#I don’t even know why I am posting this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ivoraic · 16 hours ago

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Stay with me (Even if it kills you)

pairing: gojo x reader | wc: 6.6k

summary: Gojo kidnaps you after he kills all the higher ups. He says it's to keep you safe. But love like this always ends in ruin.

cw: psychological horror, dead dove, kidnapping, forced pregnancy, non-con, graphic violence, dead dove, self-harm, major character death, mental deterioration. did i mention dead dove

an: MDNI. definitely a little different from what i usually post. you will probably cry while reading. i cried while writing it. read on ao3

Month 0

You wake up to silence.

The kind of silence that feels unnatural, thick and unmoving. There’s no hum of your bedroom heater, no distant city noise filtering through the window, no comfort of the world outside. Just the cold, creeping awareness of your own body, the dull ache at the base of your skull, the sluggish heaviness in your limbs, the strange pressure around your wrist.

Something isn’t right.

Your eyes flutter open. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar. Plain white, a single overhead light casting dim, yellowed shadows across the room. The air is stale, carrying the faint scent of dust, something metallic, something wrong. The space around you is small, claustrophobic. There’s a bed beneath you, a nightstand, a table close enough to reach. The walls are bare. No windows.

You try to move, but you feel a sudden resistance. The cold bite of metal against your wrist.

Your pulse spikes instantly, panic setting in. You yank your arm, and the chain rattles in response, a sharp, awful sound in the quiet. Your breath catches as you follow its path, the gleaming silver links stretching from your wrist to the leg of the low wooden table beside you.

No, no, no-

Your fingers tremble as you pull again, harder this time, but the metal doesn’t budge. The realization crashes over you in jagged, gasping pieces. It’s not a dream. Not a nightmare. Real. Real. Real.

And then you see him.

Satoru sits against the far wall.

He’s still in his uniform, the fabric stained dark in places where blood has dried. His blindfold is gone, leaving his eyes fully exposed. It’s too bright, too sharp, too unhinged against the dim room.

His hair is a mess, matted, strands sticking to his forehead where sweat and blood have dried. His chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, but there’s something off about it, like he’s still riding the high of something unspeakable.

He hasn’t moved since you woke up. Hasn’t spoken.

Just sits there. Watching.

Your breath trembles as you stare at him, words tangled in your throat.

And for a moment, you don’t understand.

For a moment, you forget the cold metal around your wrist. You don’t notice the blood staining his uniform, the eerie stillness of his body.

Because all you can think of is a memory. A summer day, long ago.

("Here, try this."

You had pressed a small candy into his palm, grinning as he eyed it with suspicion.

"What is it?" he asked, rolling it between his fingers.

"My favorite. But if you say you don’t like it, I’m never speaking to you again."

Gojo had laughed, tipping his head back dramatically. "Oh no, anything but that." He popped it into his mouth, humming as the sugary sweetness melted on his tongue. His eyes softened, his expression one of quiet delight.

"It tastes like you."

The words had left him so naturally, so effortlessly, that you had barely registered them at first. But then your face grew warm, and Gojo had grinned at your reaction, nudging you with his shoulder teasingly as the summer sun bathed you both in warmth.

"Guess I’ll have to stock up on these, huh?")

“…Satoru?” Your voice comes out weak, hoarse. You don’t know why you use his name like that, like it’s still yours to say, like things are still normal. “Where… where am I?”

His pupils are blown wide, the blue of his irises swallowed by the darkness of his dilated pupils. Not normal. Not him. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but something like the memory of one.

“You’re safe,” he says, ignoring your question.

You flinch. Your body knows something is wrong, even if your mind is still struggling to catch up. He notices the faint movement, his lips pressing together before he exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to be patient.

“I had to do it,” he murmurs, tilting his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. His hands are too still in his lap. “You get that, don’t you? The higher-ups, the elders… old bastards playing God while people like us bled for them.”

There’s something off about the way he speaks, like he’s explaining something obvious, something undeniable.

Your stomach twists. Your throat is so dry it hurts. “What did you do?”

Gojo finally looks at you again. You wish for his gaze to be directed anywhere else.

“I saved you,” he says simply.

You don’t move.

His voice drops lower, quieter, almost affectionate. “They’re gone now.”

The words settle like lead in your stomach. Gone.

Your breath stutters. “Gone…?”

You shift back instinctively, but the chain rattles again, reminding you of its presence.

His lips part, and for a moment, you think he’s about to reassure you, tell you that everything’s fine, that this is just some horrible misunderstanding.

But instead, he tilts his head, smiling faintly.

"You’re scared of me."

The words aren’t a question. He’s simply stating a fact.

Your throat tightens.

"I did this for us," he continues, voice slow, deliberate. "You don’t have to worry anymore. No one can hurt you. No one can take you from me. I took care of everything."

Gojo’s fingers brush over his uniform absently, and only then do you notice the dried blood under his nails.

"You don’t need to be scared," he murmurs.

Satoru shifts, pushing off the wall with an easy, unhurried motion. His movements are smooth, like he has all the time in the world.

You flinch as he steps forward, every slow, steady footfall ringing too loud in the quiet room. Your back presses further into the headboard, fingers curling into the sheets, but there’s nowhere to go.

He crouches in front of you, close, too close, the warmth of his presence bleeding into your skin. He tilts his head slightly, studying you the way one might observe something delicate, something fragile. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

"See?" he murmurs, reaching out. "You don’t have to cry."

His fingers graze your cheek, thumb swiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen. His touch is warm, gentle. You feel sick.

His expression softens, his lips parting like he wants to say something else.

Like he truly believes this is love.

“I lost everything,” he eventually says, almost to himself. “But I still have you.”

“You’ll understand soon.” His voice is almost sweet now, almost normal. “Just be good for me, and we’ll be happy.”

Your blood runs cold.

"Stay still," he rasps, breath hitching. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping onto your lashes. Blood smears where your bodies are joined.

It hurts. His hips jerk involuntarily, sinking another inch, and you scream.

"Fuck-" He’s gripping you so firmly, nails carving crescents into your hips. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m-" His breath hitches as your walls flutter around him weakly.

You feel him press you tighter to him as he nears his finish.

"Mine," he grunts, burying his face into your shoulder. Cum floods inside you in hot, violent spurts, his hips grinding deep to pump every drop into your quivering womb.

He collapses on top of you, dazed fingers tracing the curve of your belly, sticky with your combined mess. "...Take root. Let me feel it."

He takes you 2 more times to make sure.

Month 3

The door is unlocked.

You stare at it.

At first, you think it’s a trick. A test, a mind game, something cruel designed to break you further. It has to be. Your pulse quickens, hands twitching at your sides, instincts screaming at you to run.

But you don’t. Not yet.

The chain around your wrist had been the first to go, within the first month, when he realized you weren’t stupid enough to try anything reckless. Then, just a week ago, he had started leaving doors inside the house unlocked, granting you access to the rest of the space, as if that meant anything at all.

You remember how he had sat beside you on the bed, his voice low, almost absentminded as he toyed with the ends of your hair.

"You don’t fight me anymore."

The words had settled deep in your stomach, wrong and suffocating, bile creeping up your throat. You had stayed silent, too exhausted to recoil, too numb to pull away when his fingers traced down to the nape of your neck, pressing lightly, as if mapping something fragile beneath his touch.

"You’re so good for me now."

His hand had lingered for just a second too long before finally pulling away.

"I can trust you, right?"

You hate it. Hate him. But still, you couldn’t stay in that claustrophobic room forever. You wandered around the house many times, memorizing the layout. There wasn’t much worth noting. Nothing that could be turned into a makeshift weapon or a lockpick of any kind.

There was one door that had always remained locked. The front door.

And now it isn’t.

Your breath comes unsteady. You know better than to believe in coincidences.

There was a time you hadn’t been afraid.

(A cool autumn morning. A quiet street. The weight of Satoru’s arm slung over your shoulder as the two of you walked side by side, his steps effortlessly falling into rhythm with yours.

"If anything bad ever happens," he had said, his voice light, playful, "just call for me, okay?"

You had scoffed, nudging him with your elbow. "Oh? And what exactly would you do?"

Satoru had grinned, tossing an arm around you, pulling you in close with a casual, effortless strength. "I’d protect you, obviously."

"From what?" you had teased. "A stray cat?"

"From anything," he had said, voice so easy, so sure. "Doesn’t matter what. Just call for me, and I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.")

And back then, you had believed him.

The warmth of that moment lingers in your chest like phantom smoke.

Its cruel, really. How the memory comes to you now, when that same Satoru is the one you need protection from.

Your breathing stutters.

Your mind screams at you that this isn’t real, that this isn’t possible, that it’s a trap-

But hope is a disease. A sickness that clings to your ribs even after everything. Even now, knowing what you know, after all he’s done, a part of you still wants to believe.

The outside world shouldn’t exist anymore. There’s nothing left for you. Nothing left but him.

But what if… against all logic, against all odds, this time, he truly just forgot? What if it had slipped his mind, just this once? What if you could step forward, reach for the handle, and-

Your body moves before your mind can come up with a denial.

You step forward.

Because what else do you have left in these empty walls but the faint, desperate ache of hope?

You’re barefoot, breath held in your throat. The world tilts around you as you move as quietly as possible.

The floor creaks.

You stop immediately, heart racing, waiting for a voice behind you, for a rough hand to grab your wrist-

Nothing.

He must still be asleep. You don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.

You step forward again, slower this time. You lift a trembling hand. Your fingertips brush the handle, the metal cool against your damp skin.

