#I wasn’t even sure when I sat down to do this if I could even still do this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mononijikayu · 2 days ago

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multo — fushiguro megumi.

“Do I really seem that broken to you?” you asked, your voice tired, raw. “No, not at all.” he said. “You just seem like someone who’s still looking for the parts they lost.” And something about the way he said that. It was quiet. Almost all too knowing. That had made your heart twist. Because he was looking too. You could see it. And he’d been looking longer than you knew.

GENRE: alternate universe - grim reaper au;

WARNING/S: mythical beings and creatures, aged up megumi, heavy angst, romance, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, depression, memory loss, emotional distress, hurt, mourning, loneliness, pain, humor, guilt, pining, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, grief, past lives, reincarnation, character death, depiction of character death, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of panic attack, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of loneliness, grim reaper! megumi, grim reaper! reader;

WORD COUNT: 12k words

NOTE: multo being a prevalent song in the opm sphere right now, i cannot avoid it. and now here we are, a sequel to forg_tful. i think in some ways, this was bound to happen. there was so much more to tell. plus, this is an excuse to write for megumi. anyway, i hope you enjoy it!!! thanks to @areyna for beta reading for this one, as usual!!! i love you all <3

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IT WAS HARD TO DEAL WITH THIS SITUATION, EVEN IF ITS HIS NORMAL. Yet he lived a life of conundrums, after all this time. He was always precise, he liked getting things figured out.

Still, many decades having come and gone, Fushiguro Megumi was still living a life where he didn’t know what to do when it came to you. You, who was the head of the Special Cases Division in the League of Grim Reapers. His subordinate. And he hated it.

You were always there. Not just around but completely and utterly present. Wholly, extraordinarily there. You were at every cursed site. You picked up every urgent late-night call.

Every blood-soaked step he took deeper into the mess of death and decay. Clipboard in hand. Voice like frost. With eyes that saw right through him.

He couldn’t remember a time before you. He wasn’t sure there was one. It wasn’t just the work. It wasn’t even the case. It was you. It was you who consumed his mind at every little mission that needed to be dealt with. It was you whom he couldn’t help but have a glance at.

The way you tilted your head slightly when he spoke an order, like you were listening to more than his words. The way your beautiful gaze lingered just long enough to make him wonder if you knew. And in the silence of his dreams, you did.

You were always there, too. Just calmly standing in the dark. Sometimes with blood on your hands. Sometimes with your hand in his. Sometimes you were there smiling back at him. Sometimes you weren’t even looking at him. He never asked what that meant. You never offered in each and every dream. That was the game you played with him.

He hated how you moved like you were made of secrets. How you never flinched when he got angry, or cold, or tired of pretending. How you could sit across from him in silence and make it feel louder than a battlefield.

Each and every time he found himself alone, Fushiguro Megumi was certain that this would be the moment. This would be the moment he’d finally sit down, let the silence devour him, and wish, with everything in him, that it would just stop. All of it. The cases. The ghosts. The dreams. You.

He didn’t know how many times he’d had that thought, curled up in a chair long past midnight, staring at reports he couldn’t bring himself to file. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to forget you.

You who was like a ghost haunting him in each and every dream, every waking flash of memory that made his chest ache and his fists clench. And he tried.

He approached the Head Office. He went in determined, carefully filing the paperwork. Sat across from officials who asked sterile questions in sterile rooms.They called it a memory severance. It was very clean cut. It was clinical. Most of all, it was final.

But it was Gojo Satoru who stopped him. Gojo, of all people. The one who teased him relentlessly, who rarely took anything seriously. He’d gone to him thinking maybe, just maybe he'd understand what he was going through.

Yet, he did not expect the reaction he got. If anything, it was not how it was supposed to go. He remembered the way Gojo had gone unusually quiet.

And he never got quiet, he was not the type to be like that. Megumi remembered the way he took off his sunglasses like something sacred was being spoken aloud.

"You’re really gonna go through with that?” he asked, almost softly.

Megumi said nothing in reply, still looking down on the floor.

Gojo Satoru merely looked at him, sighing heavily.

This was not something that was to be taken lightly, Megumi realized.

“Does she mean that much to you?” Gojo prodded gently.

Megumi’s jaw clenched. “No. That’s the problem.”

“Lying like that can hurt your head.” Gojo tilted his head, frowning just slightly. “Hm….maybe she means too much to you.”

Megumi swallowed hard. “I just… I can’t keep living like this. Every case, every report, every night, she’s there. I’m not even sure if I feel anything real anymore, or if it’s just....something left over from before. Some kind of cosmic echo I’m not strong enough to shut out.”

Gojo leaned forward, voice dropping into something serious—an oddity from him. “You do know what happens when you go through with it, right?”

“I forget her. That’s the point.”

“No, no.” Gojo said, voice tight. “It’s more than forgetting. You’ll break the bond.”

Megumi looked up. “Bond?”

Gojo exhaled, like this was something he’d hoped he’d never have to explain. “Yeah. You didn’t notice that’s why Yuuta doesn’t remember Rika?”

“Yuuta–senpai did that?” Megumi blinked.

“There’s a reason she’s still showing up for you and why Rika doesn’t for Yuuta. There’s a reason she’s tied to your missions, to your life, to your dreams.”

He paused. Then, quietly, he sighs. “You two have something akin to something ancient, well something deep and remarkable. It’s something older than the work, older than this system, older than me—hell, older than you.”

Megumi blinked, cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck. “You’re saying this is fate?”

“I’m saying it’s a thread no one can break, other than you and her.” Gojo said, gazing direct and unblinking. “And if you cut it, that’s it. There’s no finding her again. There’s no being together again. Not in this life. Not the next.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. He felt uncomfortable with those words. It felt unnatural, for him to not see you. Not knowing you. He didn’t want to not know you, in the next life or the life after that.

He was just exhausted. Exhausted from knowing that you were in this miserable life now, just like him. He could see it in the way you handled every soul you took.

Every broken, bloody case. He knew that this was the misery of seeing you slowly slip away from everything you used to be. He knew that it was just everything that wasn't supposed to be.

You were too pure for this. Too good. And here you were, getting your hands dirty in a way that felt like poison to him.You weren’t supposed to be like this.

You were never supposed to be bound by the same fate he was. You weren’t supposed to stand next to him, cold and hollow, covered in blood and the weight of unspoken burdens.

You used to laugh. You used to live. And now, Megumi could see the shadow of that light growing fainter, as if each passing day was pulling you further away from the person he remembered. The person he couldn’t forget. The person he couldn’t stop loving.

He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to do something, anything. Just so he could stop you from becoming this creature you were never meant to be. He didn’t want you here. Not like this. Not with him. And he didn’t want to remember you this way.

But no matter how many times he tried to look away, you always found your way back into his thoughts. Into his nightmares. And he couldn’t figure out why that was. He couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

Fushiguro Megumi tried to speak. He opened his mouth, his throat tight, but the words died on his tongue. Gojo’s voice, low and firm, sliced through the silence like a razor. “You’re going to forget her, Megumi.”

Megumi froze, the weight of those words anchoring him in place. Gojo Satoru was watching him carefully, bright blue eyes behind his sunglasses unreadable, but the seriousness in his tone was unmistakable.

“I can’t stress this enough to you, kid.” Gojo continued, his voice quieter now, almost soothing, like he was trying to make it easier. “This is not a one–time thing.”

Megumi felt the air in the room grow heavier, suffocating. He knew where this was going. He knew the real and bitter truth, but hearing it from Gojo’s mouth made it real. Made it truly and horribly final.

“You’ll break the bond. Forever.” Gojo whispered.

Megumi’s breath hitched. He could feel his heart drop in his chest, heavy like lead. “Stop.”

“Once you say you want to forget,” Gojo continued, his voice a soft warning now, “she’s gone for you.”

“I said stop!”

Gojo Satoru did in fact stop talking when he asked. He felt like he was going to be sick. He felt like he was going to hyperventilate. That word was sickening. Gone. Gone like she’d never been a part of his life. Gone like he had never fallen in love with you. Gone like a thread severed — unraveling and vanishing.

He would lose you, all of you, everything of you. Not just your presence, but the connection. The history he had with you. All the lives. All the memories. Everything. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even think.

Gojo’s bright eyes softened for just a moment, like he understood. Like he knew what this was doing to him. But the damage was already done. The words were spoken. There was no taking them back.

And Megumi? He was caught between the agony of keeping you, keeping the connection, the pull, the ache in his chest and the horrifying reality that keeping you meant watching you fall further into this fate. This world. This curse.

“I don’t know if I can….I….” Megumi whispered, barely audible, to no one in particular. His voice was raw. “I don’t know if I want to forget.”

Gojo didn’t answer immediately. He just stood there, waiting. Watching. Finally, his voice was soft. “I know. I know.”

But was it? Was forgetting you really the answer? Or would it just be another lie? Another piece of him that would slip away, just like you were slipping from his reach? Would he really do this? Megumi couldn’t help but swallow the bile down his throat.

“It’s up to you, okay?” Gojo says in response to him. “I’m not here to judge you for choosing your peace of mind, if you do.”

Gojo turns to his desk and starts writing something on a small piece of paper. Megumi looks at him. Gojo pushes the paper into his space for him to take. Megumi slowly takes it. He looks at the information written on it in his boss’s neat handwriting.

“Tell Shoko I said hi. She’ll go and help you.”

Megumi looked at the paper longer than he should have.

He nodded at him absent–mindedly and began walking away.

He doesn’t know what to do.

DESPITE IT ALL, THE PAPER DIDN’T MAKE ITSELF USEFUL. Fushiguro Megumi didn’t go through with the memory severance. Not that day. Not the next. Not even on his next day off. He just couldn’t find it in himself to go and actually make the appointment.

But he couldn’t sleep after that conversation.bEvery time he closed his eyes, he saw your face again. The faint light behind your gaze, the strange sadness in your smile. And every time he woke up, the ache in his chest felt deeper. Older. Like it belonged to someone who’d already lived through this once before.

He hated it. Hated not knowing what to do. He hated how you were everywhere and nowhere all at once. And more than anything — he hated not understanding everything about this. How did you even become a grim reaper? How did you even end up here?

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t even like him, a foolish young man who decided to be unfilial and kill his father to protect his sister. You didn’t have the cold detachment most of them wore like armor. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry. You weren’t dead inside — you just looked like you’d forgotten how to be alive.

There was something off about it. Something is wrong. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like this feeling. He didn’t like where this was heading in his head. He had to know. He had to understand how you came to be here.

So, he asked.

He caught Gojo Satoru on one of his rare, quieter days seated on the rooftop of a botanical garden, bright blue eyes hidden behind tinted lenses, spinning a lollipop between his fingers. Megumi furrowed his brows.

“I have a question for you.” Megumi said, tone low.

“And good afternoon to you, kid. Seriously, you didn’t even find the time to greet your elders. Do it again.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Much better—”

“I have a question.”

“Only one?” Gojo smirked, fixing his posture. “Getting lazy.”

“I don’t care about that either.”

“Well, that’s just rude.”

“Just answer the question I’m about to ask.”

Gojo sighed. “Alright, alright. What’s it about?”

“It’s about her.” Megumi said.

Gojo’s smile faded. He turned his head, just slightly. Listening. “Okay, but—”

“How did she become a grim reaper?” Megumi asked. “She doesn’t move like someone trained for this. I know she isn’t. Her past lives prove that. She reacts before she thinks. Like it’s muscle memory….like she’s done this before, just not… here. Not like this.”

Gojo was silent for a long time. The wind brushed past them.

Finally, he said, “That’s not up to me to question.”

Megumi frowned. “You know something. You always do. You’re my boss.”

“I always know something, that’s just part of my job.” Gojo said, half–smiling again. “Doesn’t mean I’m allowed to tell you.”

“I want to understand her.” The words came out before he could stop them. Quiet. Honest. Maybe even desperate. “I want to know. Please. You know how much this means to me.”

Gojo exhaled through his nose, slowly. Then: “She doesn’t remember.”

Megumi’s breath caught. “What?”

“Her memories of her past life… they’re gone. I know usually, you get it back once the office processes the paperwork, when you ask. But she…she doesn’t have it.” Gojo said, voice unusually gentle. “That’s the price of what she is. A Reaper that didn’t start off dead. She’s someone taken, not made. Someone chosen.”

“Chosen by who?”

Gojo looked at him. Really looked. “That’s the wrong question, kid.” he said. “The real one is—why her? Why did they all choose her?”

Megumi didn’t answer.

He didn’t know how to.

Because how could he?

“She probably doesn’t even know why she keeps ending up next to you either. She may think it’s just because you’re her sector boss.” Gojo said. “Doesn’t know what her body’s reacting to. Doesn’t know why you make her so still. So quiet.”

Megumi clenched his jaw. His voice cracked before he could hide it. “Then how am I supposed to let her go?”

Gojo looked away, eyes hidden behind the gleam of glass and the slow, setting sun. “You’re not, I suppose.” he said. “You never were. We learn that the hard way.”

Gojo’s words hung in the air like smoke. You never were. It rang in Megumi’s ears long after the sun dipped beneath the edge of the world. Long after Gojo stood, patted him once on the shoulder, and walked away.

He didn’t follow him, he doesn’t know how to. Instead, he just sat there, with his jaw tight, his hands pressed against the concrete, staring at the empty horizon like it owed him something. Why her?

He didn’t know. He’d never known. But he felt it — in the marrow, in the breath, in the way you voice made his name sound like a memory. You didn’t remember him. You didn’t remember anything. And still, you looked at him like she’d lost him before.

He hated it all, he just couldn’t help it. He hated how cruel it was. Because he wasn’t built for this kind of pain. The slow, relentless ache of watching someone you love exist beside you, and never with you.

“Fucking hell.” Megumi whispered into the void, lowering his head onto his hands. “What do I do?”

COFFEE TASTED EVEN BITTER THAN BEFORE FOR THIS SHIFT. Two days later, you were back in the field with him. They didn’t even try to stagger the assignments anymore.

Maybe the office didn’t notice. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe the higher–ups in the main office had seen something in the threads of fate that neither of you had the clarity, or the courage to face.

The location was a run–down district just outside the city perimeter, a place with broken streetlights and water stains curling along the edges of old brick walls. It smelled like rust. Smoke. That strange metallic air before a storm.

It was another violent death. A girl this time. Sixteen. Gone too early, too fast. She’d died in the middle of a fight, unfortunately. The fists clenched, jaw locked, eyes wide with rage. And by the time the team got there… her soul was gone.

Not released. Not processed. Just gone. And that was dangerous. Because a soul left too long in that kind of pain alone, in that raw, fragmented fury, it didn’t stay soft.

It calcified. Morphed. Turned. And there will be no chance for rebirth. Only the certainty of misery, in purgatory or worse, disappears. And then, there will be nothing.

You crouched near the faded chalk outline, fingers pressed to the scorched concrete where the girl’s blood had pooled just days before. “The poor thing, really.”

“It’s a bad case.” Megumi mumbled under his breath.

“She didn’t even realize she died.” you murmured. “This kind… they don’t leave on their own. They get stuck. Trapped between the pulse and the silence.”

Fushiguro Megumi stood beside you, tense as he looked at the entirety.

He was watching the shadows like they could grow claws at any moment.

He was watching you too, when you weren’t looking.

“Her soul’s still in the district, by my estimates,” he said. “It hasn’t registered on any gates.”

“Then we’re running out of time, senpai.” you replied. “How long do we exactly have?”

He looks at his watch for a moment. “Before the sunrise. But that’s being too generous.”

You stood, brushing your coat back with a practiced flick, already walking toward the alley’s edge. “I can certainly do it in one hour.”

“That’s overconfidence in you, isn’t it?”

“Well, Reapers don’t get second chances, senpai.” you added, like you were reminding yourself more than him. “And lost souls don’t either.”

Fushiguro Megumi finds himself unable to say anything.

When he looked at your eyes again, there was no shine.

Perhaps that broke him more than the thought of a soul dying out.

Your hunt unfortunately started slow. But that was not your fault. Before and after dawn are the peak hours of souls, looking for the gates of the afterlife. That also means the influx of the Reapers all around the neighborhood is throwing you off. You couldn’t help but sigh.

Perhaps the biggest hindrance spiritually is your boss, who couldn’t stop looking at you. His aura is overwhelming your senses. But you couldn’t say that to him.

You weren’t here to find yourself in the disciplinary ward, after all. Yet you were sure that even if you tried, you wouldn’t be able to say it to him. And you didn’t know why.

You moved through the backstreets with quiet precision. Two shadows in a city that had forgotten the names of the dead. You passed windows that hadn’t seen light in years. Fences curled with rust. Shoes on telephone wires, spinning like memories.

And then, there was a flicker. You could feel the heaviness of the cold air. It was static along your spine. You froze. So did Megumi. You couldn’t help but frown at the feeling. You hated moments like this. You knew that this wouldn’t be something good.

“There, senpai.” you said under your breath. “Did you feel that?”

He nodded, eyes narrowing. “She’s close.”

You turned the corner into an abandoned courtyard. And there she was. The girl’s soul was standing dead center, arms wrapped around herself like a shield. Her skin was pale and cracking, edges fraying like her form was struggling to hold.

Her frigid eyes were wide and unblinking, locked somewhere between now and a moment she would never escape. A moment that would forever trap her, frozen in this misery.

“No, no—don’t come near me, please.” she hissed when you approached, voice warped by grief. “Don’t touch me!”

Her pain rolled off her in waves. It was thick, bitter, and raw. It made your chest ache. Your purse your lips in a flat line. “She’s starting to mutate.”

“No, she’s already halfway gone. She’s passed that.” Megumi said quietly beside you. “Another hour and she’s not coming back.”

“I can reach her, senpai. I think I can do something.” you murmured, stepping forward.

“Hey! You know you can’t. This is against protocol, she’s already progress to—”

“But I have got to try!” You tell him, determination in your eyes. “How else will we know if we don’t at least give it a shot?”

“Do you think I would risk my subordinate to harm? Are you that stupid?”

“Senpai—”

But something about her gaze caught you.

The way her eyes skipped past Megumi to rest only on you.

There was so much hatred in her eyes.

“I know you.” the soul whispered.

You stopped cold. “Huh?”

She took a step back. Then forward. Fingers twitching. “You don’t remember me.” she said, voice trembling. “But I know your face. I saw it before I died.”

Megumi’s voice was sharp, controlled. “She’s displacing. She’s too far gone, I told you! She’s confusing you with someone else!”

“No.” The soul looked between you both, eyes going glassy. “You’re the reason. You’re the one who saw me and didn’t stop it.”

The moment your hand stretched out, the air turned still. Not quiet at all, no. It was still. Like the world was holding its breath. Your coat stirred in the stagnant wind. The flickering edges of her soul glowed dimly, like embers under ash.

“Don’t move, [last name].” Megumi warned, voice low, blade still at the ready. “She’s past saving.”

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t. The way she looked at you. It wasn’t desperation anymore. It was recognition. Like some part of her soul saw you the way you really were.

Like whatever spark that lived in the heart of all things dying had seen your name written in its final seconds. You stepped closer. Your hand didn’t waver.

“I can help you.” you said, gently. “But you have to let me. I can’t reach you if you turn away now.”

But the black hollow in her chest pulsed. It was thick, violent, pulling outward like smoke curling from the inside of a burning house. She clutched her head, breathing fast. She started to scream over and over.

