he was never very expressive, always stood tall with a composed yet slightly threatening pose

I don't wanna hear: 7:51 PM, “Baby please, You know I’m an idiot…she means nothing” Jake whined through the phone. As of 5 hours ago, he became your ex but kept on calling you, each call pleading for your forgiveness and saying the same stupid excuse “I felt you pulling away, what was I supp-” Before you could interrupt him yourself, your best friend and roommate took your phone “Listen closely you little shit, if you don’t stop calling I’ll personally chop off your balls, fry’em up and feed them to your mother in a fucking salad…

Find the joy: When you were younger you always assumed once you met that person who is supposed to love you as you are, always and forever, life's problems would cease to exist, because you found the love of your life. After your first heartbreak, you realized you were sorely mistaken, you felt stupid for ever believing that fairytale. Life is cruel and often unfair, whether it was the environment or politics, the world kept on letting you down, your whole life you worked hard for the bare minimum,

Something (Chapter 1): The world felt… Fuzzy, Everything was spinning, your whole body felt ten times heavier than it actually was and yet, all your troubles were long forgotten. The sound of your boyfriend’s voice disappeared into the background and all you could hear was the tiktok song that got stuck in your head since last week, as you mumble it, you couldn’t help but laugh at the sound of your own voice. With faltering steps and your arm wrapped around his shoulder you tried to walk up the stairs of your building,

Dreamland: No one loves you more than I do, Not your dipshit boyfriend, Not your dad, Me. It’s always going to be me Sunshine. It felt like you’d been staring at the laptop screen for hours, -was this a dream?- Ripping your eyes away from the computer you counted your fingers, no extra limbs and you just read an email so it definitely wasn’t a dream, you’d give anything for this to be a dream. Your whole body felt numb, breathing became harder and you were sweating from places you didn’t even know existed…

L. O. V. E: L is for the way you look at me. “Look at those damn eyes” you whispered to your best friend, clutching her forearm but never breaking eye contact with the handsome stranger across the poorly lit room, “It’s like they have a life of its own and they want to consume me” you whisper almost out of breath, heart thumping as if you just ran a marathon, the woman next to you chuckled “alright, no more beer for you”, she says as she takes your drink away but you don’t even notice;

No pressure tags: @writing-for-marvel @elixirfromthestars @fandoms-writings @simmerandcry @daydreamgoddess14 @fckmebarnes

Fanfic Opening Lines

I've been tagged by @azriona in this fun tag game.

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your latest fanfics (or up to if you have less!) & tag 10 people.

Crumbs of Connection: Bucky dragged his feet along the cracked sidewalk with slumped shoulders, as the chill of the night seeped through his tattered jacket. He was almost at the building he’d moved into a few days ago, but each step felt heavier than the last. The mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had left him with a pounding headache, a sour mood, and a stomach that wouldn’t stop growling.

To Mend a Soldier: After everything he’d been through -Hydra, Zemo, Thanos, Steve’s departure, and now therapy with Dr. Raynor- Bucky still couldn’t seem to find peace. The nightmares remained, the guilt festered, and every glance he got on the street reminded him of who he used to be, not who he was trying to become. Trusting people felt impossible, and his defenses were built like steel walls.

Toy Soldier: The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

Foundations: Steve crouched in the snow-dusted ruins of the Hydra facility, surrounded by the faint noise of outdated machinery and the occasional creak of the aging structure. The air in the base carried a mix of metallic tang and decay as if the building itself was holding its last breaths. He ran his gloved hand along a table coated with frost and dust before stopping in front of a row of cryogenic chambers.

Terms of Attraction: Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here. He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore they’d never become.

Tangled: The cottage looked even smaller in person. Nestled at the cliff's edge, with wild grass growing tall around it and the sea stretching endlessly beyond, it felt like it had been left there by the wind itself, forgotten when the summer tourists had packed up and gone.

Built to Last: Bucky didn’t know what to say when Dr. Raynor told him to pick up a hobby. It wasn’t a suggestion. She said he needed something to keep his hands busy other than fighting, fidgeting with the weight of his past, or rotting alone in his apartment. He had scoffed at the idea at first. He didn’t know what the hell he wanted to do with his life, and a hobby was part of that uncertainty. But after taking his time to think about it, carpentry had stuck.