The handle turns.

For a moment, you don’t move.

It feels unreal, impossible, like something that should shatter the second you dare to believe in it. The world outside is right there, just a breath away, the space beyond the door yawning open into something dark and endless. You push it open slowly, inch by inch, scared to break the moment, scared to let yourself hope.

And then, you feel it.

The air shifts.

A night breeze brushes against your skin, featherlight and cool, the first time in months you've felt anything that wasn’t him. It carries the scent of rain soaked earth, of distant asphalt, of a world that still exists beyond these walls. It smells like freedom. Like everything you had nearly forgotten.

Your throat tightens. Your knees threaten to buckle.

I could run.

You step forward, afraid it’ll disappear. A shaking hand reaches forward, the tips of your fingers barely grazing the open air. You feel it. You feel it.

There’s a presence behind you.

It’s not sound that gives him away.

Not footsteps. Not breath. Not even the rustle of fabric.

Just a feeling. Something impossible, inescapable, pressing in from all sides, curling tight around your throat before you even hear his voice.

"Going somewhere?"

The door slams shut, cutting off that cool air, along with any remaining hope you ever dared to have.

You barely have time to gasp before you’re roughly pulled back.

He moves so fast. Too fast. His arm is wrapped around your middle as he yanks you back against him, your body colliding with the solid warmth of his chest.

"You really disappoint me, you know that?" His voice is calm, almost amused.

His fingers tighten around your waist, his breath tickling your ear as he sighs.

"I thought we were making progress."

You struggle. You twist, kick, claw at his arms, but his grip doesn’t falter. If anything, it tightens, until you can barely breathe.

"Shh. Stop struggling. This is already going to be bad for you. Don't make it worse."

You can barely hear his words, heart pounding in your ears.

He drags you back, grip unyielding, and your stomach coils with primal fear.

No. No, no, no-

He throws you face first on the bed, the breath leaving your lungs in a strangled gasp. He doesn’t give you a chance to get back up, straddling you, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

"You tried to run."

Gojo exhales slowly, and his smile is almost sad.

"You’re quite stupid, aren’t you?"

Your body shakes. "Please," you choke out. "Please-"

His grip on your wrists only tightens.

"Please what?"

Your mouth opens, but no words came out.

Gojo hums, tilting his head.

"Try that again… and I’ll make sure you have no legs to run with."

You try to struggle against him as he removes your clothes, lifts your hips up. But he’s always been stronger. The strongest.

But there’s something more than that. Lately your body feels different. Heavier, unsteady, like it isn’t yours.

You claw at the sheets desperately as he forces his cock into your unprepared ass. He muffles your cries by shoving your face into the bed. It’s all too much. You can hardly breathe. Your head feels light.

“Here’s your lesson,” he’s snarling, fingers bruising your hips as he thrusts. “You don’t get to leave. You don’t get to leave me.” Blood drips down your thighs to stain the sheets below.

“Beg,” he hisses, pulling you up by your hair to meet his gaze. “Beg to live, beg to die, I don’t care-

Satoru can’t sleep.

It starts as a whisper. It’s so faint he barely notices, blending into the steady hum of his own thoughts. But then it sharpens, curling around his brain, sinking into his skin.

"You should end it."

His fingers twitch.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed of your shared bed, body hunched forward, elbows braced against his knees. His head feels wrong, like there’s something crawling just beneath his skull, eating him alive. He squeezes his eyes shut, drags his palms over his face.

The whisper doesn’t stop.

"She will never love you."

His teeth clench. His hands tremble. The air in the room is suddenly too thick, pressing down on him, suffocating. He wants it to stop.

"You’ve already lost her. This isn’t love. What a joke."

His fingers dig into his temples. Shut up shut up shut up-

The mattress creaks as he moves. Without fully knowing why, he’s reaching under it, fingers fumbling blindly until they close around something cold.

Metal.

The knife.

His last resort. His last grip on reason.

He pulls it out, stares at it, watches the way the dim light catches the blade.

And the whisper-. No. His own mind laughs at him.

"You know what you have to do, don’t you?"

He swallows, throat dry, hand tightening around the hilt.

You could end it here.

Stop this before it gets worse.

He turns his head, gaze falling to you.

You’re asleep. Curled on your side, your breathing soft and steady, face turned toward him in the faintest glow of the lantern. Even in slumber, the evidence of what he’s done is still there. Faint tear tracks, dried on your cheeks. A bruise darkening along your wrist. A sharp contrast to the peaceful rise and fall of your chest.

Satoru exhales shakily, gripping the knife with both hands.

He moves. Slowly, carefully, he kneels beside you.

He lifts the blade.

It hovers above your throat, just a breath away from your skin. His hands shake violently. He grips the handle so tightly his knuckles go white.

One motion. That’s all it would take.

One movement, and you would be free.

But would he?

His breath catches.

You shift slightly in your sleep, your face scrunching, brow furrowing as if sensing something. Even in unconsciousness, your body is still afraid.

A thousand voices crawl beneath his skin.

"Do it."

"This is mercy."

His hands tremble uncontrollably. His lungs burn. He can feel his pulse in his skull, thudding, screaming.

His arms refuse to move.

Something inside him, some desperate, clawing part of him, won’t let go.

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. The knife suddenly feels too heavy in his hands.

He lowers it.

He doesn’t put it back right away. Just sits there, kneeling beside you, staring at your sleeping face, listening to your quiet breathing.

Then, finally, he shoves the knife back under the mattress.

The whispering doesn’t stop. He ignores it.

He lies down beside you, body sinking into the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales slowly, tries to let sleep take him.

But the knife is there. Even hidden beneath the mattress, he can feel it.

It presses against his skin, cold metal, even though it shouldn’t. It lingers in his thoughts, even though he doesn’t want it to.

The weight of his conscience. The last remnants of the part of him that knew better.

Month 6

The world has started to blur around the edges.

You feel it in the way time slips through your fingers, the days bleeding into each other with nothing to mark them except the slow, aching stretch of your body, the weight of something growing inside you, the creeping sensation that this is it. This is what life has become. There is no more before. There is no after either. Only this house, these walls, and him.

Satoru seems happy.

It should unsettle you more than it does, the way he carries himself now, light and loose. You of course, don’t know how he once hovered over you with a knife, shaking from the weight of his sins.

He moves without hesitation, no longer flinching at the sound of his own name, no longer stopping to second guess his own actions. The hesitation, the doubt, the guilt (if there ever was any) is gone. The whispers that once plagued him have dulled, become easier to ignore. He barely remembers the knife that lies beneath him.

But you remember.

You feel it more than he does now, the weight of something unresolved pressing down on you, suffocating you in ways you don’t have the words to explain.

You sit at the table, staring down at a meal you don’t want. The bowl in front of you is carefully prepared, the steam curling up in soft ribbons, carrying the scent of something that should be comforting. You don’t taste it, even as you force yourself to eat, one slow bite after another. Satoru is watching you from across the table, propping his chin on his hand, his mouth curled in a quiet, satisfied smile.

"See?" he murmurs, nodding toward the bowl. "Told you I’m not useless in the kitchen."

You don’t answer right away. Your body moves on muscle memory alone, lips parting, chopsticks lifting, food pressing against your tongue before you even register it happening. There is no pleasure in eating, no sensation beyond the way your throat tightens against the effort of swallowing.

Satoru hums, pleased with your compliance. "You used to be such a picky eater," he muses, tapping his fingers lightly against the wooden table.

Something stirs at the back of your mind, a memory so distant it almost feels like it belongs to someone else.

(A winter evening. The kind where the air was crisp and heavy with the scent of street food, steam rising from crowded stalls. The golden glow of streetlights had cast soft halos around the people rushing past, their hurried footsteps blending into the distant hum of the city.

Satoru had been grinning at you over a steaming bowl of food, his chopsticks expertly gathering a bite that was soaked in sauces, stacked high with toppings, an abomination of flavors that should never have coexisted.

"You’re disgusting," you had said flatly, watching in horror as he mixed everything together into a chaotic mess.

"You’re just jealous of my sophisticated palate," he had teased, lifting a particularly overloaded bite to his lips. He had chewed with an exaggerated look of satisfaction, then paused, eyes flicking toward you, something mischievous gleaming behind them.

"Here, try some."

Your face had scrunched in horror. "Absolutely not."

But Satoru had already leaned forward, chopsticks aimed directly at your mouth, his grin widening when you had instinctively flinched back.

"C’mon, live a little."

"Gojo, no-"

"Gojo, yes-"

The chopsticks had pressed against your lips, and you had twisted away, laughing, shoving at his arm and sending food flying in the process. He had gasped, scandalized, but the way his laughter had spilled into the night had made something warm settle in your chest.)

Was any of it real?

The food on your tongue is tasteless, the moment nothing more than another act of survival. You set your chopsticks down, hands tightening into your lap, staring past the bowl, past Satoru, past everything.

"It’s good," you murmur, the words leaving you like an exhale, weightless and empty.

Satoru beams. "Told you."

He is completely unaware of the nausea twisting through your stomach.

The days pass like this, slow and unchanging, until the world outside feels like nothing more than a dream you barely remember. Satoru treats you differently now. There is no more violence, not in the way there was before. He sleeps beside you every night, arm draped over your waist, breath warm against your skin. He brings you gifts, little things meant to make the house feel more like home.

You don’t tell him that it never will be.

One afternoon, he takes you outside.

The air feels different on your skin, the sunlight kissing your face in a way that almost makes you dizzy. You wonder for just a moment. If you can make it past the porch.