“I don’t want to forget—!” she screamed, staggering forward. “I was someone! I know I was someone!”

Her body jerked, the dark mass inside her twitching, warping. “I remember my mother’s voice! I remember the sound of the TV in the morning! I remember what it felt like when I thought someone might love me—”

Her hands curled into fists again.“—and now it’s all fading! It’s gone, it’s gone—”

And then, something cracked in her. It sounded like the first break in a dying tree, right before the whole thing crashes down. She lunged. Fast. Vicious. But not at you. At herself.

She reached into her own chest like she wanted to tear the rot out. Like if she could just find the memory, the warmth, the piece of herself she’d lost—she could make it stop.

And that was what did it. The darkness snapped free. Swallowed her whole. A burst of energy surged outward in a shockwave. You stumbled back, the weight of it slamming into your ribs like guilt made physical.

Megumi moved without hesitation, his arms braced in front of you, body between you and the explosion. “Move back!” he barked, but his voice was already too far.

The girl was no longer a girl. You knew that much, even with much denial. What stood before you was twisted. Bone-white limbs extended too far, mouth open in a scream that had no sound.

Her eyes were now massive voids, leaking black tears. Her sorrow had become a shape, deepening into something of a monstrosity. Her grief had become a weapon to wield against you. And still....still, you stood there, looking at her with pain in your heart. You took one shaky step forward.

“Please….” you whispered. “You don’t have to become this.”

But she was gone. Megumi knew it before you did. He shifted, blade raised. “This has to end, now.”

And your voice cracked as you reached for his wrist. “Wait—Senpai, don’t—”

His jaw clenched. But he didn’t move yet. “This is beyond the protocol, you know this! We have to–”

“Look at her, senpai!” you begged. “She’s scared. She’s just scared.”

“She’s not her anymore, [last name].” he snapped. “This thing? It’ll take you with it.”

“I know that!” you said. “But just—just give me one more second.”

Fushiguro Megumi’s grip faltered. Just barely. His blue–green eyes looking at you, trust blossoming in the corner of his eyes. You nodded at him, thankful. You turned back toward the girl and looked at the echo of her and stepped forward.

The creature, at least what remained of her, was writhing now. Flickering between the memory of a girl and the monstrous thing her grief had carved from her. Her mouth opened again, distorted and shaking, but this time… this time she spoke.

"Please, please….." she rasped. The sound wasn’t from her throat. It was from her soul, raw and breaking. “I don’t want to stay like this. I don’t want to forget—but I don’t want to be like this either.”

You froze. That voice. That ache. It hit something deep in you. Deeper than instinct, deeper than memory. Something older. Something permanent. Your head started to hurt little by little. But you kept it together. You had to.

“Then let me help you.” you said, stepping forward slowly.

Her body trembled, a broken silhouette against the rotting skyline. Her hands were shaking like she still didn’t know what they were for. Fists, weapons, or prayers. She reached for you with one, the other still clenched tight by her side.

“I don’t remember who I was, I….I don’t remember!” she whispered. “But I know I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not anymore. Please... just let me go.”

And something in you had clicked. That quiet place, deep down, where the echoes of the past lived. The place you didn’t have the key to. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if you remembered her, or if she remembered you.

What mattered was that she was asking you. To free her. To end this. You took a breath, steadying your hand. Your reaper’s seal burned faintly across your palm. She didn’t flinch at the sight of it at all. She had all but accepted her fate.

The blink of morning dawn was starting to come little by little, the darkness of the night slowly swallowed up. This was not how you wanted it all to go. You didn’t want to lose another soul like this.

But this had to be done now. You had already broken protocol for this. You couldn’t bring yourself to make her suffer anymore than she already has. This is the only mercy she could get in the hands of heaven and hell.

“I’m sorry.” you said, voice low, trembling. “But I promise… this won’t be for nothing.”

You stepped close enough to touch her forehead with your fingers.

Her eyes fluttered shut. A single tear fell—black, then clear. “Thank you.” she whispered to you, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you.”

And with that, light appeared as bright as the rising sun. It was ever so blinding and yet it was a silent light. A silent light that brings the deliverance of peace. You purse your lips as you watch it all. Her form dissolved like ash into sunrise, scattering upward. Gentle. Final. Not gone, but freed.

When the last of her vanished into the air, the wind returned. Soft. Barely there. You stood still, hand out, arm shaking. Fushiguro Megumi hadn’t said a word back as he sheathed his weapon back. He looks at you, concern casting down from the peripheral of his eye.

When you turned back to him, he was staring at you like you’d split him in two. Like he was watching the exact moment your soul remembered how to ache. The morning sun finally hit the two of you. You took a breath. You opened your mouth for a moment, but nothing came out.

“Are you alright?” Your subordinate asks you.

“I didn’t save her.” you said, quiet.

“You did. Don’t say that.” he answered. His voice was rough. “You just didn’t get to bring her to the gates. It’s okay.”

“But I…..”

“No, don’t think too much about it.” Megumi says as he gets closer to you. His figure towers over you. He looks at you with a softened gaze. “Please. You did what you could. You brought her peace. You saved her, okay?”

Your face contorted at his words. Suddenly, your brows were drawn, lips trembling, your shoulders pulled tight like your body didn’t know whether to collapse or run.

But the tears came anyway. They slid down your cheeks soundlessly, shameful and uncontrollable, like a crack in a dam that had held too long.

“I just—” Your voice faltered, hoarse. “I just wanted her to feel safe.”

Fushiguro Megumi stepped in without hesitation. Not with words. Not with orders. Just warmth. Just him. He reached out, careful and steady, and his hand came to rest against the back of your neck.

It was gentle. Too gentle, like he was holding something precious to him. Yet it was the very thing that was grounding you. His other arm wrapped around you like a shield. A quiet one. Something steady enough to hold grief without needing to fix it.

“You gave her that, okay?” he murmured. His voice was low now, close to your ear, the kind of softness he didn’t show anyone else. “She left remembering that someone heard her. That someone stayed.”

Your fists curled into his coat. Your forehead dropped to his chest. He didn’t move an inch. He didn’t even pull back. Instead, he stayed there with you. He let his warmth envelope you when you needed it. He just held you there, close and certain as the sun kissed your skin even more.

“She was just a kid, senpai.” you whispered, your breath hitching.

“I know.”

“She was alone. I was alone. If you hadn’t been here—”

“I am here.” he said, more firm this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your breath shook again, and then again, until it steadied. Just enough.

Megumi’s hand brushed the back of your head slowly, his touch almost reverent. “You don’t have to carry it all, [last name].” he added. “Not alone.”

You stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the blood on the pavement to dry. Long enough for the light to shift between buildings.

Long enough for the ache to settle instead of sharpen. Eventually, you pulled back just slightly, just enough to see his face. His jaw was tight. His eyes hadn’t left you for even a second.

“Do I really seem that broken to you?” you asked, your voice tired, raw.

“No, not at all.” he said. “You just seem like someone who’s still looking for the parts they lost.”

And something about the way he said that. It was quiet. Almost all too knowing. That had made your heart twist. Because he was looking too. You could see it. And he’d been looking longer than you knew.

For a moment, you felt the weariness of it all come to you. You were just standing there in the alley, your shoulders slack, your eyes red and all the sudden a little too distant for someone who just found their job done well.

The morning light caught on your uniform, smearing silver against the black. And for the first time since arriving, you didn’t look like the head of the Special Cases department. You just looked…tired. Almost so small. All too far away.

Megumi said nothing. Just stood there, quiet across from you, waiting like he always did. Because he knew better than to fill that kind of silence. The kind where memories try to surface but never make it to shore.

You take out a cigarette from your coat and bring a cigarette to your lips. Lit it with a snap of your fingers. Inhaled. Exhaled. The smoke curled around your face like something trying to stay. Then, finally, you turned to him.

Your eyes were strange. Not confused. Not pained. Just old. Like something from another lifetime had turned over in your chest and was watching him from behind your lashes. For a moment, it didn’t even look like you were having a bad migraine.

“Do you believe in déjà vu?” you asked, voice low, almost idle.

He blinked, startled. “…What?”

You glanced up at the sky. Smoke slid from between your teeth. “It’s just a thought, from observation.”

“.....What brought this on?”

“Sometimes….I can’t help thinking about it.” you said slowly to him. “When you look at me, senpai…”

The word felt foreign in your mouth — formal, yet intimate. “…I feel like I’ve already grieved you, or maybe you’ve grieved me. I don’t know which. But….it’s just like that.” you said. “And I don’t know why.”

Megumi’s breath stilled. His throat closed around the sound of your voice. And his heart, it was a traitorous little thing. And it surged once again in a violent way against his ribs.

Because that was you. Not the reaper. Not the officer. You. That was a sliver of something that remembered him, even if you didn’t know it. The first time you’d said anything like that.

The first time your body remembered what your mind had let go. He stepped forward. It was slow, like something might shatter if he moved too quickly. His boots scraped against gravel. You didn’t flinch. Your reddened eyes never left his blue–green gaze.

Fushiguro Megumi said your name. Just once. Your actual name. And it made you feel something. Something you weren’t supposed to feel. Your breath takes a hitch. The way he said it, you knew that it cracked at the edges.

And for a second, just a second, you looked like someone who knew what it meant. Like someone who’d said his name before, in a world that had long since died. The silence stretched between the two of you.

None of you break the silence. Instead, it just deepened.It was now too dense and too impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that remembers.Megumi’s breath held still, lodged somewhere behind his ribs, as though letting it go would undo whatever fragile thread was pulling you toward him.

Then he said it again. Your name. Not your title. Not your designation. Your name. Your actual name. He had spoken it in a low, careful, way. Perhaps more than the first. It was like it meant something dangerous. Something forbidden.

And the way it echoed in your chest. It was almost… familiar. And it just made your head hurt even more. Your breath caught. A tremor ran through you, subtle but sharp, and your eyes. Those tired, shadowed eyes had locked onto his own, like they’d done this before. Like they’d found him before.

Something changed in your expression, you were sure. Even if you couldn’t see it, you knew something had changed. Not recognition. Not quite. But something old. Something that haunted the space between memory and instinct.

“…Why did that sound like a goodbye?” you asked, voice rough, uncertain.

Megumi swallowed, jaw flexing. His gaze never left yours. “Because it might be. Our work is always full of goodbyes, after all.” he said.

You blinked. That was the moment. The flicker. A beat of stillness that didn’t belong to this life. A feeling that didn’t have a name. And you felt it. Deep down. Like a ripple in still water. The ache of having known someone, and the agony of not remembering how.

“Who are you to me?” you asked, softly. You weren’t sure you even meant to speak. The words came from somewhere else.

Megumi didn’t answer. Not with words. He stepped forward, slow and sure, and the scrape of gravel beneath his boots sounded louder than it should’ve.

The air felt heavier now, charged with things he cannot put together. His presence filled the alley like a shadow cast from something much older than the buildings around you.

“You don’t have to say anything.” you whispered. “But something in me… it reacts to you.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you looked at him, your fingers flexing like they were supposed to be holding something they’d already lost. Something they had been waiting to find. Megumi’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet.

“I think you were someone I couldn’t save.”

That silence returned once more. It was ever so dense, knowing. Not a void. A presence. You looked at him then. Really looked. And your heart gave a low, uncertain beat like it recognized the shape of him. Not the face, not the name. The weight of him. And then, quietly, your lips parted.

“…Why does it feel like I’ve cried for you before?” You whispered back to him. “I didn’t just mourn or feel sad. But I cried. Bitterly.”

Megumi’s expression didn’t change. But his hand twitched at his side. Your name sat between you like a secret that refused to die. And neither of you moved. Because something ancient had just stirred awake. And neither of you knew what would happen if it opened its eyes.

“Maybe.” He whispers to you. “Just maybe.”

The cigarette burned slowly between your fingers, the smoke catching faint dying gold from a nearby streetlight. You were still watching him, gaze heavy. It was not in weight, but in the way it pressed into him, like you were trying to figure out something that wouldn’t come.

Something that hovered just behind your ribs, just beyond your reach. And then, all at once, you looked away. Your head hurts even more than before. You let the cigarette meet your lips once again.

You cursed, soft under your breath. “Fuck.” you muttered. “Forget it. I don’t remember.”

Megumi flinched like you’d slapped him. The shift was instant. Your voice closed off, a door slammed shut in the space between you. Your shoulders tensed as if embarrassed to have said anything at all.

You turned slightly, dragging one last inhale from the cigarette like it might anchor you back into this life. The one you knew, the one where he was your commanding officer and not something deeper, older, buried beneath centuries of silence.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird, senpai.” you added. A shrug. Casual. Too casual. “I’ve been overworked lately. It’s probably just… nerves.”

But Megumi couldn’t breathe. Because he remembered.He remembered every second of that moment when you looked at him like you knew him.

Not the version of him standing in front of you now, but the boy he used to be. The one who held your hand in another lifetime, who once promised you peace.

And now you were brushing it off like smoke in the wind. He opened his mouth to say something to you, at least anything that would make it better. But his voice caught in his throat. So he just stood there, hurting quietly like he always did.

“…It’s okay.” he said finally. Low. Tired. “It happens.”

You gave him a look, unreadable again. A flicker of something he couldn’t name. And then you nodded. As if that was the end of it. As if there shouldn’t be anything more to be said. As if it never happened.

You dropped the cigarette. Stepped it out with your boot. “We should head back. The office will want a full report.”

“Yeah.”

He watched you walk ahead, back straight, hands tucked into your coat pockets like it was just another night, just another mission. But Fushiguro Megumi’s chest still ached with everything you didn’t say.

Everything you almost remembered.

YOU ONLY FOUND OUT TODAY THAT SOMETHING WAS WRONG. You got in and you looked at the office. It was too quiet. Usually, people were bustling and hustling, putting in reports in and out of the sector head’s office. You were confused, very confused. Until you checked your emails. The report was never filed. At least not by him.

You noticed that his office was cold, his coat still hung on the hook by the door. There was no answer. No note. No explanation. Just silence. Nothing from his secretary. Nothing from his other subordinates.

The first thing you did was check dispatch. The second was the morgue. By the third hour, you were in a rage. Something inside you wouldn’t calm down, wouldn’t sit still.

Not until you stormed the massive head of operations wing and grabbed Gojo Satoru by the collar in front of six stunned Reapers reporting to him and hissed.

“Where the hell is he?”

Gojo Satoru, for once, didn’t smile. He didn’t joke at all. He didn’t even pretend. He just looked at you, something strange and guilty swimming in the corners of his bright blue eyes. That had made you even angrier.

“I asked you a question!”

“I’m your boss, don’t you know that?”

“I don’t really give a fuck about proprieties right now.” You reiterated, brows narrowing deeper. “Now answer my question.”

“He’s in the Hall.”

The words didn’t register. “What? Which hall? There’s many halls in this place!”

“The Hall of Discipline.”

Your stomach dropped. “What? Why?”

Gojo sighed. Quiet. Tired. “For the obvious.”

“What, this is not making sense—”

“He falsified the report, [last name].” he said, more clearly this time. “Said the soul’s corruption was his mistake. Claimed he delayed the purge protocol. Said it was all on him. The office found a dozen violations in his write-up and he didn’t fight it. Took the blame.”

You couldn’t breathe. “That’s….”

“He’s your superior, as much as I am.” Gojo added, softer now. “When things go wrong, the system comes for the one in charge.”

“But I was—I stepped in, I—”

“I know that, kid.” The blue eyed man said. “We all know. But Megumi made it so no one else could touch you. He rerouted everything.”

Your hands were shaking. “He shouldn’t have….This is stupid!”

“It is. But he still did.” Gojo Satoru put a hand on your shoulder. His voice dropped. “He did it for you.”

You moved almost instantly. Your legs moved like a blade through the halls. You did not care for anything else. You had to get there fast. You didn’t care if you were going to get in. You’ll force your way in. You didn’t carry any clearance, nor were there orders for you to be there. But that also didn’t matter.

All you had to do was walk in. The guards didn’t dare stop you. They felt it in the air around you. The storm. The promise. They saw your eyes, your fists clenched into fists. It was all too much, that energy flowing from your body.

Down below, the stones whispered. Every step rang against old bones. The torches bent away from your passing. You stopped there soon enough, at the seventh row. You knew that cell. The worst one. Your throat felt dry.

You opened the door almost immediately. And you saw him, you saw everything. He was there. Fushiguro Megumi. Chained. Bruised. Slumped in shadow.

One eye was swollen. One hand red with dried blood. He didn’t lift his head at first. Not until you said something. Not until you called his name like it still meant something.

Then slowly, his gaze suddenly found you. His breath caught. “…….You came.” he murmured. A rasp, not quite real. “......Why?”

“I should be asking this question.” Your throat burned. “Why did you do it?”

He blinked once at your words. Then again.

As if the answer had teeth. As if it lived behind his ribs.

And then he hitches a breath, trying to speak despite the pain.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” he said softly. “Not in this life. Not like this.”

You stared at him. “…What does that mean?”

But he didn’t answer. Only looked at you like you were a secret he’d buried centuries ago and couldn’t stop digging up. And for a moment, for just a breath, your skin remembered him. Not your mind. Not your soul. Just the body.

The instinct. The shape of something familiar in the dark. A voice you’d followed into fire before. You didn’t know why your hands moved.

Why you reached him with everything in you. Why he let you. But you touched him. Gently. His jaw. His cheek. The side of his throat where something still beat, still fought.

“You should’ve let me take the fall.”

Your voice was low, splintering at the edges. A whisper only the walls and the dust could hear. Your hand cupped his cheek tenderly, carefully as you could, your soft palm against the warmth of bruised skin.

“It was my fault.”

“I couldn’t. ” Megumi breathed. Not because it hurt. Not because he was bleeding. But because you’d said it. That. The one thing he’d wanted to protect you from.

“You could have—”

“You know that I wouldn’t.” he added. A little more fragile now. Like he was trying not to fall through the space between you. “This is the only choice.”

Your grip trembled. Not because of fear, that was for sure. But because somewhere in your body, in your bones, you did know. You didn’t remember, not truly. Not all of it. Not clearly. But it seems your body did.

You could feel the ache. There was an instinct. The way your fingers ghosted over the edge of his jaw like they'd memorized the path long ago. The way your eyes were clouded with concern. That was real. That was yours. That was surely warm. Only for him.

“I didn’t want this, senpai.” you whispered. “I didn’t want you like this.”

His lashes lowered. Eyes half–lidded, jaw tight. “I know.”

Silence pressed in from all sides. The stone, the iron, the weight of what couldn’t be said. What wasn’t supposed to be remembered. But it lingered anyway.

Between you. Like a curse. Like a vow. You leaned in, forehead resting against his skin. The light flickered overhead. Shadows crawled across the cell floor like old ghosts.

“I keep feeling it.” you murmured, almost to yourself. “That something's missing. Like I'm half–awake. And when I see you... it’s like I almost know what I’m supposed to say. Like I’ve said it before.”

Megumi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you.

Like you were sunlight bleeding through a locked door.

Then, he speaks to you with laboured breaths.

“I used to dream of you.” he said. Soft. Low. Carved in smoke.

“Before you ever put on the uniform. Before the office took your name. There’s too much to say….Too much to speak on.”

“Senpai, don’t speak too much—”

But Megumi didn’t stop. He felt feverish, lost in the pain. He was losing his mind. “You’d show up in places you shouldn’t have been since that first life. Under sakura trees. In the middle of winter. At the edge of a battlefield.”

You blinked at his words.