A Star Without a Sky: She forced herself out of the warm bed, groggy and resentful of the cold that crept from every crack in the old wood walls. The sun had been up for hours. Errands -postponed too many times- piled at her with obligation, so she folded back the quilt with a sigh and let her bare feet hit the frigid floor.

The Trouble With Saturdays: They didn’t recruit her for the violence. The Thunderbolts had enough of that. More than enough, actually. Three supersoldiers, a walking quantum anomaly, a man with literal god-tier potential buried beneath trauma, and Yelena, who didn’t need powers to make anyone cry.

Spasibo: They hadn’t said it, that time. The mission briefing had been barked, burning coordinates into its brain, the mark to eliminate, the item to retrieve. But they hadn’t said no witnesses. That line, that kill-switch command that made the world go red and simple, went missing.

No pressure tags: @sashaisready @mercurial-chuckles @drabblesandsnippets @nameless-ken @navybrat817 @gremlin-girly @sergeantbarnessdoll @societyfolklore @writing-for-marvel @twistedteatime @perdidosbucky-yyo @lazyneonrabbitt @alpinesmommy

[an-albino-pinetree]

I feel weird putting vent art on here, but this one is positive, and maybe it’ll help someone else who’s feeling the same, and wants the same reassurance. 💜

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Housewardens

Other Parts: Vice-Housewardens; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Riddle Rosehearts

The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the rustle of fabric as you flopped onto the couch with all the grace of a cat forcibly denied its favorite sunny spot.

The argument still hung in the air, an unspoken tension that neither you nor Riddle were willing to breach—at least not yet. He wasn’t wrong, not entirely, but he wasn’t right either. The impasse was as thick as the silence between you.

Determined to make a statement, you yanked the blanket off the couch arm and cocooned yourself in it, defiantly turning your back to the door. No way were you crawling back to bed tonight. Your pride wouldn’t let you. Let him stew in his perfectly fluffed, oversized bed.

Meanwhile, in his room, Riddle’s impeccable composure was fraying at the edges. He lay stiff as a board under his duvet, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to all his mistakes. His pillows seemed unusually hard, the blankets too suffocating, and no matter how he adjusted, something felt... wrong.

It didn’t take him long to figure out the culprit: you weren’t there.

He groaned softly into the darkness. Guilt clawed at his insides, sharp and relentless, each tick of the clock making it harder to bear. He’d handled things poorly—he could admit that, now that the heat of the argument had ebbed. And worse, he couldn’t bear the thought of you being upset, out there on the couch, all because of his stubbornness.

With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, he threw off his blanket and shuffled into the living room. His breath caught when he saw you.

There you were, fast asleep, your cheek smushed against the arm of the couch, one arm dangling off the side. The sight was far too adorable for the emotional train wreck he’d become. His guilt doubled.

Riddle knelt by the couch quietly, determined not to wake you. But as he crouched there, the exhaustion hit him—of the argument, the guilt, the restless tossing and turning. Maybe just sitting here would suffice. He wouldn’t disturb you.

A few minutes turned into an hour. Before he knew it, he’d slumped sideways against the couch, head lolling onto his arms, fast asleep in what had to be the most uncomfortable position imaginable.

When you stirred awake, the morning light was peeking through the curtains. Groggily, you rubbed your eyes, the previous night’s anger feeling like a distant shadow. That was when you noticed him—his normally pristine figure curled up on the floor, head resting uncomfortably close to your dangling hand.

Your chest ached at the sight. The idiot. The sweet, guilty idiot.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hair. “Riddle,” you whispered. “Hey… wake up.”

He stirred, blinking up at you with sleep-clouded eyes, disoriented but instantly softening when he saw your face. Without a word, he shifted closer, arms wrapping around your middle as he buried his face against your stomach.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, voice thick and quiet.

You freeze but quickly recover, leaning into his embrace. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your blanket. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand.”

Your throat tightened, and you found yourself carding your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry too,” you whispered. “Let’s not fight like that again.”