If I ran now, would he kill me?

Would that be better than this?

Satoru shifts, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.

You just sit there. Still. Quiet.

You know he would never let you leave him. You have no life apart from him. The growing mass in your stomach reminds you of it every day.

Satoru stretches beside you, arms lifting in a lazy motion, tilting his face up to the sky.

"Nice out, huh?"

You don’t answer.

You barely register the warmth of his hand when it presses over your stomach, fingers curling gently over the growing swell of life inside you.

"Any name ideas?" he asks, voice light, almost teasing, as if this is something normal, something that belongs in casual conversation.

Something inside you cracks.

You let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

"It’s not going to live."

The words cut through the air, sharp and irrevocable.

Satoru tenses. His fingers twitch against your stomach, his grip tightening slightly before he exhales slowly, voice dropping into something softer.

"Don’t say things like that," he murmurs. "Of course it is."

The certainty in his tone is nauseating.

You look at him then, and for the first time, you see it clearly. The belief in his eyes, the absolute, unshakable certainty that this life he’s built around you is real, that there is a future here, that the two of you will raise this child together, and you will play the role he has carved out for you.

The weight of it is unbearable.

You don’t want to do this anymore.

You don’t want to be here.

You don’t want to exist in this house, in this life, in this body that is no longer yours.

You aren’t sure when the tears start. You aren’t sure when Satoru reaches over, brushing his fingers against your cheek, tilting your chin up with a quiet, murmured, "Shh. Don’t cry."

You wonder why it feels as though he’s holding back tears of his own.

That night, as he drifts off beside you, Satoru feels the absence of something he once held close.

Something that, a few months ago, had weighed against his back every time he lay down.

Something that had whispered to him in the dark, begged him to listen, to wake up, to realize what he was doing.

There’s no voice now. No whispering.

The knife is still under the bed.

But Satoru barely feels it anymore.

Maybe he’s almost gone, too.

Month 9

The house is quiet.

It always is, now. The world outside doesn’t exist. There is no more passing time, no change in seasons, no difference between morning and night. It’s just you and him and the rotting child inside you, a grotesque imitation of a family.

You sit on the bed, motionless, staring at nothing. The weight of your body feels heavier than ever, your limbs sluggish, your mind clouded. You barely feel real anymore. Every movement is slow, deliberate, a distant echo of someone else’s actions. You breathe because you have to. You eat because it keeps him from forcing it down your throat. You exist because he will not let you die.

Something breaks.

Maybe it’s the way he looks at you. The way his hand brushes against your belly with something disturbingly tender, something hopeful. Maybe it’s the way his voice, so light, so falsely warm, slips into idle talk about the future. The nursery. The first steps. The way he truly believes there is a tomorrow for all of you.

Maybe it’s the realization that he has won.

That there is no escaping this. That you will be here forever. That even if your body survives this birth, you will not.

The thought grips your chest like a vice, and suddenly you can’t breathe. Your pulse spikes, the air in the room too thick, pressing down on you from all angles.

(The two of you had once laid under the stars together, talking about the future. The world had felt endless then, stretching wide above you in a sea of constellations, infinite and untouched.

"What do you think we’ll be doing ten years from now?" you had asked, voice soft, curious, as you turned your head to look at him.

Satoru had been lying beside you, one arm folded beneath his head, the other lazily twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. He had hummed, long and thoughtful, as if truly considering the question.

"I don’t know what I’ll be doing," he admitted, eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. "But I know wherever I am, whatever happens," his voice softened, gaze flickering back to yours. "I’ll find my way back to you."

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. "That’s cheesy."

"Hey," he’d grinned, nudging you back, "I mean it, you know.")

You no longer recognize the man standing in front of you.

"Kill me."

A silence stretches between you, taut and trembling.

Satoru stills. His entire body goes rigid, muscles locking as if the words have reached into his chest and squeezed.

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. "What did you just say?"

You don’t hesitate this time.

"I said just kill me already-"

The slap comes before you can finish.

Your head snaps to the side, a burst of pain erupting through your skull as your cheek explodes in fire. You hear the sharp crack of it before you even register what’s happened. The force knocks you off balance, sending you half-sprawled against the mattress, your trembling fingers cradling the fresh, throbbing sting. Your lip is split, the sharp tang of blood filling your mouth.

Satoru stares down at you, breathing heavily, something wild burning behind his eyes.

"Kill you?" His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, panicky. He lets out a shaky exhale, running a hand down his face, gripping his jaw as if trying to steady himself. Then he laughs. Short, sharp, humorless. "Kill you?" His hand trembles as he gestures vaguely between you, between your stomach, his breath shuddering out of him. "And what? Leave our child without a mother? You think I’d do that? You think I’d let you leave me like that?"

The air crackles with something unstable, something desperate. His voice is breaking apart, unraveling at the edges, the last remnants of his control slipping through his fingers.

"You want to die?" His teeth grit together, his hands curling into fists. "No. No, you don’t get to die. You don’t get to do that to me. You don’t get to leave me alone. We have a family now. We have something now. Don’t you get it?" His voice fractures, barely more than a breath. "You can’t leave me."

Your body shakes as you curl into yourself, hands cradling your belly as if trying to protect the only part of you that’s still alive. Sobs wrack through you, weak and broken, spilling from your lips in quiet murmurs.

"Why…? Why me…?"

Satoru watches you crumple into yourself, his breath hitching in his throat. His pupils are blown wide, his chest heaving. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, tugging sharply as if trying to physically ground himself.

"Why you?" The laugh that escapes him is hollow, barely more than an exhale, shaking at the edges. He sways slightly, his balance off, his body betraying the panic surging through his veins. He looks at you, really looks at you, sees the dark circles under your eyes, the gauntness of your face, the sheer emptiness in your expression. He sees the wreckage of what you used to be.

He swallows thickly.

"Because… I love you. You… you loved me too. Didn’t you?"

The words taste like ash. The scorched remains of a love that’s long gone.

He staggers forward, falling to his knees before you, hands reaching out but not touching. His fingers hover over your face, then your stomach, trembling as if he’s afraid that if he presses too hard, you’ll shatter completely.

"You should’ve died with the others," he whispers, voice barely above a breath. "I should’ve let you. I should’ve-"

His voice cracks. His whole body trembles as he finally collapses. His arms wrap around you, dragging you forward until your face is crushed against his chest, his nose buried in your hair. His grip is suffocating, too tight, too desperate, rocking you both as he lets out a choked sob.

"I can’t." The words come out strangled, broken. "If you die…, what will I…?"

There’s nothing left of his strength now, nothing left of the careful, artificial control he had been maintaining. His body trembles against yours, his breath uneven, his fingers digging into your back like you might slip through them if he lets go for even a second.

He stays there for a long time. He doesn’t speak, just holds you, his forehead pressing against the crown of your head, his breath coming in sharp, uneven exhales.

You can feel his reverse cursed energy mending your split lip with clumsy, frantic precision.

He tucks you into bed, smoothing the blanket over you with careful, deliberate hands. You’re unresponsive, your body still trembling slightly even as exhaustion weighs down your limbs. He thinks you’ve fallen asleep.

Maybe you have. Maybe you haven’t.

Satoru kneels beside the bed, resting his chin against the mattress, his eyes fixed on the soft rise and fall of your stomach beneath the blanket. His fingers twitch, reaching out, then retracting, hovering uselessly in the space between you.

"Tomorrow…" he murmurs, hesitating, voice thick, breath catching slightly. He swallows hard, his gaze lingering on your belly, his expression unreadable.

"…I’ll get you that candy. The sweet ones you…"

His sentence trails off. He doesn’t finish it, knowing you’re not listening.

His hands move without thinking, sliding beneath the mattress, fingers reaching for something cold, something solid-

Nothing.

His brows furrow slightly. He reaches again, searching, feeling for the familiar weight of metal, but there is nothing.

The knife is gone.

His breath stutters. A strange, hollow sensation curls in his chest, spreading through his limbs, something unidentifiable gnawing at the back of his mind.

Was there ever a knife to begin with?

He doesn’t know anymore.

He’s too tired to care.

Tomorrow. (Was it so wrong?)

Tomorrow, he’ll come back with the candy, and apologize. (Satoru Gojo, born to live and die as nothing more than a weapon.)

Tomorrow, everything will be okay. (Was it so wrong for him to cling on to the one thing, the one person who made him feel human?)

Tomorrow-

But there is no tomorrow.

Not for you. Not for him. This was always how it was going to end, wasn’t it?

It’s a beautiful spring day. Trees rustle softly, cicadas hum in the distance, the warmth of afternoon sunlight spills golden across the floorboards.

Satoru doesn’t notice any of it.

His attention is on the plastic bag in his hand, fingers curled loosely around it, the weight of its contents feeling heavier than it should. He turns it absently, peering through the translucent sheen at the colorful wrappers inside. It had taken him nearly an hour to find them, scouring shop after shop, fingers drumming against his thigh, voice tight as he repeated the name to each store clerk.

And now he has them.

It would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

He opens the door.

The bag slips from his grasp before he even realizes it.

He’s greeted by the sight of your hanging corpse, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light.

His body locks, every muscle seizing, his breath stolen clean from his lungs. The world narrows to a single, suffocating point. You, swaying ever so slightly, the fabric rope taut around your throat, your feet dangling lifelessly above the floor. The air shifts with your movement, a gentle, almost imperceptible motion, like the house itself is breathing.