Your heart clenched.

Your lips pursed into a line.

“You always smiled. Always left first.”

Something twisted inside your chest. A flicker of grief you couldn’t place. “Senpai….”

“I think I was supposed to follow you. Everywhere…..” Megumi whispered. “I just… never got there in time.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your fingers curled tighter against his skin. And deep in the marrow of your soul, something remembered. Something screamed. But the name wouldn’t come. Nothing would come to you. Even if you wished there was.

His blue–green eyes fluttered, glassy and dark, lashes trembling like he was fighting sleep—or memory. And then, like something pulled from the bottom of a well, his voice returned. Distant. Drenched in fever.

“She always leaves first…” he mumbled, barely audible. “Still wears the ribbon… said it meant ‘home’…”

You froze. The words hit you like a blade behind the ribs. Because you’d heard them before. Your head started to hurt once again. You bit your lip, trying to not let the pain win. You turned to look at Megumi, but the words continued to echo in your head.

It was too familiar. It was like you remembered it. Yet it was not here. Not in this life. Somewhere else. A dream, maybe. A voice calling across some great divide. The ribbon was real, but you couldn’t explain how. Couldn’t remember ever being given one. And yet, suddenly your hand was moving.

You reached beneath the folds of his tattered coat, down the neckline of his uniform, like something was guiding you and there, tucked against his collarbone, warm with his fevered skin.

A ribbon. Frayed at the edges. Crimson. Your breath caught in your throat. So you don’t forget me. The words weren’t yours. Not yet. But they echoed in the hollow of your ribs like they belonged.

And you knew. You knew he’d been holding on to it across lifetimes. A part of you broke, almost instantly. But a deeper part of you awakened. It was like a ghost coming to you, haunting you with something you couldn’t even remember, mockingly.

“Come back to me.” you whispered, voice trembling. Copying the words in your head. The pain is becoming more and more prevalent. “Wherever you are… whatever this is… come back.”

His body stilled in your arms. His head lolled gently, eyes barely open. “…don’t let them take you again…”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a warning. The shadows around you shifted. The air thinned. Something old was listening. The Hall of Discipline groaned faintly above you, its stone bones creaking under memory and magic.

The red ribbon pulsed against your fingers. It was soft, steady. Like a heartbeat. Like a tether. It felt so familiar. And you hated it. Because you couldn’t understand it. You purse your lips, the thundering hurt hammering in your head.

Fushiguro Megumi had slept into feverish slumber.

Soon enough, you knew you were also going to.

You pull out your phone and call Gojo Satoru.

“Bring medics down here.” You whispered to him. “Now.”

You hung up and leaned against Megumi, holding the ribbon.

THAT BITTER NIGHT, YOUR SLEEP CAME IN MANY FRAGMENTS. It all came in so many fractures you could not understand. And when it did, when your body finally gave in to exhaustion, you dreamed. But not like before.

This one was... different. You were standing in a garden. Quiet. Cracked stone beneath your feet, dust curling around the hem of robes that felt too heavy, too ancient to belong to the present. Trees loomed tall overhead, but they were wilted. Hollow. Like something had long since abandoned them.

There was a shrine. Or maybe a ruin.

Something half–buried and forgotten.

And he was there. Megumi. But not quite.

He didn’t wear black. He didn’t look like the version you knew. His hair was longer, tied back. His eyes were the same. But older somehow. More haunted. He was standing at the edge of a small pond, hand resting on a stone marker.

And when he turned to you, your heart lurched so violently in your chest it almost woke you. “You always find me here, you know.” he said.

You blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.” he murmured. “You never do. Not the first time. Not even this time.”

You stepped forward, compelled by something you couldn’t name. You looked down at the stone marker. It was worn smooth. The name had faded from it. All except one character. Yours. And then, a hand gripped your wrist. Familiar. Steady. Warm.

But when you looked up, he wasn’t standing beside the stone anymore. He was behind you eyes narrowed like he was afraid of what, you couldn’t tell. You were confused. This was not reality. You were sure of that. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t true.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet, not just yet,” he whispered. “Not this time.”

“Why not?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He didn’t answer.

The dream shattered like glass.

You felt like you were falling.

The weight of the world blinked away as you landed. And when your eyes opened again, you were in a hospital room. The light was pale. Blurred at the edges. Machines hummed like lullabies gone wrong. Outside the window, snow fell against the glass in slow motion. It was too slow, like time had stopped to watch.

You looked down. You were in the bed. IVs in your arms. Tubes at your side. Everything white and wrong. The door creaked open. And there he was. Megumi. But younger, still tired. His hair damp from the rain. His Reaper uniform still clung to him. Another version of him from another time.

You were once more confused as he looked at you, so tenderly, so warmly, so devotedly. He stepped inside quietly, as if any noise would wake something that wasn’t supposed to rise. His eyes met yours, and the pain in them was older than anything the world had a name for.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet.” he whispered.

Your throat felt tight. You tried to sit up, but couldn’t. The ache in your chest told you something was ending. “Why not?” you asked, voice trembling. “Why can’t I stay?”

He didn’t answer right away. He came to your side, and sat in the chair like he’d done it a thousand times. Reached for your hand like it had always been his to hold. His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

"You weren’t meant to see this. You weren’t supposed to see the end, your end." he said, finally. Voice low. Fragile. “But you did. And it broke something.”

“What did it break?”

Another pause. Then, his voice broke too: “Me.”

The lights above flickered. You looked down and saw the ribbon again, tied loosely around your wrist. “I’m sorry.” you whispered, not knowing why.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple. “You always say that.” he murmured.

And then suddenly, that sound again.

You can hear the shattering glass.

That horrific, sharp sound.

The world split open, the hospital room disintegrating into fragments. White light, falling snow, the beeping machines all swallowed by black. You fell through it like water. And then you woke up. Sweating. Shaking.

The real Fushiguro Megumi still lay unconscious in the cot beside you, fever cooling slowly under your watch. The red ribbon was still in your hand. But now, you remembered the feeling of snow. You remembered the feeling of dying. And you remembered him, at your side.

Every time.

Every lifetime.

Every chance.

And you still didn’t know why.

You sat up, feeling the sweat cold at the back of your neck, breath caught in your throat. And across the room, far from you and Megumi, you could feel the faint, flickering, like a phantom.

For a moment, you thought you saw a shadow move. It looked like someone standing just at the edge of your perception. Watching with such precision. Such intent. Such desire.

Gone when you blinked. But you felt it. The same ache from the alley. The same weight in your chest. The same name, unspoken but circling your ribs like a storm waiting to break. You didn’t sleep again that night. Instead, you watched Fushiguro Megumi breathe.

YOU WERE EXHAUSTED WHEN YOU CAME INTO THE OFFICE. But that was because you were still feeling sick.That’s what they told you, anyway. That’s why you were still officially on medical leave. That’s why you weren’t supposed to be on–site today.

It’s why they hadn’t even processed your last mission report yet, which you were sure said something about "emotional trauma recovery" whatever that meant in a place like this.

But you didn’t care about that at all. You woke up before the sun that morning, throat raw from another dream you couldn’t quite shake, your fingers still curled around the edge of Megumi’s spare coat, left behind on the couch.

So you came in. You took the high elevator to the top deck, to what used to be an observatory before the league converted it. Now it was all reinforced glass and glowing panels, quiet enough to think and empty enough to breathe.

You stood there, staring out over the city that doesn’t even know you exist. The wide world is still asleep below you, blanketed in blue and grey. For a moment there, you thought you were alone. Until the reflection shifted.

Division Head Gojo Satoru’s tall frame emerged behind you in the glass, arms folded casually, his usual blindfold replaced by tinted lenses. He looked half like a ghost, and half like someone who never really slept.

You didn’t hide your surprise. “You’re up early, senpai.”

“Old habit, I suppose.” he said, stepping closer. “I used to crash here when the paperwork got unbearable. Not much has changed.”

You looked at him. “You still do?”

He didn’t answer directly. Just gave a small smile and joined you at the glass, the mundane city lights painting dying soft gold across his jaw. He studied your face for a moment. He hummed soon after.

“You shouldn’t be here, no?” he said eventually, voice gentler than expected.

You scoffed. “Says the guy who’s technically been dead a million times.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Touché.”

A long silence passed between you at that moment.

The kind that felt full, not at all like a blank canvas.

The kind only people who’ve shared enough pain can understand.

“Did you see him?” you asked suddenly, without looking.

Gojo’s smile faded. He exhaled through his nose.

“He’s still recovering, in his apartment.” he said. “Stubborn as ever.”

You nodded. Your reflection looked pale, eyes a little too hollow. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“He didn’t see another way. Especially as your boss.”

“I would’ve taken the punishment.”

“He knew that.” Gojo turned to face you now. “But the system doesn’t work that way. And you—”

He paused. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze. “You’ve always been meant for something else, aren’t you?”

You turned toward him, brows drawing. “What does that mean?”

Gojo tilted his head, a grin returning but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one who gets to answer that. Sorry”

A pulse of unease tightened in your chest. Like something was circling you in your own skin. Like something remembered.

“Gojo–senpai—” you started, stepping forward without thinking. But he was already moving, already backing away, like he’d said too much or just enough.

“Get some rest, kid.” he said, his voice lighter now, but not soft. “And don’t do anything stupid. Or at least… not without backup.”

The doors behind him hissed open. He turned.

But then he stopped. Just for a second.

His head angled over his shoulder, voice low now. Real low.

“You saw something, didn’t you?” The words slipped through the quiet like a needle.

Your mouth opened. Closed. “What?”

“In your dreams, when you were knocked out.”

“I don’t know….” you said. “It felt like… like a memory. But not mine.”

Gojo’s voice dropped, serious in a way he rarely allowed. “Some memories don’t belong to just one person.”

You glanced at him. “So whose was it?”

He looked at you carefully. His tone was impossibly gentle. “Yours.” he said. “And his.”

Gojo Satoru turned back toward you fully, no grin this time, no swagger. Just those pale lenses catching the dull ceiling light. His face was unreadable for a moment as he ended up deep in his thoughts.

“In your dreams, sometimes…..” he said. “You remember things. Not clearly. Not yet. But something’s waking up.”

You stared at him.

Your stomach turned.

Your lips pursed deep.

“Megumi…” you whispered. “Was it because of me?”

Gojo didn't respond. Didn’t need to. The silence cracked between you like ice underfoot. And then he walked away, hands in his coat pockets, disappearing into the flickering lights of the hallway. You turned back to the glass. The city hadn’t changed. The light was still dull, the sky still gray.

But your reflection was different now. Because in your own eyes, something else looked back. And this time, it blinked with you. Like something had decided. Like something in you had finally opened its eyes.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He says, smiling at you. “Go on. Back home.”

You were going to argue but you gave in and nodded.

He turns around and walks away, his face drops.

He takes his phone from his pocket and the phone rings.

“She’s going to remember soon.”

YOU DIDN’T WANT TO DO THIS, BUT YOU ENDED UP HERE ANYWAY. Far above, tucked away in the forbidden archives of the League of Reapers, a forgotten case file blinked awake, its lock peeling open, quietly, like something old had just been permitted to stir.

The records room wasn’t supposed to be open after hours. Especially not the forbidden wing. You weren’t sure how you got past the first two sigil locks. You didn’t stop to question it. Your hands just moved, like they knew what they were reaching for.

Down long aisles of dust and dead magic, your footsteps were the only sound. The further in you walked, the more the air changed. It was heavy, old, metallic. Like the stillness right before a storm. You passed the shelves that should’ve had your file. Yours and Megumi’s.

But there was nothing. Just blank ledgers. Burnt corners. Redacted names. Your existence. It was odd. It was fully cleaned off the paper like a sin no one wanted to confess. You stood there in front of the empty space where the file should be, hands trembling.

“…Why?” you whispered. “Why can’t I find anything?”

The lights overhead flickered.

And then, without warning, you stopped.

You felt that endless burst of energy.

“Because you were never meant to.”

The voice came from behind you. Calm. Controlled.

Beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl.

You turned, slowly to see that face you had longed to see.

Geto Suguru. The Keeper of the Forgotten. The guardian of records sealed by the gods of this realm. He stood with his hands behind his back, black robes pooling like ink around his boots. His purple eyes gleamed golden in the dark.

“You shouldn’t be here, reaper.” he said, voice smooth like a blade sliding into silk. “These files are sealed for a reason.”

“I had a dream, keeper.” you said. “I saw a version of myself. I—remembered something. And I…..I don’t know. I need to—”

“That wasn’t a memory.” Geto cuts you off. “That was residue. Massive chunks, it would seem. It's a massive leftover of emotion trying to piece itself into something. It’s dangerous to mistake echoes for truth.”

Your voice sharpened. “Then what’s the truth?”

Geto tilted his head, dark hair falling over one eye. “It’s not your place to ask.”

Something inside you flared. “It’s about me. How is it not my place?”

He took a step forward to you, his beautifully decorated robes flowing as he did. You backed up instinctively and suddenly hit the shelf behind you. His presence closed in like mist under a door. After all, he was not one to challenge.

“You died, reaper.” he said softly. “And you weren’t chosen to come back. But something refused to let go. Something broke the cycle. Your soul was taken, not guided. That makes you… an anomaly.”

You swallowed. “So someone stole me?”

Geto Suguru didn’t answer.

But his silence was confirmation enough.

That had made your chest constrict.

“I deserve to know what I have forgotten.” you said, a low shake in your voice. “Please.”

Geto’s purple haze darkened. It was not unkind, but far too knowing. “Reaper, it is not your place to ask.”

“Keeper—”

“You had made your choice a hundred years ago. The choice is final. You have chosen this life.” he said. “You believed you deserve peace. And we have given it to you.”

He raised a hand. You felt the air around you thicken, magic curling tight around your lungs, around your mind. The archives blurred from you all of the sudden. Your eyes widened as you looked at him.

“No—wait—” you started.

“Go back to your sector, reaper.” Geto said gently, stepping back into the dark. “Before the parts of you that are still whole begin to remember why they were broken in the first place.”

And with that, darkness.

WEEKS LATER, IT WAS HARD TO DEAL WITH THE SILENCE. Fushiguro Megumi wanted to look for you. But it was like you vanished into thin air. It was stupid, how he went into a frenzy when he came looking for you.

Yet that was all he could know. He couldn’t stand it, going into silence. He hated that more when you appeared in his nightmares. It was raining when Megumi found you again.

He didn’t find you until it was already late. It was way too cold, even for a reaper. Outside headquarters, where reapers weren’t supposed to linger this long in the mortal veil.

You stood beneath the overhang of a closed shop, arms folded over your chest, face lifted slightly to the sky like you didn’t know where else to be. Like you didn’t know how long you'd been standing there.

He almost didn’t call out to you. Almost let you stay like that—just standing there at the edge of the platform, watching the clouds roll over the city like ash. The back of you looked like someone else. Like someone older. Like someone trying to remember what it felt like to be whole.

But your aura....it wasn’t sitting right. Fushiguro Megumi knew the shape of you in every room. Could pick you out from a mile away, even in crowds, even in battle. But this? This wasn’t your usual rhythm.

Your energy was jittery, off–beat. Like someone had burned out the center of you and filled it with static. The aftershock of a dream you couldn’t shake. Something was rattling inside of you and he felt it in his bones.

“…You okay?” Megumi’s voice was low. Careful.

You flinched. And that did something to him. Made his gut twist. Made his jaw tighten. You never flinched around him before. Not like that. He stepped forward, slowly, like he might spook you if he didn’t. His coat rustled against the silence.

“Shouldn’t you still be resting? You’re still injured.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it, just let the words slide out with the smoke that curled from your cigarette. It was slow, unbothered.

Like maybe you weren’t worried sick about him for the past two nights. Like maybe you hadn’t checked his office three times today already. Like maybe your heart wasn’t still racing from that dream.

But Fushiguro Megumi saw the tension in your fingers, how they trembled just a little when you flicked the ash. He saw how you stood slightly off–balance, weight shifting like you didn’t want to be caught hoping.

“I wanted to see you.” he said simply, honestly. The words came quiet, unfiltered. “You disappeared for the whole day. Gojo told me.”

You exhaled, sharp through your nose. “Why is he snitching on me?” you muttered, flicking your cigarette to the side, watching the embers die as they scattered. “Old man’s bored, isn’t he?”

Megumi shrugged one shoulder. “Probably. He said you looked ‘haunted’ and then told me to handle it before he had to get emotionally involved.”

You snorted softly. “That sounds like him.”

A beat of silence passed between you. Then another. The wind picked up and pushed at the hem of your coat. You rubbed your arms. It was feeling more from nerves than cold, you were sure. But you hated that. You would have rather it was the cold.

Finally turned to look at him. His hair was still damp. His knuckles were bandaged. His blue–green eyes were dark under the weight of whatever hell he’d just been through. But he was here. He came.

“…You shouldn’t be up and about just yet.” you said again, quieter now. “You’re still recovering. You look like shit.”

Megumi’s gaze flickered to yours, sharp but soft, like a blade dulled at the edge for your sake alone. “And you look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer.

You didn’t look up.

“You weren’t there after the mission for today.” he said to you. “And I kept thinking….if you were alright. If you were doing well. You were having bad headaches too.”

Your chest tightened. “How did you—”

“It was obvious.”

Because it was. And you did realize it, how obvious it was. That you were in pain. Yet you didn’t know what to tell him what it was all about. You didn’t know what to tell him. When it was all horrible things.

But you didn’t know how to tell him that every time you closed your eyes, you heard him whisper your name in a hospital room that didn’t exist. That some part of you knew that voice before your brain ever caught up. That it made your heart twist in ways that didn’t make sense.

“You came all this way just to check on me?” you asked, forcing a wry smile.

Megumi didn’t blink. “I’d cross the veil if I had to.”

Just like that, your cigarette burned out between your fingers. Your eyes met his and lingered. “I think I lost something.” you said.

His heart kicked. “What do you mean?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. “I went to the archives.”

Megumi stiffened. “What?”

“I had to.” Your voice was soft. “I needed to know why I keep dreaming things that feel like memories. Why I remember voices that don’t belong to me. Why you… why I keep—”

You stopped yourself. Jaw locking.

Megumi’s gaze never wavered. “What happened?”

You looked away. “They weren’t there.” you whispered. “Our files. Everything I was looking for—it’s gone. Or hidden. Or… I don’t know.”

Silence. “And then…” Your voice faltered. “He was there.”

Megumi’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

You hesitated. “Geto Suguru. The Keeper.”

Megumi swore under his breath. Stepped toward you. “What did he say?”

“That it’s not my place to know.” you said, bitter. “That I was taken. That my soul wasn’t meant to be here. That someone pulled me from the cycle and forced me into this life.”

Megumi’s breath stopped when you mentioned those words. You didn’t see the way his hands curled into fists. Didn’t see the fear creeping up his throat. You didn’t know how much anguish this was putting him through.

“I tried to remember after that.” you continued. “But something’s wrong. Like there’s a hole in my head. I can feel it. I was so close, and now it’s just…”

You looked at him again, more desperate now. “Why does it feel like you’re the only thing I remember?” you asked. “Like my soul keeps walking toward you, even when I don’t want it to.”

Megumi couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself too. Because he knew that feeling. Knew what it was to ache for someone you weren’t supposed to keep finding. Know the exact weight of your gaze. The way his name used to sound from your lips.