For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, wrapped up in quiet forgiveness. When he finally looked up at you, there was a hesitant, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Will you come back to bed now?” he asked softly.

“Only if you promise to use it too. No more couch-floor accommodations,” you teased, pinching his cheek lightly.

“Deal,” he murmured, and together, you made your way back—closer than before, warmth filling the space where anger once was.

Leona Kingscholar

The argument had been sharp, biting, and the kind of fight where you both refused to back down. Storming out of the bedroom felt dramatic enough to match the vibe, so you grabbed a blanket, stomped to the living room, and threw yourself onto the couch with the weight of your indignation. “Fine,” you muttered into the cushions. “Let him have the stupid bed. I don’t care.”

And at the time, you didn't. You were replaying his snarky remarks and cursing his stubborn attitude. But the couch was lumpy, the blanket too short, and sleep came grudgingly after what felt like hours of stewing.

When you finally woke, disoriented and achy, something felt...off. For starters, you weren’t on the couch anymore. You were in the bed, wrapped snugly in the comforter that still carried Leona’s scent.

Blinking against the sunlight, you sat up, confusion clouding your thoughts. At the foot of the bed was the blanket you’d dragged out last night, now neatly folded like some taunting symbol of Leona’s existence.

And Leona himself? Missing.

You slid out of bed and wandered to the living room, where the answer to your mystery lay sprawled across the couch. The sight of him, however, made your irritation waver.

Leona was far too large for the couch. His long legs hung over the edge at weird angles, and one arm was slung over his face to block the light filtering through the curtains. He looked wildly uncomfortable, but his usual arrogance softened in sleep, his face peaceful and unguarded.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. He must have carried you to bed sometime in the night, only to exile himself to the lumpy couch. The guy could be maddeningly stubborn, but this... this unexpected gesture had you torn between wanting to yell at him or simply kissing him awake.

Ultimately, you decided to settle for the middle ground.

Crouching next to the couch, you reached out and brushed the stray strands of hair from his face. Before you could withdraw, one eye cracked open, and a lazy grin spread across his lips.

“Caught ya,” he drawled, voice rough from sleep.

You raised an eyebrow. “You moved me to the bed, didn’t you?”

He huffed, clearly uninterested in owning up to the sentimentality of it. “Couldn’t leave you out there whining in your sleep.”

“I wasn’t whining!” you protested, even though your cheeks were burning.

“Sure you weren’t,” he replied smoothly, grabbing your wrist before you could retreat. With a sharp tug, he pulled you down, practically pinning you against him. “Don’t see the big deal. You’re mine, aren’t ya? ‘Course I’m gonna take care of you.”

The casual way he said it didn’t make it any less sincere.

You sighed, melting into his warmth despite yourself. “I hate how sweet you can be when I’m trying to stay mad at you.”

His smirk widened, and he tucked you closer, burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to piss you off,” he murmured against your temple. “But you’re not leaving this couch till we make up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice softened. “Deal.”

As the tension melted away and his arms tightened around you, the couch didn’t seem quite so lumpy anymore. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad place to be.

Azul Ashengrotto

The argument had been tense, the kind where you both said things you probably shouldn’t have. Frustrated and too stubborn to stay in the same space as Azul, you grabbed a pillow and marched out to the couch. He’d barely tried to stop you, his pride seemingly keeping him rooted in the bedroom.

But pride was a fickle thing, and now you were left trying to fall asleep on the stiff cushions. Every creak of the floorboards made you feel a little guilty, knowing exactly who it was.

You didn’t even need to look; you could feel Azul’s presence lingering in the doorway, his usual composure clearly absent. The sound of shuffling footsteps returned to the bedroom, and you thought maybe he’d finally leave you alone—only to hear those same footsteps inch closer again a minute later.

"Azul, I know you're there," you muttered, cracking an eye open and turning toward the doorway. Sure enough, there he was, peeking out. His glasses caught the faint glow of the hallway light, and he immediately froze like he’d been caught stealing treasure.

“I-I wasn’t...” he started, before trailing off, clearly scrambling for an excuse.