His eyes catch the raw, bloody crescents on your fingertips, the dried streaks beneath your nails where you had clawed at the rope in those final frantic seconds. Pieces of your clothing are torn, tattered pieces missing from the hem, now knotted above you, tied together in a noose.

The bag of candy hits the floor.

The rustling sound is deafening in the silence.

"No."

His vision fractures, the edges of the room twisting, warping, wrong. His legs move before he can even think, a sharp stumble forward, fingers reaching for you, pulling you down-

Your body collapses into his arms, cold, limp, gone.

His Infinity flickers violently, crackling like a dying flame, his cursed energy reacting to his unraveling mind. He grips you tighter, cradling your weight against his chest, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. Your head lolls, lifeless, against his shoulder. Your eyes, half-lidded, stare up at the ceiling, unfocused, unseeing.

You look so peaceful.

It isn’t fair.

A choked sob catches in his throat as he lowers you onto the ground, his hands moving in frantic motions. His cursed energy surges, bright and erratic, spilling from his fingertips as he presses them to your chest, trying to force life back into you.

"Come back." The words shake, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Come back, you selfish bitch! You don’t get to-"

The baby kicked.

His entire body seizes.

His wide, trembling gaze drops to your stomach. His eyes lock onto the movement, the subtle shift beneath the curve of your belly, the tiny drag of a foot against your skin.

Still alive.

His hands move without thought, tearing fabric aside, pressing against your stomach as if he can somehow hold onto that last, flickering sign of life. His breath hitches, a noise trapped between a sob and a laugh, his mind spinning, fracturing, trying to grasp at something, anything-

Something inside him snaps, utterly and completely, as he stumbles back, collapsing beside the mattress. His fingers twitch as they move beneath it, reaching, searching.

The knife is there.

The metal handle is cool, the weight familiar. He grips it tightly, his chest heaving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His mind is eerily blank as he turns back to you, to your still form, to the stomach that still holds something alive.

He knows what he has to do.

The blade sinks in.

The room fills with the wet, slick sound of flesh parting, of muscle and tissue yielding beneath sharp steel. Blood sprays, painting his arms, his chest, pooling on the ground beneath you. He barely notices. His hands move with surgical precision, parting skin, slipping into warmth, searching.

And then, a cry.

Thin, sharp, alive.

His breath shudders as he lifts the infant into his arms, the tiny body slick with blood and fluid, so small, skin still flushed and new. The baby writhes in his grasp, fragile and helpless, its cries cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the room.

He clutches it to his chest, his own body wracked with trembling sobs, pressing his bloodied lips against its damp forehead, rocking back and forth. His arms curl protectively around the tiny, screaming form, his breath coming in harsh, broken gasps.

"Shh. Shh, it’s okay," he whispers, voice raw, shaking. "I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re okay. We’re okay."

The words are senseless. A lie even he doesn’t believe.

His gaze flickers to the side, to you, still sprawled lifelessly where he left you, eyes dull, empty, never to open again.

It trails a little farther, to the bag of candy.

It sits where it fell, candy spilling out on the floor. Blood is streaked all over the wrappers, staining them red.

His throat tightens violently, his grip on the child trembling as something cold washes over him, the final, crushing realization settling in like an avalanche.

He ruined you.

He ruined everything.

His gaze lowers back to the baby in his arms. The tiny chest rising and falling. The delicate fingers curling, uncurling.

His own fingers tighten around the knife.

The steel glints in the dim light, poised over the baby’s throat.

He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to its hair, eyes fluttering closed.

"We’ll follow her," he whispers, breath warm against fragile skin. His fingers press tighter, the blade steady, certain.

"Together."

thank you for reading to the end. let’s cry together 😭☹️ the knife was symbolism for his last remaining sense of rationality, and the candy symbolic of her innocence. i was lowkey tweaking out while writing this

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x y/n #gojou satoru x you #dead dove do not eat #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #yandere jjk #yandere gojo #forced relationship #tw:noncon #dark content #yandere

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sturniololuvz · 3 days ago

Note

Can you do smth where Chris and reader’s relationship is private (family knows just not social media) and in the most recent video you can see Chris touching readers hips and lower back, in the view of the camera and nick didn’t notice while editing it.

yesss! and somebody put to stop tagging smut #’s on my post with a child reader , and thank uu for saying that bc i wasn’t even looking at the tags i just put anything that said sturniolo on it😭 so sorry again .

“Caught on Camera”

Chris Sturniolo x y/n

Warnings : none

Chris and Y/N had been together for months now, but no one outside their close circle knew. Their relationship was something they wanted to keep just for themselves—no internet, no fan speculation, just them. Matt and Nick were in on it, of course, but the rest of the world? Completely clueless.

That’s why neither of them thought twice when they filmed their latest YouTube video—a casual Q&A while sitting around in the living room, laughing and joking like always. Chris, as always, found excuses to be near Y/N, whether it was leaning into her when he laughed or resting his arm behind her on the couch. It was second nature at this point.

A few days later, Nick edited the video like usual, chopping out dead space and lining up the cuts. He didn’t overanalyze the footage—he had done this a million times. Once he was done, he uploaded it, and they all went about their day.

Then, the comments started rolling in.

“Did anyone else notice Chris’s hand on Y/N’s hip at 12:42???”

“Wait, am I crazy or is Chris HELLA touchy with Y/N in this video? 👀”

“Guys, go to 15:10. HIS HAND. HIS HAND.”

Chris was scrolling on his phone when he saw the comments. His stomach dropped. “Oh, shit.”

Y/N, sitting beside him, furrowed her brows. “What?”

He turned his phone to show her. The comment section was flooded with people analyzing their every move. Fans were rewatching the video, timestamping moments where Chris had absentmindedly placed his hand on Y/N’s lower back or rested it on her hip while shifting positions. It wasn’t even that obvious—at least, he didn’t think so—but the fans had noticed.

Before Y/N could react, Nick walked into the room, phone in hand. “Bro, are you seeing these comments?”

Chris sighed. “Yeah.”

Matt trailed in behind Nick, looking amused. “How did you not notice this when you edited the video?”

Nick groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Dude, I was just cutting clips, not analyzing where your hands were the whole time. My bad.”

Y/N was trying not to laugh at how worked up Chris looked. “It’s not that bad,” she said, nudging him. “People are just speculating. We don’t have to say anything.”

Chris exhaled, nodding. “Yeah, I guess.”

Nick smirked. “Or you could just admit it and save me from having to edit around your hand placement every time we film.”

Chris threw a pillow at him, making everyone burst into laughter.

“Guess we’ll just be more careful next time,” Y/N said, smiling up at Chris.

Chris shrugged, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Or not.”

And with that, their little secret was safe—at least for now.

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo series

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simply-mei · 3 days ago

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timebomb

am i the only one who doesn't like timebomb? i mean theres nothing wrong with liking the ship i obviously wouldn't judge others for having a different opinion than me, but lots of things about the ship just doesn’t sit right with me personally.

like for example ekko was in the au for only two days (he showed up two days before his au self was supposed to show off his project and left the night before which means he was only there for two days) yet in those two days he managed to fall in love with someone who tried to kill him and has killed many of his friends multiple times? i get that he had an obvious cute little crush on her when they were kids (if you pay attention it was pretty obvious and also kinda cute) but that wasn't long lived because she literally switched sides after that and for the next 8 years they weren't in contact (not much contact other than her trying to kill him or/and his friends anyways) like idk about anyone else but i personally wouldn’t fall in love with the person who killed many of my loved ones let alone falling in love with that person within two days that’s just impossible. i understand that he probably still had some lingering feelings for his universe's jinx and that’s why it was so easy for him to fall in love with au powder in just two days but in my opinion it's still too rushed and unrealistic. i couldn’t even begin to imagine myself falling in love with someone who simply talked bad about me behind my back let alone someone who’s killed my loved ones and has tried to kill me too.

i like the IDEA of them like two former childhood friends turned into enemies who are lovers in a different universe and only one of them obtains the knowledge of the fact that they’re lovers in a different life, and so the only one who knows is left yearning for that kind of connection in their current universe as well??? Like that’s such a good trope. normally i’d eat it up, but the way it was portrayed messed it up for me personally, so now i’m left only liking the idea of the ship but not actually fully liking the ship itself, and i don’t think i ever will tbh.

now this is just my personal opinion i didn’t make this post as an opening for people to argue with me or try to change my mind in the comments nor did i make this post to bash anyone who likes the ship since its an overall nice trope and they’re conanly together so i dont see why i’d bash anyone who likes this ship i simply made this post to see if anyone else agrees and to just share my opinion and simply yap on MY blog cause i can do that since its MYYYY blog (say this for the sensitive people who will try to attack me)

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lemotmo · 1 day ago

Note

Ryan gave same answer to buddie question he is been giving from the moment bi buck was canon. He didn’t say in same words like Eddie is straight and buck Eddie are brothers but he did say the same in so many words like friendship between straight and queer characters is an important storyline and that’s priority than anything else

I always try to ignore interviews especially Ryan’s answers to buddie questions as what they think is not important and what the show is trying to show is important. But at this point I am not really sure if I should trust the show as Ryan is the one playing Eddie and his answer at this point of time is same and not even vague like let’s see where the script goes or I am ok with what ever the story takes. Just don’t know what to expect at this point

To be clear I am not saying Ryan is homophonic or anything, he seems like a kind person who treats everyone equally and with respect. But with all his answers in interviews, I get a feeling like he is not so much comfortable with playing a gay character (for what ever reason I don’t know and I don’t question or judge people choices as it doesn’t harm any real people).