He took one slow step closer.Then another. He didn’t touch you. But he stood close enough for you to feel the heat of him beneath the rain. His bright blue–green eyes locked to yours, solemn, endless.

“I’ll find out what they’re hiding,” he said. “I swear it.”

“…Why?” you whispered.

Megumi's voice was quiet, but it hit like thunder: “Because your soul isn’t the only one that remembers.”

You looked at him confused and uncertain.

The scent of the cigarette left your lips.

You nodded at him, letting everything slip by.

Later, the tension in the air thickened, like a storm pressing down on the heavy silence between them. Fushiguro Megumi’s resolve, forged from year after year of restraint and quiet determination.

Now felt like a chain binding him to the past and the future that Geto Suguru had hinted at. A future where the woman he loved was something more than human. More than what he could protect.

Geto Suguru, the Keeper, stepped back, the hint of amusement in his voice masked by something far older, more knowing. "You think you’re the one holding the key, don’t you, reaper." he said, almost as though to himself. "But the door was never locked to begin with. You’re just too stubborn to see it."

Fushiguro Megumi’s gaze never wavered. He knew the risks of going here. He knew the stories buried beneath the names in those forbidden files. But none of it had ever mattered more than you. You were more important than anyone to him in this world.

“I’m not afraid of what’s in that file, you know that. I remember everything, even if you blank it out.” Megumi said, his voice hardening. “You may think I’m blind to the danger, but I’m not. I’ll tear down every wall you put up between us.”

Geto’s smile returned, just a little—cold and calculated. “You can try. But the truth always catches up.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. His mind was set, his path clear. The years of unanswered questions, the weight of a thousand lost memories, had led him here. To this moment. To this man who seemed to hold all the pieces of a puzzle Megumi could never finish on his own.

“You’re wrong about one thing, keeper.” Megumi added, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “I’m not the only one who remembers.”

Geto’s eyes flickered, just for a moment. Then, with a shift of his body, he turned, as if dismissing the conversation entirely. "We'll see."

Fushiguro Megumi stood there, unmoving. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t nearly over. Not as long as she still came back to him. Not as long as the past, and the memories they shared, remained anchored to their souls.

The door behind him closed with a finality that echoed. But the bond was already there, and nothing Geto Suguru said or did could sever it. And Megumi would make sure of that.

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motorsportbarbie13 · 17 hours ago

Text

Hurricane - Part Four

{“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” “You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. “Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?”}

warnings/notes: emma's mom is a *raging* bitch in this. alcohol consumption (poor coping skills ig) shoutout to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for always having my back <3 pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem oc) word count: 6.6 k (jfc i can't shut UP about these two)

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Late afternoon sunlight spilled in through the floor to ceiling windows as Emma moved through the kitchen. They’d returned from Jeddah just last night, the brutal triple header having stolen so much from both Emma and Max, they had retreated to their bedrooms right after getting home. It had been nearly noon before either of them emerged the next day, with Max coming out first to make breakfast for the both of them.

Breakfast between the Max and Emma on mornings when they were home had become somewhat of a tradition, a tradition that Emma was quickly becoming attached to. She didn’t allow that thought to full form in her head though. It was too dangerous. Too familiar to admit that she was getting attached to Max on more than a professional level. She didn’t want to admit the way she looked for him whenever she walked into a room. She didn’t want to admit how her heart pounded the entire time Max was in the car on the track and that she couldn’t fully settle until saw the checkered flag after a race and knew he’d be safely in the garage soon.

Admitting any of that didn’t appeal to Emma at all, so she buried it all so deep down in her chest that there was no way it could ever surface.

She tried to tell herself it was just kindness and convenience, this little breakfast tradition of theirs. Whoever woke up first would be the one to start the meal and Emma always made sure the fridge was stocked with bacon, eggs, and whatever fruit she thought Max might like that week. They hadn’t been doing it long but it was something that both of them looked forward to, even if neither put words to their feelings. Emma wasn’t willing to examine the fact that maybe Max did it because he wanted to take care of her and that she did it for the same exact reason.

Shortly after the meal was cleaned up the morning after returning from Jeddah, Max had left in a flurry of athletic gear and gatorade, talking about playing Lando, Carlos, and Charles in a game of padel but that he’d be back in time for dinner and to text him what she wanted him to pick up from the market.

Emma had drifted about the apartment for an hour or so after Max left, the exhaustion of being away from the only soft place she had to land had seeped deep in her bones somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah. Everything she considered doing sounded like it required too much effort but guilt sat heavy in her chest in response to her desire to just relax. She knew Max wouldn’t mind, her not helping around the house. It wasn’t like the place was a disaster either but her idle hands felt wrong, like if she didn’t do something to productive she was ungrateful for everything Max had already done for her.

Emma wanted to sit at the piano and play something but even that seemed to be too strenuous that day, her attention span for anything longer than a 15 second TikTok video was completely nonexistent. Emma was never sure how to handle days like this, the days where she was too tired to do much more than get up off the couch or do anything productive. These kinds of days had never been allowed in her home growing up. If you weren’t doing something productive or useful with your downtime, you were lazy. It was a mantra that was hammered into her consciousness so hard that even now, when she hadn’t lived at home for years, the words still haunted her.

In the end, she had settled down on the couch before flipping through one of the dozens of streaming services Max had access to and settled on an old favorite: West Wing. Emma was half way through the episode where Mrs. Landingham was killed by a drunk driver in her brand new car, the anticipatory tears having started during the opening credits, when her phone buzzed to life. She half expected it to be Max telling her he’d decided to go out to dinner with the boys instead of coming home and that she was on her own for dinner but when she looked at the caller ID, her heart stuttered to a stop.

MOM

“Of all the days for you to call…” Emma whispered, blowing out a breath. She spent several moments trying to decide if she had the strength to deal with her mother that afternoon. She knew the answer was ‘no’ but she’d been dodging her mom’s calls since before Japan so Emma knew it was time to face the music.

As if he could sense her distress, Jimmy jumped up on the couch right as she answered, curling himself up into a ball in her lap and bumping her free hand with his head. Emma grinned down at the spotted cat. Max had insisted that Jimmy hated strangers and to not be surprised if he was quite standoffish but Jimmy had been nothing but sweet as sugar to Emma since day one.

Much like his owner.

Sliding the button on the screen of her phone, Emma lifted the device to her ear. “Hi Mom!” She tried to sound as happy as possible despite the aching exhaustion pulling at her extremities.

“Emma, darling, how are you my dear?” The sickly sweet voice of her mother filled her ears, sending anxiety shooting down her spine.

“I’m good, just trying to relax a bit.”

“Ah, yes, I’m sure those girls you’re looking after run you quite ragged.” Something in her mother’s tone had Emma sitting up a bit straighter. She hadn’t lived through years of baiting and passive aggressive taunts to not recognize the beginnings of a fight brewing.

“Well, about that…” Emma started, figuring there was no time like the present to fill her in on what had happened. Maybe her mother would surprise her and be on her side for once.

“I had the most interesting discussion with Greta down the street this morning!” Her mother interrupts.

Emma closes her eyes, dragging in a ragged breath. Clearly there was a reason for this call other than a friendly check in. These kinds of calls always came with an agenda set forth by Emma’s mother and Emma’s mother alone. She was helpless against it. The quicker she accepted that Gloria was in control of the call and she ws just alone for the ride, the quicker the call would be over and the sooner she could get back to crying over Mrs. Landingham.

“Oh?” She asked reluctantly, knowing that this conversation has already been planned in advance and needed no help from Emma to move it along.

“Yes! She said her and Frans were watching the Formula One race on Sunday evening and she said the funniest thing to me!”

Emma’s heart stopped. Oh, here we go.

Without waiting for a response, her mother continues. “She said that she swears she saw you at the race in one of the garages! I told her she must be mistaken because you were supposed to be in Monaco working the nanny job you insisted taking instead of returning to the school like your father and I had advised.” Her tone is light, innocent almost but Emma knows better.

“Ah…well, Greta wasn’t wrong.” Emma’s stomach churns with anxiety as she fights to find the words. “I was in Jeddah for the race on Sunday.”

Emma’s mother makes a small noise of surprise, even though Emma is fairly certain the surprise is feigned. “How nice of the family to give you the time off so quickly after starting a job!” She observes.

Emma knows this is a trap but there’s nothing she can do about it but continue on. “Actually, I don’t work for the Dubois anymore, mom.”

“Emma Jane Meyer, what are you talking about?” She asks sharply.

There it was. The facts that her mother had been fishing for plainly stated and out in the open. Emma manages to stifle the heaving sigh she wants to let loose but she knows that’s a dangerous move, especially when her mother is out hunting for reasons to be angry.

“It just didn’t work out mom, the family weren’t who they presented themselves to be.”

On the other end of the phone, Emma’s mother makes a disapproving tutting sound that almost certainly was accompanied by a roll of her eyes. “Well then, why aren’t you back home? How are you living in Monaco of all places without a job?”

“I do have a job, mom.” Emma learned long ago that short answers were the best way to deal with Gloria.

“Oh!” The genuine surprise at the exclamation has a heavy weight settling itself directly on Emma’s chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. “Well, that’s certainly an improvement on where my mind was going!” God, Gloria was always so supportive. “Well, go on then, what are you doing? Did you find another teaching job that quickly? I’m surprised the family didn’t reach out to the school to let them know of your…record.”

White hot searing pain slices at Emma’s heart as she sits there, listening to the surprise and backhanded compliments she had always been so intimately acquainted with. Emma can’t let her mom see that she’s gotten to her. She can never show that kind of weakness or she gets eaten alive.

“Do you remember Victoria’s brother Max? I’m working as his personal assistant.”

“All those years spent in university and you’re an assistant?” The way her mother says ‘assistant’ makes it sound like Emma was selling her body on the streets for drugs.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma closes her eyes. “It’s a good job mom. Max is busy and he needed the help. I’ve been to Japan, Bahrain, Cyprus and Saudi Arabia in the last three weeks alone. It’s actually a really good opportunity for me.”

Gloria is silent for a beat, as if she’s struggling to find a chink in Emma’s existence. “He’s that racing car driver, yes?”

“Yes, mom.” Emma fights the exhaustion that’s begging for her to be impatient and short with her mother because deep down, she knows it wouldn’t change anything anyway. “He drives Formula 1 cars for a living. That’s why Greta and Frans saw me on tv. I attend all the races with him and was watching him from the garage on Sunday.”

“Well, what do you know about racing cars, Emma Jane?” The question is accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked Max into hiring her too.

“Nothing, mother.”

But she knew Max, and that was enough for her to care about something so foreign to her.

“Then why in the world did he hire you?”

Emma has to hold the phone away from her face for a moment, staring at the device like it was going to sting her. Why was she even entertaining this?

“I don’t know mother. Max is patient and the work I do is really racing adjacent. I don’t have to know about tire deg and sector times when all I do is manage his inbox and book his travel.”

“Have you managed to find an apartment then? I’d imagine the Dubois didn’t allow you to stay. Max is certainly able to pay you well.” The speed at which Gloria changes the subject when she runs out of ammunition makes Emma’s head swim.

“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.”

“You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified.

“Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?”

“Well, you quit your teaching job with no notice to take a nannying job, which you promptly got fired from and are now shacking up with the man who signs your paychecks! I don’t know if I’d recognize you if I passed you on the street, Emma Jane!”

“Oh for the love…” Emma whispers more to herself than to Gloria. “I can’t do this anymore.” She continues, louder now so her mother can hear. “When you want to have a clam, adult conversation you know where to find me.” Emma finally snaps, stabbing at the red End button without waiting for a reply.

The silence that floods the room should feel soothing after the barbed words being exchanged moments before but as Emma leans back into the overstuffed couch, Jimmy managing to be brave enough to climb into her lap again, Emma feels anything but soothed. She had tried so hard to be neutral, to not give into the baiting that she knew was the goal the entire time but once again, she had failed.

As Emma scratched between Jimmy’s ears, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally reaching the breaking point with her mother.

***

Emma was angry.

Max could hear it.

It wasn’t sobs or shouting that he heard as he returned from padel later that evening though. No, that wasn’t how Max knew Emma was angry. He knew she was angry because the sound floating out of the apartment was loud and angry, the epitome of heat and anguish in musical form.

The piece Emma poured over while he quietly set his things down in the kitchen was sharp, short, and exasperated. It’s rough, ragged, and raw, the way Emma was sorting her way though whatever had happened while he’d been gone. As he settled into the living room, he made enough noise so Emma knew that he was back but not enough to distract.

This had become sort of a routine in the short time she’d been staying with him. In the evenings when they were both relaxing, Emma would sit down at the piano and work through whatever she was feeling that day and Max would quietly sit on the couch or slip into his sim rig on the opposite side of the living room, volume down, so he could race and listen to her music.

Tonight was different though. He’d never heard her play like this before and the moment he settled on the couch, Jimmy instantly bounding over to him to curl up in his lap, he knew she was working through something that he wanted to be around for.

While Emma hadn’t been working for him long, and living with him for just a bit longer, the nature of their jobs forced them together for long hours in stressful situations over and over again for weeks on end so Max felt like he’d had a good enough chance to get to know Emma, to be able to read her well. It was sometime in between Japan and Bahrain that Max noticed how she avoided any talk of her parents or her past. If the subject of home came up, she deftly dodged any questions asked of her and even when they were alone, Emma remained quiet and careful. It was almost as if she was walking around afraid to get into trouble despite being incredibly competent at her job and a fully capable adult.

Max got glimpses of her though, the Emma that tucked herself away behind heavily fortified walls that no one was allowed to breech. On nights like these, nights like the quiet ones they’d had in Cyprus between the races in Bahrain and Jeddah, Max got to know Emma better through how she played the piano. He knew how precious those moments were because in those little glimpses when she let her walls tumble down around her, Max saw her. Saw the hurt, the anger, the rejection but he also saw the hope, the commitment, the passion she had. Emma revealed so much of herself while her fingers danced over the keys when she played while he listened, more than she probably realized.

It was easy to pick up on the anger radiating off of her body that evening not only because Max knew her but because Max understood the anger. He’d heard it, felt it in his own body time and time again. Knew the hurt of disappointing parents with high expectations. Knew what the anger felt like because he’d dealt with that last week in Jeddah after his penalty on Oscar which had cost him the race.

He knew she was angry because he recognized the same demons in Emma that he was fighting with on a daily basis.

The piece ended a few minutes after Max had settled into the couch, the silence blanketing the dimly lit Monaco apartment. Warm yellow lights cast a golden glow over the two of them as Emma sat at the bench for a few moments, flexing her fingers and staring at the sheet music in front of her.

“You okay over there, Sunshine?”

Emma’s heart fluttered at the nickname Max had started using in the last few weeks. The nickname she was desperately trying not to like. The breath she filled her lungs with was ragged but getting everything out of her body was so cathartic Emma almost felt steadied. “I think so.” She replied softly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Emma turned to face Max for the first time since she’d sensed him in the living room with her. She appreciated the way he was just loud enough to ensure he didn’t startle her anymore but was never so overtly there that she was distracted. Max is still dressed for padle, although his dark blond hair is still a touch damp, so Emma assumes he had showered at the club. The way his icy blue eyes watch her with a quiet confidence has Emma nodding despite the way she wants to shut down. Vulnerability was never rewarded in her house growing up so opening up to someone like Max was a terrifying prospect.

Max pats the couch cushion next to him as a grin stretches across his face, rewarding her for her bravery. When she settles down beside him, Emma brings her knees up to her chest before circling her arms around them so she’s tucked into a protected ball.

It takes an amazing feat of strength for Max not to reach out and pull her into his lap.

“What happened?” He asks quietly when she doesn’t offer up an explanation to the distress still rolling off of her in waves.

“My mother happened.” She replies lightly, almost as if it’s a joke and it all clicks into place for Max with just those three words.

Max sits and listens as Emma recounts the entire nightmare story from beginning to end. With each sentence, each quote from her mother, Max’s chest tightens and his blood pressure risees. As Emma tells her story though, she finds herself feeling lighter with each word that passes her lips. She’s never spoken to anyone other than Victoria about her upbringing, about how her parents treated her as an afterthought and a burden. It was never something she liked talking about because talking about it meant making it real. And making it real meant admitting that she was so unlovable that even her own parents didn’t want her.

With each bit of story she releases, Emma sinks a little bit deeper into Max’s side. He doesn’t notice it at first, neither of them do, but when she tells him how she ended up hanging up on Gloria after she accused her of sleeping with Max, he looks over to see her head nestled gently on his shoulder. His arm goes around her shoulders instinctively, only seeking to comfort her and offer a silent word of thanks for entrusting him with what Max knows is a difficult story to tell.

After a few moments of silence, Emma rises again and approaches the piano. Max watches curiously as she sits back down on the bench, fingers stretching out for the keys once again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does the piano sound better than it did that first day?” He asks, trying to distract from the heavy feeling that hangs in the air still.

Emma looks at him, head tilted like she’s surprised at the question. “You know what, it is.” She says after a beat.

Max nods, satisfied grin hitching up at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I asked Charles to send over his piano guy to tune it while we were gone. I’ll let him know you approve.”

Emma’s mouth drops open a bit at bit of information Max drops on her. “You…what?”

Max looks at her and shrugs. “You said it was out of tune and so I wanted to fix it for you.”

“You really are one of a kind, Verstappen.” She says with a shake of her head before turning back to the piano to play Clair de lune, something she knows is one of Max’s favorites.

***

Max wasn’t sure how he’d done it but after an hour or two of cajoling, he’d gotten Emma to agree to go out with him, and the crew he’d played padle with that afternoon. He knew she needed it, could read it in the way her eyes went stormy and unfocused when she had been attempting to make dinner, the phone call from her mom still digging their cruel talons into her memory.

Usually Emma fluttered around the kitchen while she was cooking, a quiet confidence radiating off of her while she deftly prepped whatever meal she’d been inspired to make that day. Max found himself sitting at the counter more often than not whenever she was in the kitchen, mesmerized by the way she moved around in the space that usually sat empty and silent, even when he was home. The way she seemed to know exactly what to start prepping, when to put something in the oven or in the pan, what seasonings to use without consulting a recipe most of the time. It was all fascinating to Max, who probably would’ve messed up boiling a pot of water.

Tonight was different though.

The pots clattered against each other just a bit louder than normal as she searched for the right one to sear the salmon Max had picked up at the market on his way home. Her movements as she chopped up the lemons for the sauce were stiffer than usual, more forced and stilted, compared to the smooth confidence he was used to from her.

There weren’t big, body wracking sobs or tears, just quiet tight shoulders and less chatter as she worked to get dinner ready.

He knew that she needed to get out of her head to escape the constant press of anger and anxiety because he’d been there and knew he’d go there again before the season was finished. Figuring out how to help Emma gave him hope that maybe he’d be able to pull himself out of his own spiral the next time it happened.

So when Max saw that familiar, long distance look in her eye he had called for a night out. She hadn’t been out in weeks, he reasoned, needed a chance to blow off some steam, didn’t she? There had been a quiet flicker of something on her face as Max stood in the kitchen telling her how she’d love Jimmy’z, how Charles and Lando and Carlos had been asking after her earlier that afternoon. She’d tried to argue that she didn’t have anything to wear that would be appropriate for a night out in Monaco but Max hadn’t bought that, insisting that anything she had in her closet would look perfect.

“I’m not above begging, Sunshine.” Max had crooned as he put the last pan away after washing it by hand.

He didn’t miss the way she blushed at the nickname he’d become accustomed to calling lately.