You sighed and sat up, your frustration ebbing in the face of how uncharacteristically sheepish he looked. This was Azul Ashengrotto, the calculating businessman who could sell ice to Yetis—and yet he couldn’t even apologize without peering at you like a child who’d been scolded.

“If you’re just going to lurk there all night, we’re both going to lose sleep,” you said, finally beckoning him over with a wave.

Azul hesitated for a fraction of a second before his composure cracked, and he shuffled toward the couch. “I didn’t mean for things to escalate...” he started, sitting next to you, his head ducked low, voice soft.

You smirked despite yourself. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?”

He bristled, his dignity rallying as he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “I am not—”

“You’re very cute,” you interrupted, and the smallest flicker of a pout crossed his lips.

Azul looked away, a hint of color dusting his pale cheeks. “You’re the worst.”

“And you still love me,” you countered, pulling him down beside you. “Truce?”

He glanced at you, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “Truce.”

Apologies came in murmured exchanges after that, both of you acknowledging where you’d gone wrong. You knew you’d both let pride get in the way—typical for two people as headstrong as yourselves.

Eventually, Azul’s head rested on your shoulder, his warm weight grounding you. You leaned back against the couch, and despite its discomfort, it felt perfect with him there.

“You know,” you whispered, running a hand gently through his hair, “for a guy who’s made half of Twisted Wonderland sign contracts, you really can’t stand your ground for the life of you.”

Azul huffed, turning his face into your shoulder to hide. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Nope. I think I’ll just enjoy this.”

And with that, the two of you finally let the tension of the argument melt away, falling asleep together on the couch in an imperfect, perfectly “you and Azul” sort of peace.

Kalim Al-Asim

The argument had been uncharacteristically heated—rare for someone as sunny and easygoing as Kalim—but even he had limits, and so did you. When your stubborn streak flared, it ended with you grabbing a blanket and storming off to the couch.

“No, Kalim, I’m fine. You sleep in the bed, I’ll sleep here,” you snapped, cutting off his attempts to follow you. His face fell, but for once, he didn’t argue, retreating to the bedroom with a defeated slump of his shoulders.

You burrowed into the couch cushions, determined to stay mad, but as sleep started to claim you, the anger dulled into annoyance. It didn’t matter. He started it, you thought stubbornly, clutching the blanket tighter.

A soft rustle of fabric woke you, tugging you from the edges of sleep. Blinking groggily, you turned your head to see Kalim crouched beside the couch, carefully tucking another blanket over you. He had his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, his touch so gentle that it was clear he didn’t want to wake you.

“What are you doing?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

Kalim flinched, looking at you like a startled puppy caught raiding the kitchen. “Oh, I—uh—I just thought you might be cold, so I…”

He trailed off, clearly expecting you to brush him off again. Instead, you sighed, your irritation melting as you realized just how ridiculous he looked, trying to coddle you even while you were angry at him.

“Come here,” you said, sitting up and pulling the blanket back a bit.

“What? No, I don’t want to—”

“Kalim.”

His protest crumbled immediately, and he slid onto the couch beside you, tucking his legs up awkwardly. You wrapped the blanket over both of you, and after a moment of stunned hesitation, Kalim relaxed into the embrace, resting his head against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice small and earnest. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You sighed, tilting your head to rest on his. “I’m sorry too. I overreacted.”

He perked up slightly at that, his usual cheer trying to peek through. “So… does this mean you won’t sleep out here alone again?”

“You’re lucky I’m even letting you under this blanket, Asim,” you teased, though your smile softened the words.

Kalim beamed, his arms wrapping snugly around your middle. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever!”

You rolled your eyes fondly, leaning back into the cushions. The couch wasn’t exactly built for two people, but the warmth of his presence made it easy to ignore. Slowly, you both drifted to sleep, Kalim murmuring sweet nothings even as his breaths evened out.

Maybe next time, you thought sleepily, you’d just let him win.

“You can have your perfectly fluffed pillows and skincare routine in peace,” you muttered, tucking yourself in with a spiteful sense of triumph.