If Eddie is still straight by 8.14 or 15, I don’t have much hope

Nonny, all do respect, but I have to ask this:

Why did you bring this to my blog? You must have seen my enthusiasm about Ryan's latest interview and how it has only strenghtened my conviction that Buddie is going canon. So why would you post this here when you already know what I'm going to tell you?

I also don't understand your reaction here. I've been in this fandom for years now and I've never been more confident that it's going canon than now. Before season 7 I never even thought Buddie would get a fighting chance.

What did you expect Ryan to say in this interview? 8b hasn't aired yet, so he can't disclose any of the upcoming storylines. He was always going to rehash some of his earlier answers from previous interviews, because what else could he possibly answer?

The inevitable Buddie question came and -once again- he had to find a way to answer it without spoiling anything. What could he possibly have said? He can't just come out and say that Buddie is going canon at this point, because it hasn't happened yet.

So he said the only thing he could say, the message that no matter who you are and who you love in life, it's important to support each other. Which is a beautiful message in itself.

He isn't saying anything else than Oliver did in his pre-biBuck days. It's the same 'trying to talk about it, but not allowed to say anything' kind of thing. 🤷‍♀️

And what about the question where Ryan was asked what advice he would give Eddie? His answer was so telling. It hinted at Eddie not being straight in such a profound way. That was basically the only thing he could say when it comes to Eddie's sexuality storyline.

The man's hands were and are tied. They have been for a long time. And no, he isn't afraid to play a gay man. How do I know this? Because he has actually played a gay man before in another project. He also talked about, on multiple times, the fact that he would be all for Buddie if the story would go there. Those are not the words of a man who doesn't want to play a gay man.

If he really wouldn't want to play a gay man, he would just state it out loud. He would say something like 'Yeah, the Buddie thing is a really fun thing. Oliver and me joke about it, but it isn't going to happen. Eddie is very straight and he will never be interested in Buck like that.' BAM! Just like that he would make it clear to everyone that he isn't willing to play that part and it isn't happening.

Now, if you want an example of an interview by someone who really doesn't want to play a gay character, but had no other choice because it was the only job he could get? Look no further and Google one of Lou Fjr's unhinged interviews where he talks about how he doesn't think it's always appropriate for two characters to make out on screen, but that rule only seems to apply to male/male relationships. He never seemed to have any issues with making out with women on screen before. 🙄

But anyway, let's not get distracted here by talking about that man and let's get back onto the subject of Ryan's interview.

I know that I probably won't be able to change your mind on this Nonny and I'm not even going to attempt it, because in all honesty? I'm tired of all the nay-saying and the inevitable spiral of fear that happens every single time when something happens in this fandom.

I don't know what you want? I've been in so many fandoms, shipping ships that NEVER became canon even though they should have. There was always subtext of course, but that's where it ended. The rest of the story we (the fandom) had to build up from scratch.

For Buddie though--

This isn't just about subtext anymore Nonny. This is fullblown TEXT! It's all there in the show, in the PR, in the interviews, in social media, in Family Fued and Jeopardy! What more could you possibly want?

If you don't believe it by now? There is nothing I can say or do to convince you, so you will just have to wait and see as the episodes air.

Tell you what though--

I predict that we will find out about Eddie's sexuality sometime before or at the very last in episode 8x15. Bold statement, I know. But I feel very confident about this. Oh and Buck? I'm willing to bet that all of his spiraling will finally lead to him realising he is in love with Eddie and this will be shown to us even sooner than Eddie's coming out.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Now excuse me while I go bask in the glory of the impending promise that is Buddie canon. 😏

#buddie #nonnies galore #ryan guzman #Ryan guzman interview #eddie diaz #At this point I feel like no matter what Ryan says #someone will misinterpret it and take it as Ryan not wanting to play a gay man #which is ridiculous since he actually played one in Papi Chulo #*sigh*#season 8b speculation #buddie speculation #Is it still called 'speculation' if you are sure about it? 🤔#I'm off to bed now #I had a long workday and writing this post tired me out

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utilitycaster · 2 days ago

Text

A couple things before I do this as I said I would here

I’ve decided it’s more effective in the long term to bring up a handful of people than everyone who’s ever been obnoxious, mostly to maintain ongoing leverage, ie, maybe if people leave me alone they can get away with their lower-key shitty behavior, and if people don’t, then they won’t.

Do not harass nor send hate to the people I've mentioned; take the high ground. Blocking, vagueing and openly going “what the fuck is wrong with that guy (gn)” however is chill, but I won’t be taking anons personally that are pile-ons on these people because that is not the point of this exercise.

Similarly I just delete anon hate or post it if I have a funny enough response for it but it won’t elicit this kind of thing for various reasons I don’t care to get into right now.

If my good opinion is important to you, really, the quickest way to lose it is to treat me expressing my own opinions on my blog as a personal attack on you. I wasn’t specifically judging you until you decided I was; now, I will ruin your day or week and I won’t feel sorry.

Now, I’m going to be honest. The reason I haven’t done this earlier despite the shit I and many others have waded through all campaign is that the vast majority of people who engage in harassment, hate, or “how dare you exist and have opinions that aren’t mine, don’t you know the world revolves around me” will then immediately make a post like this, such as the loser who led to this: (rest below the cut)

source

To be clear I do hope they get whatever presumably important medical procedure this is and I too am in opposition to transphobia on an active political level, however, if you take your own shit out on me, a random woman on the internet, I will continue to fight for what I believe to be your fundamental human rights like gender expression and healthcare but there is no right you have that prevents me from calling you a stupid thin-skinned loser and that I feel sorry for anyone who has the misfortune to love you as I suspect you’re incapable of truly returning it, and also your blorbo still sucks. This has been: if you attempt to treat me even slightly like your punching bag, I punch back.

With that in mind let’s go to the people I’m talking about today. If you're not into this, skip the cut.

I think it goes without saying that warrior/inrecovery was an embarrassing blight on this fandom and imo/dna shippers’ steadfast laxity in taking out the trash is yet another reason why this ship ain’t it chief. I’m posting all of the aliases under which they attacked me and others, but they flamed out during the Laudna addiction metaphor and hopefully got help, though as you can see their blog for the past like, decade, is them attacking people over femslash ships, so idk if it’s gonna stick, pals. Anyway, they have a distinctive style so hopefully if they ever rear their ugly head again I’ll be able to get and post an IP address. I did have some suspicions about Tulsa OK but they are not sufficiently founded. Anyway: you can also find them under tlb/wc (they use that one to make death threats); thatguy/10592; clearcowboy/angel; screechingalpha/nightmare; and holysoul/enthusiast, all of which are still up and have the evidence as of posting

Honorable mention to the person who called me a hypocrite for checks notes liking callowmoore more than Imo/dna (series of asks from November 11th, 2023 in which they harassed not just me but many people who had simply interacted with my posts). I have my suspicions as to who it was [noted tar pit from Westphalia, Germany absintheheartbeat, who I also think sent this Dorym ask] but as I have no proof that’s really all there is. While we’re talking about generic tar pits disconnectedkat is a discourse blog that is just generally a piece of shit and is one of those people who clutches pearls about HOW DARE YOU TRY TO WIN AT FANDOM WITH LEFTIST CAUSES ignoring the big elephant in the room of “countless C3 fans lecturing incompetently about this being a revolutionary anticolonialist narrative and how we’re just status quo loving conservatives and then crying when we point out that they are being shitty in real life.” If you are one of those people reading this and finding yourself getting huffy, do take a look at the people mentioned throughout this and ask yourself: are you okay with them? Because if so, then your issue isn’t “it’s mean to call people stupid and attack them on a moral basis”; your issue is “it’s mean to call me stupid”, and you are part of the problem, and, moreover, I am in your walls.

Theshepardshuffle deactivated but I do want to point them out here just to note that I have in fact suffered more than Job and been more steadfast than any US Marine at the hands of imo/dna shippers for the sin of saying “this ship isn’t very good.” I’d also want to point out that they are why I started checking on people I’ve blocked. See, this is a side blog, so if you block me I cannot interact with you, but I can still see you, and our buddy shep joined tumblr, blocked me, and then posted discourse about me constantly not realizing I could literally see it (and to be clear. I know people I have blocked can see this. I hope they do.)

Anyway, the main event: let’s talk about noted racist idiot hecate astralley/wright (main blog bone/heat), to my knowledge a white American cultural Christian, seen here (archive link if they delete it) mocking someone who found Bells Hells’ behavior justifyingly reminiscent of a conquering colonialist army as their family experienced, and horrifying for it (note: this mention is made with everypigeondeserveslove’s knowledge and permission; they are well aware of this bullshit). Hecate decided it was a good time to be a truly unfeeling piece of shit about this in the service of checks notes convincing people that Bells Hells was an anticolonialist narrative. They did, to be fair, just start reading Wretched of the Earth, so they do know who they’re talking over. I mean about. They also accused me of, when I pointed out this article’s discussion of history and whether it was written by the victors, Godwin’s law, which is not really what that means (saying ‘this phrase has its origins in a lot of hateful groups who used it to evade their responsibility in historical events, and also even if history is written by the victors, that doesn’t mean every alternate viewpoint is automatically wrong’ is simply factual), then turned around and claimed, in a truly stunningly insolent case of putting words in someone’s mouths, that criticism of Imogen and Laudna on the basis of their unkind actions was akin to calling them degenerates (archive)to the point that people were confused. This is an ongoing pattern with that circle; you’ll see it with cringefae/compilation too of just. Making shit up.