“Okay! Fine! You win.” She had laughed eventually, rolling her eyes but Max saw that smile creeping slowly across her face, bright and genuine. “It would be embarrassing to have to tell the boys how you got on your knees in front of me.”

Max had gone pink at the image Emma’s words conjured in his mind.

The image of him down on his knees for her was nothing compared to the images that popped into his mind the moment Emma stepped out of her bedroom an hour after agreeing to a night out. Her platinum blonde hair was twisted up in some sort of complicated braid situation creating a crown around of her head. Emma rarely wore her hair completely up but Max considered threatening another begging session to get her to wear it pulled back like that more often. The way it was swept up and out of her face showed off the long lines of her neck in such a dangerous way, Max’s grip on the marble countertop in front of him tightened painfully just looking at her and he hadn’t even gotten past her neck.

The dangerously short lace dress that hugged curves Max hadn’t been aware she possessed fit her so sinfully well, his mouth ran dry.

He must have been starting at the Ferrari red dress a little too hard because when Emma got closer, her face clouded with anxiety. “What?” She asked, awkwardly tugging at the spot where the fabric tightened around her hip. “Is it too much?” Emma huffed before dropping the sky high black heels in her hands down on the floor, the shoes clattering noisy against the tiled floor. “I knew it was too much. I’ll go change.”

Emma made an attempt to turn around and retreat back to her bedroom but was stopped when Max surged forward, hands reaching for her without even thinking. He swore his fingers burned when they found the bare skin of her elbow. “You look good, Em! Perfect for Jimmy’z, I swear.”

Emma flushed so deeply her cheeks nearly matched the red in her dress. “Yeah?” She murmured, slipping her feet into the heels in front of her.

Max nods, “Yes, Sunshine. I promise.”

She doesn’t look totally convinced but enough so that she continues back towards her bedroom. “Okay.”

“You ready then?”

He tries not to groan when Emma catches her bottom lip between her teeth, brows pinching together as if she’s already having second thoughts.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She says, nerves evident in the way she shrugs as if she’s not the most gorgeous person Max has ever seen in his entire life.

“Perfect. Let’s go then.”

***

Max regretted agreeing to this, he decided shortly after they arrived at Jimmy’z. The moment Lando had spotted Emma across the dance floor, his grin had gotten much too wolfish for Max’s liking. It got even worse as Emma weaved her way across the crowded club with him right behind her, his hand low on her back as he guided her through the crush of bodies. It felt like every single head in the darkened room swiveled in her direction, following her every move as if she were the sun and they were plants reaching towards her warmth.

“Gentlemen!” Emma greeted, seemingly totally unaware of the effect she was having on every male in the room, including his friends.

Lando stood first, opening his arms for a hug that Emma freely gave. “You look…” Lando’s gaze raked over Emma’s body and Max had to physically restrain himself from punching the McLaren driver. “Stunning tonight.”

Emma went pink, ducking her head against the compliment Max knows she’s going to struggle to accept. “Thanks, Lan.” She murmurs and Max’s pulse stutters at the nickname.

Carlos is Max’s next victim, taking Emma into his arms in a friendly hug but it sits all wrong in Max’s chest just the same. “So glad you agreed to come out with us tonight, Emma.”

The casual kiss on the cheek Emma gives Carlos has Max seeing red. He clenches his jaw, forcing a tight smile onto his face as Emma’s passed to Charles.

“You look good in Ferrari red, love. Maybe you should watch the next race from my garage.” Charles says, kissing her on both cheeks before he smirks over at Max’s murderous face.

“Never going to happen, Charles.” Max grits out as Emma slips into the booth next to Lando. He slides into the booth on her other side, shooting Charles a glare that is meant to be intimidating.

Charles just grins over his glass as he takes the seat across from the trio, beside Carlos.

Max ignores it and dips his head towards Emma, the scent of her vanilla and spice perfume wrapping itself around his senses. “Do you want me to get you a drink?”

Emma shakes her head before pointing towards Lando’s retreating frame, already making a beeline across the room towards the bar. “Lando’s got it, but thanks Max.” She chirps before leaning back into the plush leather booth.

Max desperately shoves down the white hot sear of jealous that flashes in his chest. He listens quietly as Charles pulls Emma into a conversation he refuses to be a part of, focusing instead on the way her knee keeps touching his ever so casually. Every time he feels the press of her leg against his, he swears his heart stutters to a stop.

Lando returns quickly, two glasses clutched tightly in his hands. “One double cran for the prettiest girl in Monaco.” He flirts, grinning like a schoolboy when he sees the muscle flutter in Max’s jaw.

Max knows Lando’s MO. He’s seen it time and time again. He’s all charm and pretty words, designed to get his target to tumble into bed with him. Usually Max just rolls his eyes at his friends antics but with Emma it’s different. He feels…needlessly possessive and for someone who’s always gone out of his way to remain emotionally unavailable and unattached, it’s an unsettling feeling.

Emma doesn’t belong to you, Max gently reminds himself. She’s his assistant, nothing more. She’s a grown woman who can choose who she wants to spend time with freely. Max just wished it was with him and not his on-track rival. It was none of his business, truly and as he sat listening to Lando make Emma laugh he repeated that mantra over and over in his head.

The conversations flows just as easily as the drinks do with the bottle service girls making several visits to the table, refilling the glasses as quickly as they’re drained. Emma is definitely tipsy by the time she finishes her third drink, the light dinner they’d shared a few hours earlier doing nothing to help slow the grip the alcohol has on her mood. Her laughter comes easier, a little louder than usual and she’s leaning into the Lando’s side with every sip that she takes. The way she’s returning Lando’s flirty banter, teasing him with the same energy he’s giving her, has Max’s jaw clenching.

Suddenly, the DJ starts spinning a more sensual song, one that has Emma swaying back and forth before she downs her latest drink. Lando turns to Emma, a charming grin spreading across his face. “I’ve had enough chatting to last me the rest of the season. Dance with me?”

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s standing and grabbing Emma’s hand. “It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice!” She quips but gets up regardless, following Lando out of the VIP area and onto the dance floor.

Max watches Emma go, hips swinging back and forth with her hand captured tightly in Lando’s as they disappear into the crowd. His knuckles go white around his gin and tonic watching the McLaren driver turn Emma around on the dance floor, his hands landing low on her hips as he pulls her into him. Her body is loose from the alcohol and she wraps her arms around Lando’s neck as easy as breathing.

He watched, stony glare on his face, as Emma stepped even closer into Lando’s grasp. Her hips swayed in time to the music that thrummed through Max’s chest. The bass thumping in time to the beat of Lando’s hands exploring all the parts of Emma Max wished were his alone.

“You’re going to give yourself lockjaw if you keep clenching that hard.” Charles remarks, amused smily kicking up at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Max’s eyes dart back towards Charles, mouth thinning into a straight line.

“You’re trying to kill Lando with those daggers you’re shooting from your eyes.” Carlos observes, taking another sip of his drink, eyes bright with mischief.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about. They’re just dancing.”

“Uh huh.” Charles murmurs, though he sounds unconvinced.

“It’s not like I own her, she’s just my assistant.”

Charles snorts softly, rolling his eyes. “You haven’t stopped staring at her since you both walked through the door.”

Max flicks his gaze back to where Lando and Emma still connected in every place that mattered on the dance floor. “She had a rough day, I’m just concerned.”

“So that’s what we’re calling it these days? Concer? Because it reads more like obsession.” Carlos teases as he turns to watch the couple on the dance floor.

Max shoots Carlos a look that has him grinning over the rim of his drink, brows rising into his hairline. The three men continue to drink in silence, Max not so subtly watching Lando paw at Emma opening, Charles and Carlos watching their the steam practically pour from their friends ears.

As the song ends, Lando takes Emma’s hand and leads her back towards the booth. He slides in first, then, with a playful tug on her hand, pulls Emma down onto his lap. Emma laughs, bright and slightly breathless. It’s a sound that Max is used to only hearing when it’s aimed at him. Her eyes flick almost imperceptibly towards Max, a subtle fleeting glance to gauge his reaction.

Max, jaw still tight, offers no reaction. He can’t. Refuses to give Lando the satisfaction and Emma a clue as to the storm roiling inside him. She’s vulnerable, drunk, and reeling from a difficult fight with her mother, now is not the time nor the place to get into a possessive pissing match with one of his best friends. So instead, he stares ahead, his expression carefully neutral, focusing on the flashing lights across the room as if they held the secrets of the universe.

Seeing his response, a mischievous glint sparkles in Emma’s eye. She leans in close to Lando, her hand resting lightly on his arm to whisper in his ear, “I wore such a pretty dress just for Max and he’s barely looked at me all night”

Lando doesn’t have to see her face to know Emma’s practically pouting.

Normally, she wouldn’t share such a confession with anyone but the alcohol Emma’s consumed that night has her lips loose and her desire for Max ratcheted up a notch. Lando throws his head back, chuckling, his arm tightening around her waist. He didn’t mind being a means to an end for a night, especially if it meant cuddling up with a woman like Emma.

Max doesn’t hear a single word she says but the sight of her whispering so intimately in Lando’s ear, the easy familiarity of their closeness, sends a primal wave of jealousy surging through his veins. His vision narrowed, the edges blurring a bit as his mind goes wild with speculation on what she could have been whispering in his ear. There was a feral growl building in his chest, a possessive rage that threatened to erupt. Max wanted to yank Emma away from Lando, right up off his lap, throw her over his shoulder and take her home where he fucked her so good she never wanted to look at another man ever again. He wanted to stake his claim. Wipe that sums grin off of his friends face. The causal touch, the shared secret, the blatant disregard for his presence. It was all too much.

Max was on the verge of losing it and all he could do was sit there and take it.

The night continued on, the music pounding, the conversation blurring into a general hum that resembled a hive of hornets. Emma, despite her earlier energy from earlier, was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster of the day. The vibrant energy of the club was beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly heavy warm woolen blanker: too warm and too heavy all over, all at once.

Max watched from his place in the booth as she disentangled herself from Lando’s comfortable hold, a soft smile on her face. “Thanks for the seat, Lan.”

Lando grinned up at her, boyish dimples winking up at her from the corner of his mouth. “Anytime, Emmy. Anytime.”

Emma rolled her eyes at the nickname as her gaze drifted towards Max. He was sitting in the same spot he’d been in all night, still nursing the same drink from earlier. He watched as she took a few wobbly, tired steps to the other side of the table before slipping into the booth beside him. Her perfume, thick with the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with the smell of the vodka she’d been drinking that night, flooded Max’s nose.

“Hi.” She breathed, head coming to rest into the crook of Max’s neck.

He straightened, surprised by this sudden closeness after a night spent watching Lando paw at her. Max looked down, chin brushing the smooth silk of her hair as he battled the urge to bury his nose in the locks.

“Everything okay, Sunshine?” He asked, voice gruff.

Emma scooted closer, so that her thigh was pressed into his and their shoulders were overlapping. “Yeah, I’m just getting a little tired, I think. Everything just kind of hit me all at once.” She gave a small, whiny sigh, burrowing her head even deeper into his neck.

Max stiffened, knowing that Charles, Carlos and Lando were watching them with curious stares but also realizing Emma was overly uninhibited at the moment. He didn’t want to push her away but he also didn’t want to cause a scene, knowing that both would certainly lead to Emma feeling embarrassed.

“Can you take me home now?” She asked sleepily.

Max blinked, his breath catching in the back of his throat. “Home?”

Emma nodded, eyes fluttering shut despite the loud chaos of the club pulling just beyond their bubble. “Yeah. It’s just…my bed sounds really good right now and I kind of want to cuddle with Jimmy and Sassy before I fall asleep.”

Max’s heart clenched painfully.

“Yeah, of course.” He stood slowly, guiding Emma along with him. Her body sagged into his grasp as Emma stumbled a bit.

“Oops!” She giggled before reaching back to snatch her clutch from the table. “I’m going to pilates at 9am tomorrow, do either of you want to come with me?” She asked Lando and Charles while leaning heavily into Max’s side.

All three men exchanged glances before nodding, smirks on their faces. “Sure, Emmy.” Lando chuckled, knowing that there was no way Emma would be out of bed anywhere close to 9am.

“See you guys later.” Max said before slipping his arm around Emma’s waist and turning her towards the door. She was sober enough to make it to the door herself but unsteady on her feet enough that she leaned into Max’s side the entire walk to his car.

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164 @xoxomansee

#max verstappen #max verstappen x oc #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fanfiction #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fluff #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1

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paxaz535 · 1 day ago

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Just for Now

chapter 5

synopsis : when a group of students go on a school field trip are suddenly forced into a deadly real-life game of Mafia at a retreat center. They receive a message that tells them the game has started, and the only way of survival is by eliminating classmates and identifying the Mafias.

——

note : and if i say this is probably the best thing i’ve written so far.. ?

(shorter chapter ONLY because im trying to spread this series)

——

As the murmurs started up again and people began whispering in pairs, Paige stood up and walked over to you.

“Can we talk?” she asked, quiet enough that only you could hear.

You glanced around. No one was paying attention yet.

You nodded, following her down the hall, away from the group.

She stopped just outside one of the smaller side rooms and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The hallway was dim, quiet, like the game couldn’t reach you here.

“You really think it’s me?” she asked, no smile, no flirt, just straight honesty.

You met her eyes. “I don’t want to think it’s you.”

“Then don’t.”

“That’s not how this works, Paige.”

Her jaw tightened. “You know me. You’ve seen me. If I was playing dirty, you think you wouldn’t know by now?”

“That’s the problem,” you said, voice lower. “I don’t know. Not anymore.”

She stepped closer. “Then trust what you feel. Not what they’re trying to make you see.”

And just like that, she was gone—back down the hallway, swallowed by the buzz of the lobby again.

You stood there a second longer, heart in your throat.

Then came Marcus’s voice from inside: “Are we doing this, or what?”

You decided to check someone.

Not because you thought they were Mafia—more like the opposite. You needed to start crossing people off your list. Narrowing it down. Giving yourself room to breathe.

Still, something inside you whispered not to check those four.

Paige. Azzi. Nika. Aaliyah.

Why?

Why did part of you not want to know the truth?

Was it fear? Was it trust? Or was it something worse—something like hope?

You pushed the thought down and clicked on Kk’s name.

Kk’s occupation is: Citizen.

Cool.

Relief. Slight, but real.

You returned to the circle just in time to see everyone with their phones out, the voting options on each screen.

One by one, everyone started to vote.

You hesitated with yours.

Marcus? Sarah? One of the four? Nora?

You looked up, eyes catching Azzi’s for just a second.

She winked.

Your hand shook a little as you hovered over the screen.

Then, you pressed the name.

It was time.

The votes rolled in:

Stormi — Marcus

Paige — Marcus

Nora — Azzi

Jamie — Paige

Sarah — Marcus

Marcus — Sarah

Amari & Ines — Marcus

Allie & Morgan — Nora

Aubrey — Marcus

Aaliyah — Marcus

Nika — Marcus

Azzi — Marcus

Ayanna — Marcus

Ice — Marcus

Jana — Nora

Caroline — Nora

Ashlynn — Marcus

Kk — Marcus

And finally—

Rose — Nora.

Your name.

Your vote.

The final one.

As soon as it landed, Nora looked at you.

Her face—tight, confused, hurt.

Like you’d pulled the floor out from under her.

You couldn’t hold her gaze. Not for long.

Your stomach twisted. But you went with your gut. You had to. That’s what this role was. That’s what this game was.

Still, the guilt sat in your chest like a weight.

And the worst part?

You weren’t even sure if you’d made the right call.

Majority, Marcus.

The intercom crackled to life.

“With the most votes, Marcus will be executed.”

No one moved.

Marcus exhaled slowly. No argument. No begging. Just a deep, worn-out sigh as he stood up.

He didn’t look at anyone as he walked toward the hallway—just kept his head down, footsteps heavy.

Then, just as he disappeared behind the corner—

A scream.

Raw. Terrified. Real.

You flinched. A few people gasped. The room held its breath.

And then, the intercom spoke again:

“Marcus was… a citizen.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Your stomach dropped.

Because now that you all know Marcus wasn’t Mafia…

Then the four specific ones who voted him out?

Might be the very people you’ve been trying not to suspect.

And worse?

You might’ve just helped them win.

“She needs to die,” Aaliyah said, her voice cold and certain. “And she needs to die tonight.”

The room fell quiet.

Azzi and Paige exchanged a glance, tension already thick. Nika leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unreadable.

“She’s getting too close,” Aaliyah continued. “If we don’t get rid of her now, she’s going to figure us out.”

“She already is,” Nika added. “She voted smart last round. She’s watching us.”

Azzi shifted. “We can’t do anything unless all four of us agree. You know the rule.”

Every Mafia vote had to be unanimous.

No vote, no kill.

“Then agree,” Aaliyah snapped, looking directly at Paige.

Paige’s jaw clenched. She didn’t move.

“I’m not agreeing,” Azzi said, arms crossed. “Not tonight.”

Nika looked between them, fuming. “You’re letting your feelings get in the way.”

Paige turned sharply to Nika. “And you’re not?”

Nika raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“If it were Stormi’s name on the table, you’d be the first one saying no,” Paige said, her voice suddenly sharper, more raw than they were used to. “Don’t act like you’re above this just because it’s me and Azzi.”

Nika went quiet.

Azzi looked between them, unsettled.

Aaliyah shook her head in disbelief. “So that’s it? No vote tonight? We’re just gonna let her live?”

“No vote,” Paige said, looking down. “We’re going to let her live.”

The room stilled.

No one spoke. No one moved.

They all knew what that meant.

No kill.

“So then who?” Nika asked, her voice growing impatient.

“Nora’s also off the table,” Aaliyah replied, cutting through the tension. “If we kill her, then you might as well consider one of us dead.”

She was right. Nora had already gotten too close to the truth.

“Aaliyah’s right,” Paige said, voice quiet but firm. “Nora’s off the table. If we kill her now, it’ll confirm everything.”

Aaliyah nodded, her tone cold. “Exactly. We can’t risk it.”

There was a heavy silence. They all knew they needed to make a choice—someone had to be eliminated, but the wrong decision could expose them all.

Then Azzi spoke, her voice calm and steady.

“Jana.”

Everyone’s eyes snapped to her. Was she seriously suggesting someone?

“Why?” Nika asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Azzi leaned back slightly. “She’s been quiet. A lot of people been quiet, yeah, but she’s… different. Keeps to herself. Doesn’t stand out. She’s blending in too well. If she’s not Mafia, she could be a threat to us. People like her always make it to the end.”

Paige frowned, clearly not convinced. “She’s been too quiet, yeah. But why her? She hasn’t done anything to make her seem dangerous.”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly why. No one’s looking at her, and that makes her the perfect choice.”

The others stayed silent for a beat, processing her words.

“I also noticed something about her,” Azzi continued, her tone growing more deliberate. “Remember when Aubrey got voted out and everyone went all haywire?”

The group nodded, recalling the chaos that had followed Aubrey’s elimination. The tension was thick in the air that night, accusations flying left and right.

“Jana didn’t react. Didn’t hear a peep. Literally, everyone else said something but her.” Azzi’s gaze shifted between them, a challenge in her eyes. “Is that not weird?”

The room fell into silence as everyone turned this over in their minds.

Paige frowned, her mind working through the memory. Aubrey and Jana had been close. For Jana to say nothing when Aubrey had been voted out? It was unusual. Too calm, too detached.