Vil Schoenheit

The argument left both of you simmering in silence, which for Vil was a rarity. Instead of his usual icy composure, he seemed genuinely rattled. You, however, weren’t in the mood to care. Grabbing a blanket with theatrical flair, you stomped to the couch.

Once comfortably cocooned, you scrolled on your phone, trying to drown out the lingering annoyance. That’s when you heard it—sharp, purposeful footsteps marching toward you.

Before you could react, Vil appeared like a vengeful storm god, looking every bit as flawless as a deity would while furious. With a huff that could make kingdoms tremble, he reached for your arm and began dragging you back to the bedroom.

“Vil, what are you—let me go! I’m fine out here!” you protested, but his grip was firm, his annoyance palpable.

Once you were unceremoniously deposited by the bed, he turned to you, pointing at your neatly made side. “You are sleeping there,” he declared.

You folded your arms. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Deal with it.”

He tilted his head, his expression a dangerous blend of frustration and disbelief. “Absolutely not. You’ve ruined my entire evening, and now you expect me to suffer further by sleeping alone?”

“Ruined? Seriously?” you shot back.

“Yes! I require my beauty sleep, and I can’t possibly get it knowing you’re out there, sulking on a couch. It’s impossible to relax without you next to me—so you, are going to have to take responsibility!���

The sheer audacity of his statement left you blinking. It was so dramatic and entirely Vil that you couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not a little chuckle, but a full-bodied, slightly wheezing laugh that made you clutch your sides.

Vil crossed his arms, arching an offended brow. “I fail to see what’s funny.”

“You,” you said between giggles. “This whole ‘it’s your fault I can’t sleep because I love you’ nonsense. You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed, and once your laughter subsided, he gestured to the bed again, this time more softly. “Please. Don’t make me sleep without you.”

You relented, sliding under the blankets. As you settled in, Vil switched off the lights, the room going still.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment. His tone was sincere, lacking the sharp edges from earlier.

You shifted closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him gently against you. “I’m sorry too.”

Vil let out a contented hum, nestling into your hold. With your body heat mingling and the earlier tension dissipating, it didn’t take long for both of you to fall asleep—together, as it should be.

Sleep came in patches, your mind replaying the fight in a loop. At some point, the dull ache in your bladder forced you to stumble toward the bathroom. On your way back, you froze, hearing quiet, panicked murmurs drifting from Idia’s room.

Idia Shroud

The argument had been rough—sharp words, bitter edges, the kind of fight that left your chest heavy. It didn’t matter how much Idia stammered his way through an apology or tried to explain his side; you weren’t ready to hear it yet. So, in an act of frustrated finality, you grabbed a blanket and retreated to the couch, refusing to spare him another glance.

“Ortho, what do I do? I think I really messed up this time,” his voice wavered, thick with worry. “They probably hate me now. Like, actual hate—no respawn, no restart. I mean, who else would put up with me? I’ve completely blown it.”

You sighed, anger ebbing as guilt trickled in. You hadn’t meant to push him that far, and his usual self-deprecating spiral sounded more frayed than usual.

Pushing the door open, you caught the tail end of Ortho’s voice. “Big Brother, you should—oh!” His robotic eyes darted to you, scanning the scene. A moment later, he gave a tiny thumbs-up and practically zoomed out of the room, leaving you and Idia alone.

Idia froze when he noticed you. His shoulders hunched as if he could shrink his already wiry frame. “I-I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Sorry for being pathetic. Again.”

Rolling your eyes fondly, you stepped forward and opened your arms. “Come here, you dramatic dork.”

His eyes widened, hesitation etched into every inch of his posture. When you didn’t move or drop your arms, he finally shuffled over, nervously slipping into your embrace. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him securely, and his entire body seemed to deflate as tension drained out of him.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You huffed softly, rubbing his back. “Idia, I wasn’t leaving. Just... needed space to cool off. And honestly, hearing you lose your mind over it made it hard to stay mad.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” he mumbled, the words tumbling in an embarrassed rush. “Um, does this mean...?”

“It means I still love you,” you interrupted gently.

His grip on you tightened for a moment before he pulled back, pink dusting his cheeks and his hair glowing pink at the ends. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost missed it.