What you need to know about them is in the end they’re mostly just a hypocrite and a loser. They’re really into 9/11 jokes, which to be clear I’m not personally squeamish about, but I also don’t go around screaming about how cruel the fandom is to Aeor, a city that is entirely pretend, while joking about real-life civilian deaths. Absolutely terminal case of caring more about pretend people than real ones. As for the idiot part, interesting to claim at one point that Orym would be saved by the Wild Mother and should, and this is a direct quote from someone who, again, is only now reading the first book listed the “Notable Theoreticians And Theories” list on the Postcolonialism wikipedia page, that he should “read theory” and then claim to have Gotten It From Hearthdell after spending much of the intervening time, as discussed, arguing for the deaths of the gods. In fact, I recommend looking back through their blog in depth for a combination of tiktok-brained politics, an utter lack of empathy, and Consistently Getting It Wrong And Lying And Pretending They Didn’t.

Second person is cringefae/compilation. When they’re not throwing tantrums interspersed with gifs of the pink My Little Pony, or throwing different tantrums about Kipperlily Copperkettle, or throwing different tantrums about Essek and Verin Thelyss existing within the narrative, you can find them throwing tantrums about how everyone but them is a bigot, often in the main tag. This has been commented on by the general fandom, and it is notable that even others in their circle often won’t touch their vent posts (also many of said posts directly attack others in their circle, which is funny to me). Now I’ll just keep it very basic: I think what’s going on is that cringefae does not think they are a very good person, deep down, but is trying to project an image of being a very good person, and so they have decided that people in the fandom, of which I was public enemy number one before they seemingly discovered the native text block function, are the Real Bad People, and don’t seem to have the ability to process. Now the thing about cringefae is that if you dislike a character OR like but would enjoy them experiencing some fictional horrors and that character is not Essek Thelyss; the Briarwoods; a character I personally like such as Fjord when they are on the warpath (they actually seem to personally really like Fjord and I think high key hate that I like him because they have basically no consistent identity other than contrarianism; they do not seem to like anything, really, other than possibly the pink My Little Pony); or a white cis straight man that they do not headcanon as not that, then they will call you a bigot. Now: you may notice, with a quick perusal of their blog, that they believe Ludinus Da’leth to be a racist who started a race war, which would imply Essek Thelyss is nonwhite, but they have definitely argued against this as well, and recently argued both in favor of Ludinus having a redemption arc and also that they don’t believe in zero-effort redemption arcs, because again, there is zero logical coherence other than attacking people they don’t like for whatever reason. I don’t even have links; just scroll down their blog for a few minutes and you’ll get the vibe (bad). They too have a tendency to make up a guy and get mad at that guy (and have to clarify they're just making shit up in the notes); possibly to assume the worst of the fandom in order to feel better about themself. And whereas I think astralley/wright might know deep down they're attacking real people to defend pretend people and hoping no one will notice and call them on it, cringefae seems to be genuinely too stupid to understand the concept of "it can be interesting for a story to be tragic." They also tend to frequently insult the positions of people in their circle and conflate everything they don't like into one person; again, horse-immorality (deactivated) was one of the loudest "bor'dor is a dog" people and cringefae liked them and now is like IT'S SUPER RACIST TO SAY BOR'DOR WAS A DOG because again, it's not about any position, it's just about finding some arbitrary scapegoat and attacking them so that you can feel righteous, and in doing so, they become a cesspit of a person.

I think the kindest thing you could say about cringefae is that in their incoherence it all kind of cancels out, and absolutely no one really seems to take them seriously. They seem entirely unaware of the concept of crying wolf and how maybe if you say that a woman who checks notes happens to openly prefer the canon art of Jester, Yasha, and Imogen to fan redesigns, canon art that was checks notes designed by women and checks notes drawn by women is a “soft MRA” you might be wildly irresponsible in your accusations to the point of eroding an ability in the fandom to actually point out misogynistic views (also, hanging out with astrall/eywright does kind of fuck your image as caring about the oppressed). It’s accusations as a tool against the people they’ve decided are The Bad Ones. And really that’s the thing. I know we’re all online here, this is explicitly my fandom sideblog and I try to keep it light on politics not because they’re not vitally important but because I do see Tumblr largely as an escape and not as a news source, but I would bet good money this is someone who doesn’t like, do anything other than post. Anyway, just kind of a stream of nonstop constantly shifting incoherent bile worth a block. One of those cases where you're like "have people...just put up with this person in their fandom spaces forever? why? don't fandoms deserve to not have a missing stair like this?"

#cr discourse

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bewwy1455 · 2 days ago

Text

When they first meet, they are both running.

Running. That was all that she was good at. Running away from all of her problems, her fears, her dreams. Running was just easier than facing whatever was chasing her. From the small body in her arms, to the sounds of yells from the distance, to even the warmth of a fire, she never stopped.

She never stayed in one place for long. She never stayed with other people for long either. Somehow, someway, she was always running. Maybe that was her curse.

She heard about the stories of a blue hedgehog who also never stopped running. Who would save people, who was just as much of a hero as he was a mystery. She didn’t know his name, but she knew he was the reason it was like this here.

“Grab it!” They yelled. “Don’t let it get away!” They would say. Hands reaching out to grab her arms and legs, to take her to the darkness where they hide.

It. That’s what they called her. She wanted to pretend that she didn’t know why they would call her that, but she did know. She was foreign to them. The creatures, humans as she knows, of this world despise anything that they didn’t know. It was part of their nature. Fear what they don’t understand.

Running, running, running, she never stopped. Even as she pulled out the ring from her pouch, even as she whispered, begged for a safe place on this planet, even as she ran through and she was falling. Yes, even then, she didn’t stop running.

He didn’t understand why he ran, or did run. Perhaps he was running right now. Though not physically. He worked his body, his brain, his heart, everything to make sure he did not think about what it all meant. The moments when the Doctor was still around that haunt his body and soul.

Even when he cleaned the place, trashed the old stuff, ran from the thought of cleaning what the Doctor last left, he found the place just reminded him.

The moments where the Doctor was open, his heart on his sleeve. When it was just him and the Doctor, watching stupid Tele-novelas and drinking coffee. When it was just them, nothing else mattered.

Now, nothing matters. The Doctor died, blowing up in space and leaving him. The words still echo through his head.

“Stone, you were more than a sycophant to me. You were... a syco-friend. I'll miss your lattes with steamed Austrian goat milk... I love the way you make them!”

The words, and their meaning was not lost on him. “I’ll miss you” and “I love you” ring the loudest, like bells. And from those chimes, he ran.

Why. Why did the Doctor have to die and his last announcement be that, a confession that came far too late. A question he ran from, every time it came to him.

Lost in thought, clicking away at the screens in front of him, the telltale sound of a ring opening sounded behind him. Followed soon after was a clunk and a thud. Sending a Badnik to scan, he found that what had fallen was alive, and conscious. Turning around and walking over, he found himself looking down at a small, pink hedgehog.

————————————————————————

This is not beta read at all and done on my phones notes app rip

Also, Amy is in her “I am still learning how to design her” phase, so please be patient with her appearance in a few posts

#stobotnik #my art #my writing #agent stone #amy rose #The Garden of Stone and Roses #The One(s) You Left Behind #stobotnik is heavily implied #but the doctor is also very much dead #and how does Stone grieve?#Working himself to death of course!

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supercap2319 · 3 days ago

Note

Peter meets the grandson/great grandson of Steve who exists from Endgame's time travel shenanigans. He's short and skinny like pre serum Steve but he has all his post serum physical capabilities.

Legacy:

Peter Parker had seen some weird stuff in his life. He’d fought aliens, been dusted by magical stones, and even dealt with alternate versions of himself. But this? This was new.

The kid in front of him—James, he’d said—looked like he had walked straight out of a history book. He was short and wiry, barely over five-foot-four, with a frame so thin Peter was sure he could see his ribs through his shirt. His face, though? It was almost unsettling. The resemblance to pre-serum Steve Rogers was uncanny, down to the sharp jawline, the determined blue eyes, and the slightly-too-big ears.

But then James moved.

One moment, he was standing still. The next, he had leapt six feet straight into the air, catching a frisbee mid-flight before landing effortlessly. A group of kids in the park cheered. Peter just stood there, staring.

“Okay. You’re gonna have to explain that,” Peter said, pointing at him.

James grinned, the kind of cocky-yet-good-natured smile Peter had only ever seen on one other person. “What, the jump? Not bad, right?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Not bad? That was a Steve Rogers kind of jump. You’re what, a super-soldier? Some kind of… enhanced experiment?”

James snorted. “Not exactly. It’s kinda complicated.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little nervous. “Look, I don’t really tell a lot of people this, but… my great-grandfather was Steve Rogers.”

Peter blinked. “Wait. What?”

James sighed, sitting down on a nearby bench. “Yeah. I know it doesn’t make sense. But, uh… turns out, when Cap went back in time to be with Peggy, things got a little… messy. Long story short, he stuck around, lived a full life, had a family, and, well… here I am.”

Peter sat down next to him, trying to process that information. “Okay. That’s a lot. But that still doesn’t explain this.” He gestured to James’ entire body. “You’re, like, a short super soldier. No offense.”

James laughed. “None taken. And yeah, that’s the weird part. I don’t have the bulk, but I’ve got everything else. Strength, speed, reflexes, even the healing factor. It’s like I inherited the serum… just not the height.”

Peter rubbed his temples. “So let me get this straight. You’re the great-grandson of Captain America, but instead of looking like a blond Superman, you got all of his abilities in a tiny Steve package?”