“I think Azzi’s onto something,” Paige murmured after a long pause. “Jana usually reacts to everything. She should’ve reacted to Aubrey, but she didn’t.”

Aaliyah, who had been quietly listening, finally nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It’s strange, sure. Could be nothing… or it could be something.”

Azzi wasn’t finished, though. “And let’s not forget, she’s always observing. Never makes waves. But she’s quietly watching. That kind of behavior doesn’t sit right.”

Nika leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. “True. The quieter they are, the more dangerous they can be.”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably as Azzi’s words hung in the air.

Paige’s gaze lingered on the others, her thoughts racing. They’d all agreed on the decision before, but now, something felt… heavier.

“Do we agree?” Aaliyah asked, breaking the silence. “Do we go for her?”

Paige looked at Azzi, then at the others. She nodded slowly. “I think we do.”

Another day, another person’s name to hear on the intercom.

“During the night, the mafia used their skill to execute Jana.”

Jana? That’s… weird.

You blinked, trying to process the news. It didn’t make sense. Jana had been… quiet. But why would the Mafia target her?

“Jana was the doctor.”

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach dropped as the full impact hit. Jana wasn’t just some quiet person in the background—she was the doctor. The very person who could’ve saved lives, who had been the key to keeping people alive. And now she was gone.

Holy shit.

You felt a mixture of confusion, shock, and a tinge of fear. The Mafia had killed the one person who could protect others. The game had just become a lot more dangerous.

You glanced around, watching the others’ reactions.

When the four—Paige, Azzi, Aaliyah, and Nika—heard that information, something shifted. A look of relief passed between them, barely noticeable but there. They’d been wanting to kill the doctor. Now that they had, it felt like a weight had been lifted, like they’d made a big move in the game.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

You were still here. You were still a problem.

The Mafia might have killed the doctor, but they’d left the cop alive. The one person who could potentially stop them. You weren’t stupid. They knew you were a threat, and you knew they were gunning for you next.

But for now, you were still here.

And you weren’t going down without a fight.

“This just doesn’t make sense to me.”

You were sitting with Stormi, Kk, Ice, and Sarah in the lounge, away from everyone else. You knew they were all citizens, so you felt comfortable talking openly.

“Why would the mafia kill the doctor and not the cop?” Ice asked, frowning.

You glanced at her. “In a way, they didn’t know Jana was the doctor. They probably killed her because she was quiet,” you reasoned.

“Hell, I didn’t even know,” you admitted. “I hadn’t had a chance to check her occupation.”

Everyone fell silent, the weight of the situation settling heavily over the room.

The longer you sat there, the more the silence grew suffocating. You could see it in everyone’s faces — confusion, fear, the creeping realization that none of you were truly safe.

Stormi was the first to speak. “If they’re just picking people off for being quiet, we’re screwed. Half of us aren’t even talking that much anymore.”

“Exactly,” Sarah said, hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s not about roles anymore. They’re guessing.”

“Which makes it even more dangerous,” Kk added, her voice barely above a whisper. “It means none of us can predict who’s next.”

You leaned back against the couch, trying to think. If the mafia was killing at random… how were you supposed to protect anyone? Your role gave you information, sure — but if you didn’t act fast enough, it wouldn’t matter.

“I’m not saying I am— ’cause I’m not — but if I were mafia, I would’ve killed you by now, Rose,” Ice said bluntly.

Her words hit harder than you expected. That question had been sitting heavy in your mind for a while now.

Why haven’t they taken you out?

It didn’t make sense. You agreed with Ice. If you were mafia, you would’ve taken out the police officer the second you found out. Everyone knew you were the Police — so why hadn’t they taken their chance?

“We’ll be right back,” Stormi said as she grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the corner of the lounge.

The others barely reacted, slipping into a nervous conversation among themselves. Everyone was still on edge.

You stumbled a little, confused. “What—?”

“I’m gonna need you to be completely honest with me,” Stormi said, her voice low and serious. She stared you down, her hand still gripping the front of your shirt.

You furrowed your eyebrows but nodded slowly, glancing down at her tight grip before looking back up at her face.

“Have you checked Paige, Azzi, Nika, or Aaliyah?”

Your heart dropped.

Why so specific?

“No. I haven’t,” you said.

Stormi sighed.

“Any reason why you haven’t?”

You were silent.

Why hadn’t you checked?

Were you avoiding something?

“I—”

You cut yourself off.

“Wait, is this about—”

Stormi closed her eyes. She let go of your shirt, dropping her hands to her sides.

“Why haven’t you checked them, Rose?” she asked again.

You swallowed hard, feeling stuck.

Then finally, you said it:

“The same reason that if it were you, you wouldn’t check Nika.”

Stormi froze.

She knew you were right.

She knew you hadn’t checked Paige and Azzi because you didn’t want to find out something you couldn’t undo.

“I don’t wanna believe it,” you muttered.

“Then check Aaliyah,” Stormi said.

You looked at her, confused. “Stor—”

“You don’t want them to die, right?” she interrupted.

By them, she meant Paige and Azzi.

And she was right.

You didn’t want them to die — but deep down, you had a sinking feeling that hope wouldn’t last forever.

You nodded.

“And I… I don’t want Nika to go,” Stormi admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

She was really starting to fall for her, and the thought that Nika might be Mafia was already tearing her apart.

“I liked Aaliyah. She was cool. But it’s time.”

You knew she was right.

So you did what you had to do.

You pulled out your phone and tapped Aaliyah’s name.

Aaliyah’s occupation: Mafia.

Fuck.

taglist: @iowahawkeyes22 @evry1luvzzae @kalan1z @evanpeterstoe

#uconn huskies #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #paige bueckers x oc #azzi fudd x oc #azzi fudd fic #paige bueckers fic #pazzi fics #pazzi x reader #paige bueckers x reader #azzi fudd x reader

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itscalledastrategyfred · 3 days ago

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Oh, Amore...

Request: 🌺 (But Kimi version!)

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x WEC Driver!reader

Themes: Minor angst with fluff (againnn!!)

Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)

Summary: Losing Le Mans wasn't supposed to happen. So Kimi cuts his weekend short to go help you.

A/N: imma move this up here. Kimi looks so cute in the first pic. this is from my main @heyitspapayaontop, but I may write here too!

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The night air in Le Mans tasted like disappointment.

You didn’t even make it past the garage. Still half-zipped out of your fireproofs, knees pulled to your chest while you sat on an overturned pit box crate. The Cadillac crew tiptoed around you, eyes low. You could still hear the roar of Ferrari’s champagne-soaked celebration from the podium.

But you didn’t make the call until later. Until you were alone. Until the ache in your chest cracked wide open and spilled down your cheeks.

It rang once.

Then twice.

And then Kimi answered.

He sounded tired—post-quali tired—but the second he heard you sniffle, the edge in his voice softened instantly.

“Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong, amore?”

“I lost,” you whispered. “They passed us in the last ten minutes. Ferrari. They won.”

Kimi didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed gently into the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you said, so quiet he almost missed it.

“No. Don’t do that.” His voice was firmer now, protective. “You drove Le Mans. You led Le Mans. You don’t get to say sorry for being brilliant.”

You wiped at your cheeks. “And it’s not fair.”

“It never is,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t change what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Mine,” he said simply. “And the best damn driver in that field.”

That’s when your voice cracked fully, and Kimi knew. He knew you didn’t just need his voice. You needed him.

So he made a few calls. Told Toto he wasn’t missing a thing. Took the overnight flight from Montreal and didn’t even stop at the hotel. Straight to the track, still in his team hoodie, eyes rimmed red from no sleep.

When you saw him, you didn’t even move. You just stared, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“…Kimi?”

He nodded once. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

You stood slowly, unsure if you were dreaming.

Then you crashed into him like the checkered flag itself.

He held you close, hands spread wide across your back, his chin tucked into your hair like he’d been waiting for this all day.

You sniffled. “You missed your race weekend.”

“You needed me,” he said. “And I needed to see you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still shiny. “You always know.”

“I know you,” he said softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

He pressed his lips to yours. Not hungry with desire, but gentle.

Against your lips he whispered, “Come on, Amore. Let's go to the hotel, okay?”

You were too tired to tell him no. Not like you would have. So you nodded and he took your hand as he led you to the car.

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The next morning, he slipped out the room carefully. He walked to the kitchen of the fancy hotel room and thought for a moment.

Finally, he looked over at you and smiled sadly. He grabbed his keys, threw on his shoes and walked out the door.

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An hour later, he came home with a paper bag of groceries.

He set it down before closing the room door so you wouldn't wake up.

After, went back to the kitchen and took out a knife and a wooden cutting board as he chopped the basil. He threw it in a bowl with eggs, whipping cream, salt, and pepper. He turned on the mixer and left it while he turned to the stove with a pan.

The wrapper of butter crinkled as he opened is and cut some off to spread it on the pan, looking over at the door to make sure you hadn't come out yet.

The Italian stopped the mixer and poured it onto the pan, his eyes focused.

Kimi covered it and watched it.

You walked out the room quietly, Kim's hoodie on with sweatpants that weren't dirty. You saw your boyfriend cooking and smiled tiredly. Walking over, your hands slid around his torso as you hugged him from behind.

He jumped a bit, but once he felt your head resting on his shoulder he smiled and relaxed.

“Morning, Amore.” Kimi whispered.

In response you mumbled, “Morning, Drea.”

After a few moments he took the lid off the pan and grabbed a plate without moving his feet so you wouldn't have to walk around. He took a spatula and took the frittata off and plated it.

“Come on, Amore, I made breakfast.” He said, tugging your hands toward the couch.

Once he sat down, he pulled you into his lap.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still shitty, but a bit better because a certain little pizza boy made me food.” You smirked. He chuckled.

And all started to feel okay again.

124 notes · View notes

salmonballsss · 3 days ago

Text

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 10)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: None.

The clink of dishes echoed soft and steady against the hum of running water, the kind of sound that belonged to kitchens older than memory—timeless in its rhythm. It was late now, the kind of late that made the shadows stretch long and soft, melting into the corners of the room. The only light came from a warm sconce above the sink and a little table lamp in the corner, casting amber over Agatha’s sharp profile as she rinsed a plate clean.

You sat quietly at the counter, your fingers curled around a warm mug. Chamomile tea. Or at least, that’s what she said it was. You weren’t sure what brand of tea she kept in this house—nothing here had labels—but the floral notes were calming enough. You sipped in silence, watching her.

She moved with a kind of casual command, her sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, dark hair tied back loosely. You’d never seen her look quite so… domestic. It didn’t fit and yet, somehow, it did. Like she’d done this exact dance a thousand times before.

You cleared your throat. “I can help with that, you know.”

Agatha didn’t even look at you. Just made a dismissive noise low in her throat. “You already risked your life once this week. I think your heroics can pause long enough for me to handle the soap.”

You gave a soft laugh. “So dramatic.”

She snorted. “Says the girl who tried to summon the dead and ended up summoning her own concussion.”

“It wasn’t the dead, it was—” You stopped yourself. “Okay. Yeah. Fine.”

A smug little smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but she didn’t say anything more. You let the silence stretch again, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—just full of something unsaid. You liked watching her like this. Too much, maybe. The way she wiped each dish with a flick of her wrist, how the lamplight caught the curve of her cheekbone, how the sound of water faded to the occasional drip. You weren’t used to this kind of quiet. Or maybe you just weren’t used to feeling safe in it.

When the last plate had been dried and stacked away, Agatha turned around and leaned on the counter, bracing her hands behind her. Her gaze flicked toward you, just the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. “Go get some rest. You look like you’re about to fall over again.”

You blinked, lifting your chin stubbornly. “I’m not a child. I’m fine.”

She arched a brow. “Yes, and that’s exactly what people say before fainting and breaking my favorite vase.”

You winced slightly. “I've only fainted once.”

“So far.”

You narrowed your eyes, but your lips twitched. She was infuriating. Endlessly smug. And it should’ve annoyed you more than it did. Instead, it settled somewhere strange in your chest, like warmth pressing in.

You stared down at your tea, letting your finger trace the rim of the mug. “Do you have a guest room I could stay in?”

Agatha was halfway through drying her hands when she paused. Her smirk curled slow, deliberate, as she glanced at you over her shoulder. “What’s wrong with my room?”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “I just thought—since it’s your bed—and I mean, it was nice but—”

She turned fully then, crossing her arms, leaning back against the counter. Her voice dropped, low and teasing. “Not your first time in it, sweetheart.”

You sputtered. “I was unconscious! It doesn’t count!”

Agatha just shrugged, entirely too pleased with herself. “If you say so.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, groaning into it. “God, you’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You didn’t reply. You were still half hidden behind your palm when the thought finally slipped out, unfiltered. “Where did you sleep? While I was out, I mean.”

That stopped her. Not the joke you’d been expecting. No quick remark. Just that brief flicker of stillness. Then she tilted her head, one brow lifting. “Worried I was sleeping in a coffin or hanging from the ceiling?”

You rolled your eyes. “No. I just… wondered.”

Her answer didn’t come right away. Her fingers tapped the edge of the counter once. Then “Chair. Mostly.” She nodded vaguely. “Not great for posture, but it did the job.”

You frowned. “You didn’t have to—”

“I didn’t ask for a thank you,” she cut in, but not sharply. She looked at you a moment longer, then pushed off the counter. “Anyway, you’re not sleeping in my bed again. I want it back. Guest room’s down the hall, first door on the right. Sheets are clean.”

You stood, reaching for your tea. “Thanks.”

“For now,” she added, grabbing a towel and tossing it over her shoulder.

You paused. “For now?”

Agatha grinned. “Depends how much you sweat in your sleep.”

You groaned, turning on your heel. “You’re infuriating.”

“Say that now,” she called after you. “Give it a week.”

---

The guest room wasn’t what you expected. It didn’t look unused. The bed was made, neatly, with soft gray sheets and a throw blanket folded at the end. A small wooden desk stood in the corner, covered in stacked books—real ones, not decorative—and there was a single lamp casting golden light over the whole space.

You hovered in the doorway for a second. Then walked in slowly, setting your tea down on the bedside table.

You sat on the edge of the bed, letting your hands run over the blanket. You still weren’t sure if Agatha was just being polite, or if she really didn’t mind you staying here. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Somewhere down the hall, you could still hear the faint sounds of her moving around—dishes, a cupboard, maybe even humming. You smiled to yourself without meaning to.

It wasn’t the same kind of smile you wore in public. This one was just for you. Just for here.

---

You woke up warm.

For a few seconds, it didn’t register where you were. The sheets smelled like lavender and cedar. Not hotel linen-clean. Not sterile. Just...lived in. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Then it clicked: Agatha’s guest room. The tea. The quiet bickering. The ghost of her smile as she dried the dishes.

You sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the golden light streaming in through the curtain cracks. Somewhere in the house, floorboards creaked. You heard a kettle whistle. Then quiet again.

It was late morning. Maybe even early afternoon. You hadn't meant to sleep this long.

By the time you padded into the kitchen, Agatha was nowhere in sight. But there was a fresh mug of coffee waiting for you on the counter, the steam curling up like a beckoning finger. A note sat next to it, written in that sharp, looping script you'd seen in the margins of her notebook:

Figured you'd want this. —A.H

You blinked down at it. Something in your stomach twisted, light and strange. You took the mug and headed for the dining room.

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of keys clicking, notes sprawling across three different notebooks, and agonizing over every word. You’d reread the same paragraph five times before deleting it entirely. The bones of your thesis were there, sure. But every time you tried to articulate the scale of what had happened—the sheer terror of the trials, the suffocating belief that fear was righteous—you felt stuck.

You scribbled something in the margin. Crossed it out. Tried again.

By the time you heard footsteps behind you, your coffee was cold.

“Still alive?”

You didn’t look up. “Barely.”

Agatha walked around the table, casting a slow glance over your notes. She was wearing a black and white flannel over a blue t shirt, the sleeves rolled up slightly. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, stray dark curls hanging at the nape of her neck. she lookedboth infuriatingly relaxed and somehow still like she could eviscerate you with a glance.

“What are you trying to say?” she asked, voice light.

You ran a hand through your hair. “That the witch trials weren’t just a historical event. They were... a kind of mass possession. Fear turned into bloodshed. It’s not just facts—it’s horror. And I don’t know how to show that without sounding dramatic or unhinged.”

Agatha reached for one of your notebooks, flipping it with an easy, practiced touch. Then she turned and disappeared.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Cool. Thanks for the help.”

She returned a minute later with three books tucked under her arm.

“These might help,” she said simply, setting them down beside you.

You looked at the spines.

Two were histories. One was dated 1896, the leather cracked and soft with age. The third had no title at all. Just a dark blue cover and a tiny sigil pressed into the spine.

You picked it up carefully. “What’s this?”

Agatha shrugged, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed. “A journal. Private historian. You won’t find it online.”

You glanced up at her. “You have a habit of owning books that shouldn’t exist.”

She smiled faintly. “I have a habit of finding things that interest me.”

You turned back to the books, cracking one open. For the next hour, you didn’t speak. Agatha left at some point—maybe to her study, maybe somewhere else—but you hardly noticed. You were drowning again, but this time in something real. Raw.

And then you hit a wall.

You were trying to explain the use of spectral evidence—how dreams and visions became admissible in court. But every draft sounded absurd. Detached.

You leaned back in your chair and groaned. “This is impossible.”

A pause. Then:

“Let me see.”

You startled a little, realizing she was standing behind you. Her voice was closer now. Softer.

You stepped aside so she could look.

She read your notes quietly. Then said, “You’re trying to explain the mechanics. But what if you just showed the feeling ?”

You blinked. “How?”

Agatha looked at you. Really looked. Then, in a voice that didn’t quite belong to the room’s warmth, she said “Imagine being a woman in a town that never wanted you. Imagine your neighbors turning on you for the way you walked. The way you brewed your tea. Imagine watching them take your sister. Your daughter. And knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it because fear is louder than reason. And fire burns faster than truth.”

Her eyes had gone distant. Not in a dreamy way. In a remembering way.

You swallowed. “You talk like you were there.” You hint at referring back to agathas book. The same thing youd done when you first met.

Something flickered across her face. Too fast to read. But it was there. Then gone.

She tilted her head. “I’ve read a lot of books.”

You didn’t believe her. Not fully. Not anymore.

it came sharp, behind your eyes. You gripped the edge of the table. The dining room spun.

Then—

FLASH.

The sound of rope creaking.

Your feet kicked above a crowd.

The sky above you was gray and heavy, thick with mist. The town was silent. Too silent. And then— there , in the back, a pair of violet eyes. Watching. Unblinking. Hidden beneath a black hood.

FLASH.

You couldn’t breathe. Not because of the noose. Because something was remembering you back .

Your knees hit the floor hard.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t quiet. One second you were at the table, eyes on Agatha’s, her voice like a match struck in an attic full of dust—and the next, everything twisted.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands clawed at your neck like they were trying to pull something off that wasn’t there. The phantom of a rope. The pressure of it. Cold. Heavy. Real.

Your chest seized. You couldn’t drag in air. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t speak.

The vision—no, the memory—was still there , skinned raw and shivering behind your eyes. The swing of your body. The snap of your neck. The silence of the crowd. Violet eyes like bruises in a sea of beige and gray. Watching you like they knew .

You gasped. Choked. One hand on the floor, the other still shaking near your throat, as if some part of you still thought you could tear the memory off like a scarf.