“I’m sorry too,” you replied, kissing his cheek and earning a startled squeak.

Together, you made your way back to bed. As you settled under the blankets, his fingers tangled hesitantly with yours. The argument seemed miles away now, replaced by the steady warmth of simply being with him.

“I’ll try to be better,” he murmured into the quiet.

“You’re already enough, Idia,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

And as you drifted off to sleep, you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your knuckles, grounding both of you in the quiet comfort of reconciliation.

Malleus stood frozen for a moment, processing your declaration, and you could feel his pout even with your back turned. "You do not need to sleep on the couch," he finally said.

Malleus Draconia

The argument left both of you tense, and you were too mad to deal with Malleus' brooding silence. Grabbing a blanket, you stormed off toward the couch, refusing to even glance at him. "I'm sleeping on the couch," you announced. "Goodnight."

"I'm not changing my mind," you shot back, tossing the blanket onto the couch for emphasis.

There was a brief, sulking pause. Then, he went quiet—suspiciously quiet. You peeked over your shoulder just in time to catch him crossing his arms with a look of smug triumph spreading across his face.

“Malleus—”

Before you could finish the thought, a flash of green lightning struck the couch, reducing it to a pile of ash with alarming precision. You stood there, jaw dropping as the faint smell of charred upholstery wafted in the air.

"Well," Malleus said, ever so matter-of-factly, "it seems the couch is… out of commission. A most unfortunate turn of events."

You turned to him, dumbfounded. "Did you seriously just smite your own couch?"

He looked at you expectantly, his lips pressed into an overly calm smile. "The bed is still available," he offered, gesturing toward the bedroom as though that solved everything.

Your anger reignited—if that was even possible after witnessing such sheer audacity. Without a word, you dropped your blanket onto the floor, flopping down dramatically as if making it your personal mission to out-stubborn a dragon fae.

He stared at you in bewilderment, clearly expecting a different outcome. For a long moment, he didn’t move, as though trying to process your act of defiance. Then, with an audible sigh, he finally caved.

“Alright,” he said softly, crouching to your level. His eyes held a rare vulnerability. “I… overreacted. I apologize for upsetting you.”

You bit back a smirk, pretending to be unimpressed even as you felt your resolve softening. "I wasn’t thrilled about it, yeah."

Malleus tilted his head, something of a pout returning to his expression. “Will you come back to bed, then? The floor hardly befits someone so precious to me.”

“Only if you promise not to zap anything else," you teased, finally relenting as you reached out to take his offered hand.

He helped you up gently, his grip firm but careful, as though he feared breaking you. “I cannot promise to never act rashly in defense of my love,” he murmured, leading you back to the room.

Settling into the bed together, you couldn’t resist poking at him one last time. “You really destroyed your own couch just to keep me near you, huh? You know they make couple’s therapy for this, right?”

He chuckled softly, pulling you close. “I would smite an entire castle if it meant you stayed by my side.”

“Noted,” you said, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the warmth in your chest. As you both drifted off, tangled in the sheets, you couldn’t help but think how absurdly lucky you were to be loved by someone so dramatic—and so utterly devoted.

Masterlist

[bruisedboys]

dead of the night — bucky barnes

bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts

note: disclaimer guys I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me

thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope kinda, 4k words

You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think it’s your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like you’ve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise it’s still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night? 

You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up. 

Bucky Barnes. 

You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, he’s not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and you’re not really sure whether you’re friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be. 

You hit the answer button. 

“Bucky?” You’ve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.

“Hey.” He sounds tired, his voice strained. “Hey, I’m so sorry, doll, I know it’s late.” 

No kidding. You ignore the fact that he’s called you doll, ‘cos if you think about it too long you’ll be here all night. ”What’s the matter?” You ask. “It’s one in the morning, Bucky.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I need your help.” 

His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.

Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel. 

“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.” 

Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?” 

You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into? 

“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better. 

There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.

“I— what?” Is all you can manage. 

There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“ 

“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?” 

Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it. 

You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky. 

It’s me. 

You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it. 

Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker? 

“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?” 

The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?” 

You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain. 

You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now. 

“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.” 

Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down. 

“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you. 

“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you say awkwardly. 

They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing. 

“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.”

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question. 

“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.” 

This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.

The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly. 

You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.

“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.” 

The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa. 

The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed. 

Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him. 

“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly.  “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?” 

You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.” 

Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.” 

You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face. 

“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.

You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.

“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.” 

You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. 

“Y/N, I’m—“ 

“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?” 

Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.” 

You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.

You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid. 

“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection. 

You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way. 

Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him. 

Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.” 

Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on. 

“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.” 

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.” 

You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it. 

You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut. 

You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?” 

Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…” 

He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects. 

Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches. 

By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier. 

“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded. 

Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?” 

You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him? 

You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything. 

Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.” 

You frown. “You’re not an assassin.” 

You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches. 

Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.” 

You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.” 

For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin. 

“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?” 

You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.” 

A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. 

“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?” 

You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before. 

“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic. 

Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles. 

“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?” 

You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.

“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic. 

You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.

Too soon, Bucky pulls away. 

You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. 

His hand lingers at your jaw. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?” 

You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.” 

Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.” 

You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.” 

Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.” 

You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though. 

“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away. 

“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.” 

“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest. 

You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love. 

You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other. 

“Do you want to—?” You start. 

“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time. 

You both pause. 

“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous. 

Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.” 

It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he? 

You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put. 

“Y/N—“ 

“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. 

“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” 

You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep. 

It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest. 

You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up. 

“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special. 

“Yeah?” You hum back. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then, 

“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly. 

Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.” 

You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to. 

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[lyvhie]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “get you there”.

| summary | haechan fucking you until you see stars and pass out. | cw | smut, oral (f), unprotected sex, squirt, passing out 😔, pet names. | a/n | i did this as a way to redeem myself for my accidental clickbait, FORGIVE ME YALL 🥺

To be honest, you had no idea how long you'd been there, lost in it.

It started off silly. Just a casual comment about your now very inactive sex life, shared with your friend, Haechan.

A small get-together had happened at your place earlier that night, but somehow, Haechan ended up staying way longer than planned. The conversation had drifted into the late hours, soft voices under dim lights, both of you relaxed in that quiet, familiar way that only years of friendship could create.

You talked about past relationships, about the weird things people did in bed, the good, the bad, the awkward. The air between you was even more comfortable than usual. Maybe that’s why things slipped out so easily. Things you never thought you’d admit. Things like the fact that you’ve never actually had an orgasm.

That—that caught his attention.

He looked at you a little differently after that, a spark lighting in his eyes as he leaned in just a bit and said, “I can make you get there, if you let me.”

Stupid man with stupid words. And you were just as stupid, because you really said yes.

Which brings you to the present—legs spread wide, back arching, and Haechan’s mouth glued to your cunt, his tongue working your soaked hole with shameless dedication.

How long had you been like this? You weren’t sure anymore.

Your legs were starting to ache from the position, trembling from the strain and the overstimulation. You’d long lost count of how many times he’d made you cum, even though he’d told you to keep track.

Your fingers were buried in his messy hair, tugging hard, not sure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn’t giving you a choice, his tongue was relentless, thrusting into you with obscene precision, his mouth noisy, wet, ravenous.

His arms were hooked beneath your thighs, hands gripping them tightly as he anchored you in place, pulling you down even harder against his mouth.

He was devouring you, absolutely shameless, his nose brushing against your sensitive little bundle of nerves with every eager thrust of his tongue.

The room was filled with the slick, lewd sounds of wet sucking, your broken moans spilling freely, mixing with the soft, desperate hums coming from his throat, he was enjoying this. And you could feel it.

Not just in the way he moaned into you, but in the subtle grind of his hips against the mattress beneath him, chasing relief he was clearly denying himself in favor of feasting on you.

That familiar pressure began to build in your core once again, your body wound so tight it barely took anything now. And before you could even brace for it, you were cumming. Again.

Haechan groaned into you, loud and guttural, as his tongue welcomed your release like he’d been starving for it. He drank every last drop, licking you clean with long, purposeful strokes, your soft mewls only making his smile grow against your soaked, trembling cunt.