James grinned. “Pretty much.”

Peter exhaled sharply. “God, I love and hate time travel.”

James chuckled. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Peter shook his head. “Okay, one more question—why are you telling me this?”

James shrugged. “Figured if anyone would get how weird legacies can be, it’d be you.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. But then he found himself smiling. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I would.”

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #peter parker #peter parker x male reader #tom holland #Tom Holland x male reader #spiderman comics #Spiderman x male reader

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brain4stew · 1 day ago

Note

Uhm. Hear me out.

Hcs or whatever you want to write on forsaken characters and gamer reader. Like a reader who’s played forsaken and just ended up in an isekai type situation, so they just have to deal with knowing everything and every character.

I CANNOT WITH ISEAKI THINGS. I AM SO SORRY ANON!

But I can try… 💔💔

(Again, I do not know the characters exact personalities and so on, so they might, if not most likely will be OOC!!)

That being said, headcanons/something is under the cut!! ;

(For the sake of this post, you’ll be a survivor, for let’s be honest. I don’t think anyone would have the qualifications to be a killer. Especially when there’s someone with a gun, a sword, a whole ass turret, and a mf ex-military man on the survivor side. You’d end up dead right away.)

• You have become ADDICTED to the game forsaken on Roblox. You even know most of the lore, and the characters. (Hell, even the upcoming characters too!)

• You’ve come home one day from school/work, and just want to relax and have some fun playing forsaken.

• …You didn’t expect to be fucking transported there. WHY ARE YOU IN FORSAKEN OF ALL GAMES?!

• Unfortunately for you, you cannot respawn back into the lobbies as the other survivors. Sooo… You might be cooked….

• Every survivor was confused, weary and on edge. Where’d you come from? Who are you? What are you? Are you friendly or not? Can they trust you?

• Whenever there is a round, you can maneuver over objects and things, such as; windows, broken walls, and stuff and things you can climb. The other survivors can’t, unfortunately, neither can the killers.

• The killers find you annoying, especially 1x1x1x1. You actually infuriate him to the point he almost gives up being a killer. (He’s just being petty is all.)

• You, knowing that Elliot can’t heal himself, you wing it, and get a medkit for him. Just so he can survive and heal himself up, as he can’t heal himself.

• You once, accidentally got flung on top of a wall, due to John Doe’s spikes. Which, he actually felt guilty off. (You were fucking terrified because of that.)

• Surprisingly enough, Jason can tell that you aren’t any normal robloxian. So, you’re safe from him at least.

• C00lkidd, finds you both annoying and fun! You can run way better than the other survivors, without conserving your stamina! (You do need to conserve your stamina still, otherwise it’ll be a pain for your lungs… And legs…)

• The survivors, are unsure about you, but, Builderman, Shedletsky and 007n7 trust you, as they also noticed you aren’t like them. (Robloxians.)

• Builderman and Shedletsky stay by you, surprisingly. They don’t want the only survivor, that is an actual human, and not a robloxian, just… Die.

• Unfortunately, being in forsaken, will most likely be your downfall. Really.

#roblox forsaken x reader #forsaken roblox x reader #forsaken x reader

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bitchinbarzal · 19 hours ago

Text

Offside | M Boldy & B Faber

summary: both matt and brock are fighting for your attention. and fighting eachother.

Being friends with professional hockey players had its perks— free tickets, post-game dinners, and inside jokes you didn’t always understand but laughed at anyway. But it also had its complications, especially when two of them, two of your closest friends started seeing you as more than just a friend.

You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to boil over.

Now it felt impossible to ignore.

Both of them were great in their own ways. Matt was electric — always making you laugh, always the first to text you something dumb just to brighten your day. He had this effortless confidence, the kind that made you feel special whenever he turned that charm on you.

Brock, on the other hand, was steady. He wasn’t flashy, didn’t demand attention the way Matt did, but he made you feel safe. His presence was grounding, his patience endless. He had this quiet way of making you feel like you mattered, even when he wasn’t saying much at all.

And somehow, without you realizing it, they had both started competing for your attention.

It started with Matt, really.

He was always the one dragging you into things—random road trips, last-minute coffee runs, late-night FaceTime calls just because he was bored.

“C’mon, it’s not even that far” he said one evening, nudging your knee under the table at dinner.

You arched a brow “Matt, it’s two hours away”

“Yeah, but they have the best donuts in the state. And we need a road trip playlist. And maybe a stop at that little bookstore you like”

Your lips twitched “You don’t even read”

“I could” he defended, leaning back in his chair “For you, I might become a whole book guy”

Brock, sitting across from you, scoffed lightly “You don’t even read the lineup dude”

Matt shot him a look.

You laughed, shaking your head. It was always easy with Matt, always light. And maybe that was why you leaned into it — because it felt good, effortless.

But then Brock would do something small, something that made you pause.

Brock was more subtle.

He never fought for your attention the way Matt did, never tried to steal the spotlight. But he was there. Always.

Like when you mentioned your car had been making a weird noise, and the next morning, Brock was outside your apartment, sleeves rolled up, inspecting the engine.

“Brock” You blinked at him, stepping outside in your slippers “Did I—did I ask you to come look at it?”

He didn’t even look up, just shrugged “No. But I figured I’d check it out before you end up stranded somewhere”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

It was that kind of thing, over and over. Little gestures, quiet moments.

Matt made your heart race. Brock made it feel safe.

And maybe that was why you didn’t see the storm brewing between them.

It started subtly.

Matt cracking jokes at Brock’s expense, chirping him more than usual. Brock getting under Matt’s skin in practice, chirping back, which he rarely did.

Then, one day after a game, it escalated.

“Need a ride home?” Matt asked as you walked out of the arena, tucking your hands into your coat pockets.

Before you could answer, Brock was suddenly beside you “I got her”

Matt scoffed, stepping closer “Seriously?”

You blinked between them “Guys—”

“You always do this” Matt muttered, jaw tightening.

Brock’s brows furrowed “Do what?”

“Act like you’re just her friend, but then you pull this shit every time I try to—” Matt cut himself off, exhaling sharply.

Brock’s expression darkened “Maybe because I actually am her friend”

You inhaled sharply “Stop”

Both of them turned to you, frustration evident.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not a prize to be fought over” Your voice shook slightly “I care about both of you, and I hate this”

Neither of them spoke, and after a long, heavy silence, you turned and walked away to find Jake and Nat to give you a ride.

It bled onto the ice.

Missed passes, tension on the bench, plays that should’ve worked but didn’t because they weren’t on the same page.

It was Rossi who finally said something.

“What the hell is up with you two?” he asked after a particularly bad practice.

Matt muttered something under his breath, and Brock shot him a glare.

Then Spurge stepped in “Figure it out” His voice was quiet but firm “Or I will”

But they didn’t figure it out.

Not until it came to blows.

You weren’t there, but you heard about it—how an argument in the locker room turned into a shoving match, how Jake had to step in before it got worse.

You got a text from Kirill later.

Kirill: your boys are dumb.

You sighed, tossing your phone onto the couch.

It was time to make a choice.

Brock showed up first.

He stood in your doorway, looking almost nervous.

“I don’t want this to be a competition” he admitted.

You swallowed “Then what do you want?”

He exhaled, his gaze steady “I want you” A pause “Not because I need to win. Not because of Matt. Just because I care about you”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer, voice softer “I know Matt makes you happy. I know I probably didn’t make this easy for you. But if you choose me—” He swallowed “It’s real. It’s not about proving something”

Tears pricked at your eyes.

Because Brock had always been steady, always been someone you could count on.

And when you took a step closer, closing the space between you, he let out a slow, relieved breath—like maybe he had been holding it in this whole time.

You kissed him, and it felt like home.

And for the first time in a long time, everything made sense.

#brock faber imagine #brock faber x reader #matt boldy x reader #matt boldy imagine #nhl imagine

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jungkoode · 2 days ago

Text

OFF-LABELS | O3

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: Hoseok being a menace with medical terminology, innocent (but absolutely calculated) comments about oral muscle endurance, subtext so thick it's suffocating, plausible deniability at an elite level, flustered reader, casual intimacy that feels dangerous, and dinner table tension that might actually kill you.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.2k

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT | PREVIOUS

→ A/N: Listen. I don't know what is wrong with me. I sat down to write something normal, and then suddenly I was researching orofacial muscle fatigue like a lunatic. WHY is this man like this? Why does he say things so kindly while ruining your life? Why is he explaining anatomy while looking directly at you like that? Anyway. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever choked on their food while someone smiled at them way too nicely.

PLAYLIST

It starts in the kitchen.

Which is unfortunate, because the kitchen is small. And there are only so many places to stand before proximity becomes a problem.

You’re hyperaware of it—the space (limited), the air (too warm), him (entirely too close). But it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re just making tea, and he’s just existing, leaning against the counter like this is his apartment instead of your brother’s. Like he belongs here. Like his presence isn’t making it impossible for you to function like a normal person.

(He’s not even doing anything. Which somehow makes it worse.)

“I didn’t know you liked green tea.” His voice is easy, just conversational. Not a trap. Probably.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. “Yeah. I mean—I do. It’s good. Antioxidants and stuff.”

Brilliant. Truly stunning commentary.

Hoseok just hums, and you hear the soft clink of his rings against his glass as he lifts it to his lips. He’s drinking water, which seems unfair. Water is neutral. Water doesn’t require decisions. Meanwhile, you’re standing here, internally debating whether you’re taking too long to steep this tea, if leaving the bag in too long will make you seem weird, if—

“Relax, Chip.”