Then a voice—low, close, startlingly steady.

“Hey.”

Agatha knelt beside you. Her hands hovered before they touched—one at the small of your back, the other ghosting over your wrist.

“Breathe.”

“I can’t—” You rasped it out. Your lungs shuddered against your ribs, too fast, not enough. “I—there was—”

“I know.”

And god, the way she said it.

Not comforting. Not panicked. Just... certain.

Like she’d been waiting for this.

You tried again. Shallow. Shakier. Then a real breath, though your throat burned like you’d swallowed ash. You doubled over, trembling, the memory still there, embedded in your skin like a bruise.

“What—” You coughed. “What the hell was that?”

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She stood fluidly, crossed to the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water. You didn’t remember hearing the faucet. You didn’t remember her footsteps. She crouched beside you again, offering it without a word.

Your fingers wrapped around the glass. It was warm. You took a sip, then another.

You look up at agatha and squint… chest still heaving

You groan clutching your side

“Fuck.”

You scrambled your top up and agathas eyes widen for a moment before they land on the black veins as shed done last night.

They seemed to of gotten worse But only after the vision. Because this morning theyd been the say as last night after your bath… Just stilled.

“Agatha…” You breath looking at her like she knew all the answers.

But she was just there brow pinched looking at them.

Agatha’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Without asking, she reached out—hands steady, fingers surprisingly warm as they hovered just above your skin, not quite touching. It felt like she was holding the air between you, measuring it. Testing something invisible.

The black veins pulsed once. You flinched. She pulled back.

Your shirt sagged back into place, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. You both had seen it.

“What’s happening to me?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges. You sounded young. Lost. Like you were asking for something she wasn’t ready to give.

Agatha’s jaw flexed. Her hands curled once, slow, into fists, then released. “It’s a memory,” she said finally, almost under her breath. “Not yours. Not entirely.” Her eyes flickered up to yours—something haunted there. Something guilty . “But it’s in you now.”

You shook your head, trying to clear the panic slamming into your ribs. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No.” Her voice was grim. “It doesn’t.”

You pushed up from the chair too fast, making the room tilt dangerously. Agatha rose with you, her hand darting out like she was about to steady you—but she stopped herself. Hovered an inch from your elbow. As if touching you now might only make it worse.

“Sit,” she said sharply.

You ignored her. Tried to pace. Your hand pressed instinctively to your ribs where the veins had bloomed, as if by sheer will you could stop whatever was blooming beneath your skin.

The air felt heavier. Denser.

“Tell me the truth,” you said, spinning on her. Your voice was thin, ragged. “What are you?”

Agatha’s expression didn’t change. But something behind her eyes shuttered .

She moved slowly, circling you the way one might circle a wounded animal. “You’re not ready for that answer,” she said, soft. Almost tender.

Your breath caught again—sharp, high in your chest, making you double over slightly. You gasped for air, clawing at the collar of your shirt like it was choking you.

“Easy,” Agatha murmured, crossing to you now without hesitation. She pressed her hands to your shoulders, grounding you with a firm but careful touch. “ Breathe. ”

You tried. Failed.

“Breathe with me.” Her voice cut through the panic. “In—” You struggled to copy her, dragging a shallow breath into your lungs. “And out—” It left you in a broken, shaking rush.

You felt her hands shift—one sliding to the center of your back, the other brushing along your forearm, anchoring you. Holding you up.

The world stopped pitching. A little.

Your forehead dropped forward against her shoulder before you could stop it. Too exhausted to care.

Agatha stood there for a long moment, frozen like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch you—then she slowly rested her chin lightly against your hair. Careful. Careful. Like she was afraid you might shatter.

You stayed like that, trembling, until your heartbeat wasn’t a roar in your ears anymore.

Finally, her voice broke the quiet. Low. Steady. “There are things older than history. Older than fear. You’re brushing against them now.” A breath against your temple. “And they’re brushing back.”

You took a moment, your eyebrows furrowing, still pressed lightly against her. “What does that even mean.”

Your voice sounded too small, too thin, even to your own ears.

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her fingers twitched once against your arm, like she almost tightened her hold—almost pulled you closer—but she didn’t. She kept herself still, a contained kind of storm.

“It means,” she said eventually, voice low, roughened at the edges, “that history isn’t just something you study. It’s something that remembers you back, if you get too close.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her. To see the way her mouth tightened, the faint crease at the bridge of her nose. You could see it cost her something to say even that.

The silence stretched between you, thick and taut. You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake her, demand the real answers—not this cryptic half truth she kept offering like scraps from a table.

But Agatha, standing there with the late afternoon light cutting over her features, looked almost... tired. Like she’d been carrying this too long. Maybe centuries too long.

You swallowed down the rising panic, forcing your voice steady. “Are they going to kill me?”

The corner of her mouth twitched—something almost like a smile, but colder. Sharper. “No,” Agatha said. And then, after a heartbeat “Not if I can help it.”

Then she pulled fully away, standing up so quickly it made your chest ache with the loss. “Maybe you should take a break for today…” she said, but it came out half scoffed, like she was trying not to care too much. Like if she let herself care, it would cost her something she wasn’t ready to give.

You sighed, leaning heavily back into the chair, glancing at the blinking cursor on your laptop.

Seventeen pages.

Seventeen grueling, breathless pages of your thesis almost done. You couldn’t stop now. Not when you had so little time left. Three days. That’s all you had left in Hollow Wood—at least, that had been the plan.

You glanced over to where Agatha had retreated—sinking with a certain deliberate elegance onto the old green couch that dominated the living room. She flipped lazily through the pages of a thick, battered book, pretending you weren’t there. Pretending she didn’t notice you watching her.

That is... if she even let you leave.

She hadn’t even let you return to the hotel to grab your things—had made some half dismissive, half stern excuse about the creature you’d accidentally summoned. About it still lurking. About how your recklessness had tied something to you, something she didn’t want following you beyond her wards.

You swallowed, your gaze flickering down to your side again. The black veins seemed quieter now—less angry—but they were still there.

Still marked.

You closed your eyes for a second. Just a second. Let the chair hold you. The only sound was the soft, deliberate flick of Agatha turning another page.

Sharp, almost careless.

It would’ve been easier if she just yelled. If she just told you exactly how badly you’d fucked everything up.

But no.

That wasn’t Agatha. She kept her sharpness tucked behind soft sweaters and sardonic smiles. Only sometimes— only sometimes —letting the cracks show. You opened your eyes again.

No matter how much your body screamed for rest, your hands were already dragging the laptop back into your lap. Seventeen pages. Three days. A beast. A woman with secrets older than anything you could write about. You flexed your fingers once over the keys. Then you kept typing.

---

It was nearing six o'clock.

Hours had passed—hours of you researching, typing, adjusting, deleting, retyping—while Agatha did… whatever it was that woman did when she wasn’t haunting the edges of your thoughts.

You hadn't had a single flash of that awful vision since. Not once during the endless trudge of your thesis session. It was like Agatha’s words earlier had planted some kind of trigger in your brain, something that snapped shut the moment you tried to drift too far.

You sighed, stretching carefully, mindful of the aching pull in your side.

Your gaze wandered toward the living room.

Empty. The soft rustle of pages that had been your background noise was gone. No casual flipping of a book, no sharp, deliberate movements.

Just silence.

You frowned slightly.

Agatha must have disappeared somewhere else in the house—maybe to her study, or upstairs, or outback to do... whatever else she did when she wasn't busy saving your life or criticizing your judgment.

You let your head fall back against the chair with a dull thump, staring up at the wood paneled ceiling for a moment.

What were you gonna do?

Should you call Irene? You were pretty sure she was wondering why you’d called her late at night and then proceeded to go completely ghost for the past—what? Four days? Not to mention Billy. You’d promised to call him after you talked to Irene, to tell him you were safe.

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. The amount of stress you’d had lately should probably be classified as dangerous.

Not to mention the black fucking demon veins crawling across your side.

Slowly, you picked your head back up, your eyes drifting to the back door connected to the dining room—looking out into Agatha’s half wild garden.

You smiled a little, your mind conjuring up a picture of her coming back inside, hands dirty, a real smile on her face after picking veggies for the two of you to have for dinner.

You felt your cheeks warm and immediately rubbed at your temple, scowling at yourself. “What am I thinking?” you muttered, forcing your gaze away from the door.

You pushed yourself up from the chair, stretching your sore muscles, and wandered into the living room. Your phone sat right where Agatha had pointed out last night—on the coffee table, untouched.

You sighed and sank down onto the edge of the couch, grabbing your phone with one hand.

The screen lit up—and your stomach dropped a little.

Ten missed calls from Billy. Three missed calls from Irene. A flood of text messages from Billy so thick you had to actually scroll to see them all.

where r u?? you said youd call after?? getting worried now call me seriously dude CALL AGATHA BETTER NOT HAVE KILLED U ok not funny but seriously plz call im gonna fly there i swear to god

You winced, your thumb hesitating over the screen. Irene’s texts were calmer.

Hope you're alright. Let me know when you can. Call when you can. Doesn't matter how late.

You exhaled shakily, your thumb hovering over the "call" button. The guilt pressed in heavy, heavier than it had all week, threading through your ribs until you almost felt dizzy with it.

You should call. You should explain. You should say something—anything—to fix the way you’d just vanished.

But how the hell were you supposed to tell them any of this?

Hey, sorry I ghosted. Accidentally summoned a demon beast, got cursed, living with a woman who may or may not be a centuries old witch. How’s your week been?

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, breathing in deep, before forcing your thumb to move.

You huffed out a breath, biting your lip, then hit the call button before you could chicken out.

It rang once. Twice.

Then—

"Oh my god," Billy's voice exploded through the speaker. "You're alive."

You grimaced, holding the phone slightly away from your ear. "Hi, Billy."

"Don't you 'hi, Billy' me! You absolute menace. Do you have any idea—?"

You cut him off with a small, exhausted laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve called."

"Should've?" he practically screeched. "Should've?? I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere! I was this close to filing a missing person report."

You slumped deeper into the couch, rubbing your hand over your face. "I'm fine, okay? I swear. Just... had some unexpected stuff happen."

Billy was quiet for a second. Then, softer "Stuff? Like, 'I lost my phone and had no service' stuff, or 'I got buried alive and had to claw my way out' stuff?"

You laughed weakly. "Closer to the first one."

It wasn’t a total lie. Your phone had been abandoned for a while. And you had been... well. Tethered to something.

You heard Billy blow out a breath on the other end. "You scared the shit out of me," he muttered. "You and your stupid old ghost towns and your witch trial obsessions—"

"Hey," you said, smiling a little despite yourself. "No shitting on my thesis."

"Yeah, well, no shitting on your life span, " he grumbled.

There was a beat of silence. You could picture him exactly: pacing somewhere, running his hand through his hair, dramatic as hell but heart on his sleeve.

"I’m okay, Billy," you said again, softer now. "I promise."

"Where even are you?" he asked after a second. "Still in Hollow Wood?"

You hesitated.

"Yeah. Uh—kind of stuck here a little longer than planned. Had some... complications with the hotel. I'm staying with someone for now."

"Someone?" Billy repeated, voice sharpening immediately.

You closed your eyes, shaking your head. "Not like that. She's just—she's helping me. I’ll explain later, okay?"

Billy was dead silent for a second. Then you heard him gasp dramatically. " Oh my god," he whispered. "You're shacked up with a creepy witch lady, aren't you?"

You groaned, sinking lower into the couch. "Billy—"

"Is she hot?" Billy demanded. "Be honest. Is this a sexy ghost situation? Are you living my dream right now?"

"Shut up," you muttered, fighting the stupid, embarrassed grin pulling at your mouth.

Billy cackled. " You are! Oh my god. You’re living with some hot, scary lady. You're gonna die, and I'm gonna have to put 'death by MILF' on your gravestone."

You covered your face with one hand. "I hate you so much."

"No, you don't," Billy said gleefully. "You're in love already. I can hear it in your voice."

"I am hanging up."

" Don't you dare. "

You let your hand slide down your face, exhaling slowly through your nose. "She's just helping me. That’s it."

Billy made a wildly unconvinced noise. "Sure. Helping you. Bet she's helping you right into her bed—"

"Billy!"

"Hey, no judgment!" he said brightly. "Just make sure to text me first so I know whether to be jealous or plan your funeral."

You groaned again, shaking your head. "I'm fine, Billy. I swear. She's... actually been really kind."

Billy's voice softened just slightly. "Okay. Fine. As long as you're safe. But if she turns out to be a witch and tries to steal your soul, I am stealing your favorite hoodie and setting it on fire."

You snorted. "You wouldn't."

"Watch me," he said darkly. "I'm a man on the edge."

You smiled, feeling a little bit of the tightness in your chest loosen.

"Love you, Billy."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled. "Love you too, dumbass. Stay safe. Text me tonight. I'm not kidding."

"I will," you promised, and for once, you meant it.

You hung up, still smiling, the sound of Billy’s laughter lingering in your ear long after the call ended.

You were still smiling as you texting Irene a quick text just saying you were okay.

You felt the smile slip from your face at the sound of Agatha's voice. You didn’t need to look up to know she’d caught you in the middle of your conversation.

You quickly typed a last message to Irene, finishing the text with a quick "Talk soon." before putting your phone down beside you on the couch.

Turning, you saw Agatha standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark eyes flicked to your phone, then back to your face, her expression unreadable.

“Who was that? Some boyfriend?” she asked, her tone sharp but with that familiar edge of playful curiosity.

You hated how you shivered at her voice. It wasn't even the words—just the way she said them, like she knew something you didn’t.

"No," you muttered, immediately regretting the defensive snap in your voice. "Just Billy. My best friend."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curling at the corner of her lips. " Best friend, huh?" She straightened, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the room, her eyes never leaving yours.

"Yes," you said a little too quickly, picking at the sleeve of your shirt to avoid her gaze. "We’ve been friends forever."

You wanted to add something else—maybe something about Billy’s tendency to overreact, how much of a pain in the ass he could be—but Agatha’s gaze was too intense, too knowing. You found yourself locking eyes with her for a moment too long.

Agatha tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into that knowing, dangerous smile. " Billy, huh? Tell me, does he know you’re staying with me?"

You froze. Damn her. Your heart skipped a beat, and you fought the urge to look away, feeling the heat rise in your face.

"He does," you said quickly, trying to sound nonchalant. "I told him. He... he’s just a little overprotective sometimes."

Agatha’s smile widened. " A little? " she mused. "Seems like he’s a lot overprotective. Does he... know about the veins? "

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t mentioned that to Billy—mostly because you hadn’t wanted to worry him. You forced your gaze back to Agatha, trying to mask the discomfort creeping through you.

"No," you said, voice quieter. "I didn’t tell him about that."

The room felt smaller somehow, the tension hanging between you thickening. Agatha stood a little taller now, her presence looming, but her expression remained the same—impossibly calm.

"Well," she said, voice still soft, but with a sharp edge that you couldn’t ignore, " I wouldn’t tell him, either. "

You didn’t know whether she meant it as a warning or just her way of reminding you that she was in control of the situation. Either way, the chill in her voice made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already turning away, heading back toward the kitchen without another word. You watched her go, the weight of the unspoken words between you both hanging in the air.

Something was shifting, and you weren’t sure if it was the stress of everything happening so fast—or if it was Agatha herself.

Maybe a little bit of both.

Next Chapter

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grimesproperty · 12 hours ago

Text

𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒

You and Eren are such close best friends, almost "platonic." You open up to Eren about your desire to gain more experience now that you both are in college. Being the sweet best friend he is, he listens to you. And being the sweet best friend you are.

You ask him if he can teach you a few things, even teaching you how he is gonna take your virginity.

EREN YEAGER X READER

cw: nsfw

—

You and Eren Yeager were... complicated.

Best friends, sure. Friends since your freshman year of college, when you spilled coffee all over his sketchpad in the library and he called you "an actual menace" and then bought you a refill because you looked like you were going to cry.

Four years later, nothing had really changed.

Except maybe everything.

Because now you were 21. And Eren wasn’t just your best friend anymore.

He was beautiful. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair tied into a lazy bun. Piercings glinting in his ear. Green eyes so sharp it felt like they could see through your clothes.

You told yourself you didn’t think about him like that. You lied.

And tonight?

Tonight you were making it worse.

You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies and absolutely no pants. It wasn't weird. You’d always been like this around him. Comfortable.

But lately, comfortable didn’t feel like the right word.

Eren was sprawled out next to you, scrolling through his phone. His legs were bare except for a pair of loose gray sweats that hung way too low on his hips.

You tried not to look.

Failed.

"So," he said suddenly, setting his phone down, "you gonna tell me why you’ve been acting weird all week?"

You pulled your knees up to your chest. "I’m not acting weird."

"You literally flinched when I hugged you yesterday."

"I—I was startled."

He laughed under his breath, low and rough. "Right."

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sound of it.

There was a pause. One of those heavy, loaded silences that only happened when you were both thinking too much.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he said finally, voice soft.

You swallowed hard.

Maybe it was the way he was looking at you. Like you were fragile. Like you mattered. Maybe it was the way you were tired of pretending. Maybe it was the fact that your body ached for something you couldn’t name when you were around him lately.

Whatever it was, it broke something open inside you.

"I’m... still a virgin," you blurted out.

The words hung in the air between you, sharp and heavy.

Eren blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, slowly, he sat up, facing you fully.

"Okay," he said carefully. "That's not a bad thing."

You stared down at your hands. "I just... everyone else has already—" You shook your head. "And I feel like... like I’m stuck. Like I'm behind or something."

He was quiet for a second.

Then he said, "You're not behind."

You risked a glance up at him.

His expression was unreadable. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

You pressed on, heart pounding. "It’s not even about love or anything. I just... I want to know. I’m tired of being scared of it. Of... all of it."

Another pause.

His voice dropped lower. Rougher.

"You want someone to teach you."

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, cheeks burning.

You couldn't look at him. Couldn't breathe.

"I trust you," you whispered.

The silence between you snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

Eren shifted closer, so close you could feel the heat of his bare chest through the thin hoodie you wore.

"You trust me," he repeated, voice almost a growl.

You nodded again, trembling.

He lifted a hand slowly—so fucking slowly—and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You don’t know what you’re asking for," he murmured.

"Maybe I do," you said, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounded.

His fingers brushed down your jaw. Barely a touch. Enough to make your whole body tense.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, voice wrecked.

"You don't have to," you said quickly, pulling back, heart hammering. "I just—I just needed to say it. I’m sorry. Forget it. I shouldn’t have—"

He caught your wrist gently, stopping you.

"Don't be sorry," he said hoarsely. "Just... give me a second. Okay?"

You sat there, frozen, pulse in your throat, while he closed his eyes for a long moment. Like he was fighting himself.

When he opened them again, his green eyes were darker than you’d ever seen.

"Come here," he said roughly.

You inched closer without thinking.

And when he kissed you—soft at first, testing, tasting—you realized it was already too late.

You weren’t just curious.

You wanted him.

Wanted him to touch you, to ruin you, to teach you everything.

And when his tongue slid into your mouth and he groaned low in his chest, you realized something else, too:

Eren wanted it just as badly.

Maybe more.

Maybe he always had.

The air between you and Eren was different now.

Charged. Dangerous.

You could barely breathe as you sat there on his bed, knees knocking together under the oversized hoodie—his hoodie—your bare legs brushing the soft sheets.