Honestly, you could’ve come again just from the sight of it.

He slowly hovered over you, capturing your lips in a messy, fevered kiss, his tongue coated with the taste of you, of both of you. It made your head spin.

You were so dazed, so far gone, that you didn’t even register the sound of his pants being pushed down, or the way he settled smoothly between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like they were something sacred.

Not until you felt him.

His cock, heavy and flushed, dragging through your folds, the tip brushing against your clit with maddening precision.

You gasped, overwhelmed, your hands flying to his arms as if to keep yourself ground, or stop him.

“Hyuck,” you whimpered, breathless and spent. “Gimme a break… please.”

He dragged his tongue slowly along your neck, warm and wet, just as his cock slid up and down your slick folds teasingly. The tip circled your entrance, barely pushing in, just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing.

“A break?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smirk as he nibbled at your pulse. “After everything I gave you?” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his cock still resting right at your entrance, heat pulsing between you. “You’re so selfish, you know that?”

His hips rolled forward just enough for the head of his cock to catch on your entrance again, making you twitch. He didn’t push in, of course he didn’t. He just stayed there, smirking.

“All those pretty sounds you made,” he whispered, trailing his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider. “All those orgasms I handed to you…”

He nipped at your jaw, gentle but firm.

“And now you want to rest?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your skin. “After laying there, whining, taking everything like a needy little pillow princess?”

His fingers found your clit again, drawing slow, torturous circles, just light enough to make your whole body jolt, overstimulated and aching.

“You should say thank you, pretty,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours. “And let me take care of you, hm?”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your hips gave a weak jerk toward his fingers, your body betraying any protest your lips might’ve formed. You were exhausted, wrecked, even, but the way he touched you, spoke to you, looked at you… there was no way you could say no.

Your fingers curled tightly around his biceps, bracing yourself. “T… Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible, thick with embarrassment.

He chuckled, a low, condescending sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. “I didn’t know you were obedient like that,” he teased, voice dripping with mockery.

And before you could even fire back, before you could think, he drove into you with a sharp, hard thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, a startled gasp slipping out as your body clenched around him instantly, your walls molding to every inch, the sudden stretch stealing whatever witty comeback you had.

His moan was downright pornographic and it had you clenching around him nonstop. The way he throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, made it obvious he was in heaven, or at least somewhere damn close.

He started to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that let you feel every single inch of him. And fuck, he was savoring it. Savoring the way your slick, gummy walls pulled him in greedily, clenching and fluttering like your body didn’t want to let him go.

But his slow, gentle thrusts didn’t last long, his hands clamped down on your hips, fingers digging in with an almost bruising grip as he picked up the pace. His thrusts turned rough, relentless, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to rock your body up the bed with each movement, as he pounded your already sensitive, abused pussy.

Slick, wet slaps echoed through the room, the sound of your cunt squelching obscene as he drove in deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot again and again like he knew it by heart.

“Fuck,” he moaned, voice ragged, breath catching as you clenched down on him tight. “Gimme one—fuck, baby, gimme one more.”

It wasn’t like he even needed to ask. At this point, you had no control over your body, especially not with the way he was pounding into you while his fingers pinched your clit, only to soothe it with a teasing, gentle rub right after.

Your entire body responded to him like a live wire, tension building faster than you could process. Then, without warning, a gush of wetness burst from you, soaking his lower abdomen and the sheets below as your body trembled violently, nerves on fire from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck—look at that,” he moaned, eyes wide in surprise, a slightly disbelieving smile curling on his lips. “So messy for me. So fucking good.”

You spasmed beneath him, body jerking as every muscle finally gave out, going limp all at once. He was so turned on by how completely he’d unraveled you, it took him a few seconds to even register it, until he stilled inside you, balls deep, as he spilled hot ropes of cum into your waiting cunt.

“Shit,” he hissed, breath ragged, brushing damp hair from your face and noticing how your eyes fluttered, your body still twitching softly. “You passed out?” he asked with a soft laugh as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah… I’ll take that as a thank you.”

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea.

[mooningningg]

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.

dividers by, @cafekitsune