The words are casual. Just a little offhanded throwaway of a comment. But it lands like a dropped match, tiny but catastrophic.

You blink. Slowly. “What?”

Hoseok sets his glass down with a soft thud and turns to you fully, eyebrows lifted in lazy amusement. “You’re overthinking your tea.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a thing people do—casually observe someone else’s entire internal meltdown and name it out loud.

Which, to be fair, is exactly what he’s doing.

Your ears feel hot. “I am not.”

“You are.”

He’s enjoying this. You can tell. It’s in the corner of his mouth, the hint of a smile he’s barely holding back. Not mean—just knowing.

And then it clicks. The name.

Chip.

“Wait,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Did you just call me—”

His grin sharpens, eyes flashing with something teasing, but infuriatingly innocent. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Chip. Short for chipmunk.”

You stare at him. Your brain scrambles for a response and comes up with absolutely nothing.

He keeps going, undeterred. “You do this thing when you’re overthinking—” He gestures vaguely at your face, at you. “Your cheeks puff up. Just a little.”

Absolutely not. That does not happen.

Except—you know exactly what he’s talking about.

Which means he’s noticed.

You turn back to your tea, because looking at him feels impossible. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” he says again, softer this time. Almost amused.

You risk a glance at him. He’s watching you, expression easy, mouth still curled slightly at the edges.

It’s not a big deal.

It’s just a nickname.

But you can feel it settling somewhere deep in your chest, warm and unwelcome, curling into the spaces he’s already managed to take up.

Chip.

You should tell him not to call you that.

You should absolutely, definitively tell him not to call you that.

But you don’t.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

That he’s just being himself—casual, playful, thoughtless in the way people like him can afford to be. That it’s just a nickname, not a calculated attack on your sanity.

And yet.

Yet.

You feel it every time he says it after that.

The first time, it’s two days later. He and your brother are in the living room, a game on in the background, when you walk by with your laptop. You aren’t even stopping—just passing through—when he glances up and says it like it’s always been your name.

“Where you off to, Chip?”

The sound of it makes you trip over your own feet. Embarrassingly. You don’t even answer, just keep walking, face burning, fully aware of the way he watches you go.

Then it happens again.

And again.

Sometimes it’s subtle, slipped in like an afterthought. “Hey, Chip, toss me that.” “You always this quiet, Chip?”

Other times it’s deliberate. Measured. Like he’s testing the weight of it, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll react.

You don’t.

You refuse.

(Which only seems to encourage him.)

And then one night, it’s just the two of you. Your brother’s in the shower, music spilling under the bathroom door, and you’re curled up on the couch, trying very hard to ignore the fact that Hoseok is sitting way too close for comfort.

His arm is slung over the back of the couch, loose and easy, and every so often, when you shift, your shoulder brushes against his.

(You should move. You should absolutely move.)

Instead, you stay where you are and pretend to be very, very interested in the show playing on the screen.

Hoseok shifts. You feel the weight of his attention before you see it.

“You don’t like it?”

You blink. “What?”

“The nickname.” His voice is low, smooth, barely above the sound of the TV. “You never say anything about it.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know what to do with him, watching you like he’s reading something written just under your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say, and it’s not convincing.

His lips twitch, but his voice stays neutral. “You sure?”

You nod, too quickly.

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the shower running down the hall, the TV filling the air with white noise.

And then—so soft you almost don’t catch it—

“Good.”

It lingers in the space between you, something light, something easy. But you feel it settle somewhere deeper. Somewhere dangerous.

Because now, you know for certain.

He’s not going to stop.

And that’s the problem. It’s a problem. Because Hoseok is nice.

He’s just nice.

He’s warm and charming in a way that isn’t practiced—it just is. The kind of person who remembers how you take your coffee after hearing it once, who laughs with his whole chest, who makes people feel like they belong.

He’s good at things, too. Competent in that effortless way that makes it infuriatingly easy to admire him. You’ve seen him fix things around your brother’s apartment without being asked, roll up his sleeves and lean under the sink like it’s nothing, like he was built for it.

(Not that you were watching. Not that you noticed the way the muscles in his forearms shift when he grips a wrench.)

The point is—this is just how he is. With everyone.

So it’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Or at least, it would be, if he’d stop saying things.

Because then, it happens at dinner.

And the reason for Hoseok being here is simple.

He’s always here for dinner.

Not every night, but often enough that it’s routine. That your parents barely bat an eye when they see him at the table, that your mom still sets an extra plate for him when she cooks, that your dad asks about his job like he’s part of the family.

Because he might as well be.

He and Caleb have been friends since his first year of university—long enough for Hoseok to be comfortable in this house, for your parents to know his favorite foods, for you to be so used to him being around that you shouldn’t be affected by it anymore.

(And yet. And yet.)

Dinner is normal.

It’s just the five of you at the table, passing dishes around, the smell of takeout filling the air. The conversation is easy, punctuated by laughter, by the scrape of chopsticks against plastic containers.

It’s nice. It’s comfortable.

Or at least—it should be.

Except your eyes keep tracking him. They always do. The way he sits—too at ease, too familiar. The way his sleeves are pushed up just enough to be distracting. The way his fingers grip his chopsticks, loose and confident, movements fluid and practiced.

(It’s stupid. It’s stupid that you’re noticing these things.)

Your dad is asking Hoseok something about work, and you force yourself to focus, desperate to ground yourself in the conversation instead of spiraling into a pit of your own making.

“How are you managing, with the residency?”

“It’s been busy,” Hoseok says, setting his chopsticks down neatly. “But good. No complaints.”

Your mom tuts. “You work too much.”

Hoseok just smiles, warm and self-effacing. “It’s not so bad.”

Your dad nods approvingly. “That’s a good mindset. A little hard work never hurt anyone.”

“And at least someone in this house is doing it,” Caleb says, nudging you lightly under the table.

You roll your eyes. “I work plenty.”

“Studying doesn’t count,” Caleb argues, because he loves to be annoying.

“It literally does.”

Your mom sighs, long-suffering. “Can we have one meal where you two don’t bicker?”

You sit back in your chair, focusing very hard on your plate, on not looking at the person sitting just to your right. The conversation flickers and tumbles around you, but you don’t register much of it.

And then—

“You should use your mouth more, Chip.”

The table goes quiet.

Your heart stops.

Your stomach plummets.

Your entire soul leaves your body, hovering somewhere above the dinner table, watching this play out like a nightmare in slow motion.

Because—because—

He didn’t mean it like that. He can’t have meant it like that. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Your dad is right there. Your mom is right there.

Hoseok is just sitting there, utterly relaxed, a picture of perfect innocence.

You’re the only one who reacts.

And that’s the problem.

Your brother—oblivious, as always—just scoffs. “I keep telling her that.”

The world tilts.

Your face burns.

Because Caleb just agreed. Like this is a normal conversation. Like this is fine.

And maybe it is fine.

Maybe you just missed something again—some context, some crucial piece of information that would make this make sense.

You frantically rewind the last few minutes, trying to figure out how this could possibly be about—

“She eats too fast,” Caleb continues, like he’s talking about the weather. “I’ve been saying it for years.”

Your entire body deflates.

Oh.

It’s nothing.

It’s just about chewing. About how you’re always the first to finish your plate, about how your brother has been calling you out for it since you were kids.

You were imagining it.

Your hands are clammy. Your heartbeat is still a mess. But you take a slow breath, trying to pull yourself back together.

You force a weak, strangled sort of laugh. “Right. That.”

Hoseok hums, tilting his head slightly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He taps his chopsticks against his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, as if genuinely weighing his next words. Then, with the kind of mild, absentminded curiosity that should not be dangerous but absolutely is, he continues—

“Oral muscles are surprisingly adaptable. With the right conditioning, they can handle prolonged exertion without fatigue.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Absolutely not.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the weight of his voice, the way the words land, the way your lungs forget how to function. You try—desperately—to convince yourself that he means nothing by it, that this is just a fun little fact, the kind of thing anyone might say in casual conversation.

(Except no one says things like that in casual conversation.)

Your parents don’t react. Your brother doesn’t even blink. They just keep eating like this is normal, like this is fine.

You, meanwhile, are staring at your plate, trying not to choke on air.

And just as you’re about to die from sheer mortification, he adds—

“For instance, brass players develop impressive endurance. Hours of embouchure control, you know?”

Embouchure control.

You think you might be having an out-of-body experience.

Because he’s not even looking at you. He’s just sitting there—calm, innocent, like he’s just making an offhand comment about music, like he’s not actively ruining your life.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s science.

(Except it’s not.)

You need to leave.

You shove your chair back, your hands shaking. “I’m—gonna grab some water.”

Hoseok watches you go. You feel it.

At the sink, you grip the counter, staring hard at the faucet as you fill your glass.

It’s fine.

It’s nothing.

You’re imagining things.

It’s Hoseok being Hoseok—friendly, completely unaware of the way his words get tangled in your head, twisted into shapes they were never meant to take.

You gulp down half the glass, hoping it might cool the heat rising under your skin.

Behind you, the conversation moves on. Your dad is talking about a trip, your mom is mentioning something about the neighbors.

Everything is fine.

But when you turn back, Hoseok is still watching you.

Not in a way anyone else would notice—not in a way your brother does, too focused on his food, or in a way your parents would think twice about—but in a way that you notice.

In a way that makes something low in your stomach twist, tight and uncertain.

And then, like he knows, like he can read the exact trajectory of your thoughts, Hoseok smiles.

Soft. Innocent.

Like he didn't do anything at all.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe

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