Eren hadn't let go of your wrist. His thumb was rubbing lazy, slow circles against your skin. Like he was trying to ground you. Or maybe himself.

"You want me to teach you," he said again, voice wrecked.

You nodded, unable to speak.

"Not just kissing, either," he added, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. "You want more."

You whimpered before you could stop yourself.

It made him chuckle darkly—low and warm and filthy.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. "Okay. But we do this slow. You tell me if you want to stop at any point."

You nodded frantically.

"And you don't ever," he said, voice roughening, "ever have to do something you don’t want to. Got it?"

"Got it," you whispered.

His gaze darkened further, the green almost swallowed by black.

"You have no fucking idea what you're asking for," he said, voice a gravelly whisper. "But I'll teach you."

His hand slid up your thigh slowly—way too slowly—until he reached the hem of the hoodie.

You gasped when his fingers brushed your bare skin.

"First lesson," he murmured, smirking faintly. "How a kiss is supposed to feel."

Your breath hitched. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively. You didn't miss the way his eyes flickered down at the motion, nostrils flaring.

Eren leaned in, mouth hovering just a whisper from yours.

"You let the other person come to you," he said, voice almost hypnotic. "You don't chase it. You wait."

You swallowed hard. Nodded.

His lips brushed yours lightly—so light you barely felt it.

You whimpered again, desperate for more.

Eren smiled against your mouth.

"Good," he whispered. "You wait. You make them work for it."

He kissed you again, firmer this time. Still teasing.

His hand slid higher up your thigh, under the hoodie, fingers tracing slow, maddening patterns on your skin.

You tilted your chin up instinctively, chasing his mouth.

He pulled back just a fraction.

"Patience, baby," he rasped. "You gotta make them earn it."

You whimpered again, and he chuckled—low and dark and utterly wrecked.

Then finally—finally—he kissed you properly.

Deep. Slow. Consuming.

You felt the heat of him everywhere. The hard line of his chest pressing into you. The rough scrape of his palm sliding along your thigh, curling possessively around it.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, dizzy, desperate.

Your lips were swollen. Your skin burning.

Eren’s chest heaved as he looked down at you, eyes wild, hair falling loose from his bun.

"You feel that?" he growled, voice thick. "That’s how it’s supposed to feel."

You nodded dumbly, dazed.

He grinned crookedly, licking his bottom lip.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You almost collapsed on the spot.

You could barely think. Could barely breathe. Your pulse thundered in your ears, every nerve ending alive under his touch.

Eren pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb still dragging slowly, burning circles against the inside of your thigh.

"Lesson two," he rasped, voice dark and low. "Touching."

You blinked up at him, dazed.

He grabbed your hand—gently, but firmly—and brought it up to his chest.

"Start here," he muttered.

Your fingers curled instinctively around the front of his hoodie.

"No," Eren said, voice rough with something you couldn't name. He tugged his hoodie over his head in one swift motion, tossing it aside.

You gasped.

He was bare underneath—tattoos scattered across golden skin, muscle carved like it had been sculpted just for you.

Your mouth dried instantly.

Eren smirked lazily, watching your stunned expression.

"Touch me," he repeated, softer this time.

Your fingers trembled as you reached out—hesitating for a second, terrified to screw it up.

He caught your wrist again, gentler now, and pressed your hand flat against his chest.

You could feel everything.

The steady thud of his heart. The solid, burning heat of him. The way his breathing hitched the second you touched him.

"Good," he whispered.

You dragged your hand lower—over the plane of his chest, the ridges of his abs. Your fingertips brushed the trail of hair leading down beneath his sweatpants.

Eren hissed through his teeth, muscles tensing under your touch.

"Fuck, baby," he muttered. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

You smiled shyly, feeling a flicker of power surge through you.

You brushed your fingers across the tattoo on his ribs—a snake coiled around a dagger—and he groaned low in his throat.

"Lesson three," he gritted out. "Teasing."

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

He grinned—dark and hungry and wrecked.

"You gotta make it hurt a little," he said, voice thick. "Make them desperate. Like this—"

He dragged his hands up under the hoodie—your hoodie—splaying his palms against your bare waist, pulling you into his lap.

You squeaked, thighs straddling his.

You could feel him, hard and straining beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

You froze, heart slamming against your ribs.

Eren smirked lazily up at you.

"You feel that?" he murmured. "That's what you do to me."

You whimpered, clutching his shoulders.

He rocked his hips up just slightly—enough to grind against you.

You gasped.

"Eren—"

"Lesson four," he interrupted, voice almost shaking. "Grinding."

You whimpered again, feeling your core throb, slick pooling between your legs embarrassingly fast.

Eren grabbed your hips, guiding you into a slow, torturous grind against him.

"Just like that," he rasped. "Fuck, you're a natural."

You bit your lip hard, trying not to moan.

His eyes darkened even further.

"Don't hide it, baby," he growled. "I wanna hear you."

You whimpered brokenly as you rocked against him, the friction unbearable, electric.

Eren's hands tightened on your hips, the muscles in his arms straining.

His control was slipping—you could see it, feel it.

"You wanna know something?" he muttered, voice strained. "None of this is fucking platonic anymore."

You whimpered his name—and that broke him.

He surged up, kissing you fiercely—messy and desperate—tongue claiming yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip.

You moaned into his mouth, grinding harder, chasing the high.

"Eren, please," you gasped.

He pulled back just enough to growl:

"You want me to show you more?"

You nodded frantically, chest heaving.

His hands slid up your thighs, under the hoodie, grazing dangerously close to where you needed him most.

He smirked against your mouth.

"First," he whispered, "you gotta say it."

You whined in frustration.

"Say what?" you panted.

Eren's eyes gleamed wickedly.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

You squirmed, cheeks burning, brain short-circuiting.

"I want..." you started, voice trembling.

Eren waited, smug and wrecked all at once.

You swallowed hard.

"I want you to touch me," you whispered.

He grinned—dark and slow and victorious.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Then his fingers slid higher—higher—until they brushed the soaked fabric of your panties.

You gasped, hips bucking instinctively.

Eren groaned low in his chest, head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he muttered against your neck. "All for me."

You whimpered, clutching his hair.

And then—

He slipped a single finger under the fabric. Dragging it slowly and lightly along your folds. Barely touching, just teasing.

You nearly sobbed.

"Lesson five," he rasped. "Patience."

His finger traced your soaked folds so lightly, you could’ve screamed. You were trembling—hips bucking pathetically against his hand—whining in the back of your throat.

"Eren," you gasped, desperate. "Please—"

He hummed low against your throat, lazy and cruel and amused.

"Patience," he whispered again, his voice dark, wrecked, and starving. "Good things take time, baby."

You sobbed a little—not even caring anymore how pathetic you sounded.

Eren’s free hand tightened on your hip, holding you down firmly against him, grinding your clothed core against his throbbing length.

You could feel the heat of him through both your thin layers. Could feel how badly he wanted it too.

And still—he dragged his finger in slow, cruel circles over your clit. Feather-light. Not nearly enough. Barely anything at all.

"You’re driving me crazy," you whimpered, nails digging into his bare shoulders.

He laughed quietly—sadistic—then kissed your jaw, your throat, the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"You think you're suffering?" he rasped. "You have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me right now."

You whimpered again, grinding harder.

Eren grunted low in his chest, gripping you tighter.

"Fuck, baby," he growled. "You're so fucking wet... bet I could slip inside you right now and you’d take me so sweet."

You gasped, head dropping against his shoulder, body shuddering with need.

"You want that?" he muttered, hot against your skin. "Want me to fill you up?"

"Yes," you choked out without thinking, hips jerking. "Yes, Eren, please—"

He groaned like he was in pain.

"Not yet," he gritted. "Not until you're ready."

You whimpered brokenly.

"I am," you cried. "I swear—"

He cut you off by slipping a single finger inside you—just barely. Just the tip—teasing, mocking.

You gasped sharply, clenching around nothing.

"You're tight as fuck," he growled. "Gonna have to stretch you out real slow, baby."

You moaned helplessly, thighs trembling around his hips.

Eren pulled his finger back, dragging it slow over your swollen clit again, making you cry out.

"Lesson six," he panted. "Control."

You whimpered, body arching against him.

"If you can stay patient," he murmured, "I'll make you feel so fucking good you won't remember your own name."

You sobbed in frustration, tears pricking your eyes.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and tender.

"You trust me, right?" he whispered.

You nodded frantically, voice breaking.

"Good," he murmured. "Then let me take care of you."

He kissed you again—deeper this time—his tongue licking into your mouth lazily, almost sweetly, as his fingers resumed their torturous, feather-light teasing between your thighs.

You grinded against him desperately, seeking friction, chasing the high he was cruelly keeping just out of reach.

"Please," you sobbed against his mouth.

He chuckled darkly, breathless.

"You're so fucking cute when you beg," he growled. "Makes me wanna wreck you."

You whimpered, thighs quivering.

And then—

Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore—

He slid one long finger inside you, all the way this time.

You cried out, clenching tight around him.

"Fuck," Eren groaned, forehead dropping to yours. "You're squeezing me so good, baby."

He pumped his finger slow and deep, dragging over every sensitive spot inside you.

You were a writhing, sobbing mess in his lap.

"One finger," he rasped. "You’re already losing your mind."

He added a second finger without warning, stretching you wider.

You gasped, clinging to him.

"Relax, baby," he whispered, kissing your temple. "Breathe."

You did—barely.

He moved his fingers in slow, delicious thrusts, curling them inside you just right.

You cried out, thighs trembling violently.

"Good girl," he praised, voice thick with lust. "Taking me so good."

You felt the coil tightening in your belly—hot and fast and out of control.

"Eren," you gasped. "I—I’m gonna—"

He pulled his fingers out suddenly.

You screamed in frustration, tears spilling down your cheeks.

Eren grinned—dark and wicked—and licked his fingers clean, eyes locked on yours.

"Taste so fucking good," he muttered, voice hoarse.

You whimpered brokenly.

"Why—" you gasped, voice wrecked. "Why'd you stop?"

He grinned lazily, pulling you closer until your soaked panties rubbed against his throbbing cock again.

"Lesson seven," he rasped against your mouth.

You clutched his shoulders, desperate.

"Denial," he whispered.

Your panties were ruined.

Your thighs were trembling.

Your mind was gone.

And Eren was still teasing you — cruel, patient, starving — holding you pinned in his lap, soaked core grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

"Look at you," he muttered against your ear, voice low and vicious. "Fucking dripping for me."

You sobbed out a noise that wasn’t even a word anymore.

He cupped the back of your neck roughly, forcing you to meet his heavy-lidded gaze.

"You want me to stop?" he rasped.

Your mouth opened — no sound came out.

You shook your head frantically.

"Say it," he growled.

"Don't stop," you whimpered.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with pure lust.

"You have no idea what you're asking for, baby," he muttered.

"I don't care," you cried, grinding desperately against him. "Please, Eren — please, I need you —"

He kissed you — brutal, hot, hungry — biting your bottom lip until you gasped.

"You think I’m just gonna fuck you sweet and gentle because it’s your first time?" he muttered against your mouth. "You’re wrong, baby."

He nipped down your throat — teeth scraping — hand sliding under your panties to finally touch you skin to skin.

You screamed — the feel of his fingers against your bare, swollen clit devastating.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered.

You sobbed.

"Please," you begged again.

And then — —he lifted you slightly off his lap, pushed your panties aside roughly, gripped his cock in one hand—

—and rubbed the head through your soaked folds.

You gasped—full body jerk.

"You feel that?" he muttered. "That’s what’s about to stretch you open."

You could barely breathe, forehead pressed against his shoulder, nails raking down his back.

He groaned low at the feeling — you, clinging to him, desperate and ruined and ready to fall apart.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, voice rough. "You’re shaking."

You whimpered — a pleading, broken sound.

"You’re so fucking small," he gritted, positioning himself. "Gotta go slow. Gotta take my time."

You nodded frantically.

And then—

He pushed in.

Just the tip.

You screamed, whole body locking up around him.

Eren swore viciously, clutching your hips in a bruising grip.

"Fucking tight," he gasped.

You sobbed, forehead pressed against him.

"Relax, baby," he whispered hoarsely, kissing your temple. "You're doing so good."

You tried — you tried — relaxing as best you could.

And slowly—so painfully slow—he sank deeper.

You whimpered, tears leaking from your eyes.

Eren kissed them away, murmuring soft, filthy praises in your ear.

"Taking me so good," he muttered. "So fucking good for me."

You clenched around him, overwhelmed, trembling in his lap.

And when he finally bottomed out — fully seated inside you — you were gasping, shaking, completely wrecked.

Eren groaned into your skin.

"You feel that?" he rasped. "That’s mine now."

You sobbed.

"Yours," you gasped without thinking.

His hips twitched at that — a guttural, broken sound tearing from his throat.

"Fuck," he growled. "Say it again."

"Yours," you choked out, clinging to him. "I’m yours."

He kissed you — hard, brutal, messy.

And then he started moving.

Slow at first — so fucking slow — letting you feel every inch of him dragging against your tight, sensitive walls.

You were crying, overwhelmed with the feeling of him inside you — thick, deep, perfect.

Eren cursed under his breath, hands digging into your hips.

"God, baby," he panted. "You’re milking my cock so good."

You sobbed, burying your face in his neck.

He rocked you in his lap — slow, deep thrusts — groaning low every time you clenched around him.

"You were made for this," he muttered. "Made for me."

You nodded frantically, words beyond you now.

And then he snapped his hips harder — —once.You screamed.

"That’s it," he growled, thrusting harder. "That’s my good fucking girl."

You were gone — Mindless — Ruined — Completely his.

You tightened around him, thighs trembling violently.

"Eren—!" you sobbed. "I'm— I'm gonna—"

"Come for me, baby," he growled, fucking you through it. "Come all over my cock."

You screamed, body seizing — clenching around him so tight he cursed viciously, hips stuttering.

You were gushing around him — soaking him — vision going white.

And Eren— Eren thrust a few more brutal, desperate times—

And came inside you — hard, deep, endless — groaning your name like a prayer.

You collapsed against him, trembling.

He wrapped his arms tight around you, pressing kisses to your damp forehead, breathing you in like he’d never get enough.

"You’re mine now," he whispered.

You sobbed brokenly against his skin.

"Yours," you gasped again. "Always yours."

He smiled against your hair.

"Good girl."

The room smelled like sex and sweat and something dangerous.

You were still shaking in his lap — sore, full, overwhelmed — clinging to him like if you let go you’d fall apart completely.

Eren was breathing hard against your temple, one big hand rubbing slow, grounding circles over your back.

You felt… Destroyed. Safe. Utterly his.

"Shhh," he whispered, voice rough and low. "Got you. I got you."

You whimpered into his chest.

Your thighs were slick with both of you — your panties ruined, his sweats soaked — and you could still feel him pulsing faintly inside you.

"I didn’t hurt you, did I?" he murmured, pulling back just enough to search your face.

His green eyes — usually so cocky, mischievous, infuriating — were wrecked now, wide and frantic and tender.

You shook your head quickly.

"No," you rasped. "Good," he whispered, voice breaking a little. "Good girl."

He kissed you again — softer this time — just his lips brushing yours, slow and sweet and unbearable.

You whimpered, clutching his shoulders.

He kissed you again, and again — desperate, messy little kisses like he couldn’t stop.

And then, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms — carrying you bridal style toward the bathroom.

You clung to him, dazed.

He kicked the door shut, set you gently down on the edge of the bathtub, and started running the shower — hot and steamy.

You sat there trembling, watching him.

He was still in just his sweats — clinging wetly to his hips — the outline of his cock still hard against the fabric.

His skin was flushed, bitten raw from where you’d scratched him.

And he looked wrecked.

Eren caught you staring and gave you a crooked, fucked-out little smile.

"Like what you see?" he teased, voice hoarse.

You blushed furiously.

He laughed — low and affectionate — and tugged his sweats down, not shy at all.

You sucked in a breath.

Even softening, he was huge — thick, flushed, wet with both of you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Eren saw — and his smile sharpened into something dark.

But he didn’t say anything. Just stepped into the shower and held a hand out to you.

"C'mere, baby."

You let him pull you up, strip you the rest of the way out of your ruined panties, and guide you into the spray.

The hot water hit your skin — and you whimpered, sore all over, every nerve ending lit up.

Eren pulled you tight against him under the water, cradling your head against his chest.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmured into your wet hair.

You whimpered.

He soaped you up slowly — running big hands gently over your arms, your back, the curve of your ass.

Everywhere he touched, you felt like you were burning.

When he got to between your legs, he hesitated — gentle, patient, watching your face.

"Okay?" he murmured.

You nodded quickly.

He touched you so slow — careful around your swollen, sensitive clit — cleaning you up with soft, reverent touches.

You gasped into his chest, trembling.

"You’re so sensitive," he murmured, almost in awe. "Fuck, baby."

You clung to him, panting.

Eren pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw — murmuring nothing words, just your name and mine, mine, mine like he couldn’t help it.

When you were finally rinsed off, he shut the water off and wrapped you both in a big towel, carrying you back to the bed like you weighed nothing.

He tucked you under the covers, crawling in beside you — pulling you flush against him, chest to chest.

You felt everything — his warmth, his heartbeat, his length pressed lazily against your thigh.

He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in.

"You’re mine now," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"I’ve always been yours," you whispered.

Eren groaned low, kissing you like it hurt.

And when you shifted against him, grinding ever so slightly — —he growled.

"You wanna go again, baby?" he muttered against your mouth. "You wanna learn some more lessons?"

You whimpered — helpless, wrecked, desperate for him.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, Eren — teach me."

He grinned — slow and wicked.

"Oh, I’m gonna teach you, baby."

And he kissed you again — —dragging you down, deeper and deeper, into him — —where there was no such thing as friendship anymore. Only this. Only us.

—

part two?

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mashtatosworld · 19 hours ago

Text

eyes on me (3)

summary: after the scandal shattered your world, Daesung is there to pick up the pieces. until the truth is revealed.

You lost everything.

Your career, your reputation, the love of your life - all gone in a slow, public collapse that made front-page news.

Every morning, you woke up waiting for the next headline. For the next article or tweet to twist your name into something even uglier.

GDragon’s Ex Leaks Tour Footage Producer Turned Traitor Insider Betrayal Ruins Big Bang Legacy

You’d long since been let go from your job. The word “liability” now echoed in every rejection email. Even when they didn’t say it outright, you could feel it hanging there.

A shadow on your shoulders. A stain you couldn’t scrub off.

The apartment was suffocating in its silence. Iye was gone. The shelves were dusty. The bed too cold. You moved through your days like a ghost, wrapped in oversized hoodies, waiting for a cease-and-desist letter to arrive at your door.

And it never came.

Until he did.

A soft knock on your door. You hesitated, unsure if it was someone from the press - until you peeked through the peephole and saw him.

Daesung.

A quiet smile and a Lego set tucked under his arm.

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the pieces scattered between you like a puzzle of the person you used to be.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The clinking of plastic bricks filled the silence. And then:

"How are you, really?" he asked gently.

You didn’t look up.

“I’m waiting for his team to sue me,” you said, trying to make it sound like a joke. It wasn’t. “Every time I check the mail I think, ‘This is it. They’re finally going to destroy me completely.’”

Daesung sighed, his hands stilling. “They tried.”

You froze.

“But Jiyong stopped it,” he continued. “He refused to let it go forward.”

Your throat tightened.

“He still cares,” Daesung added quietly.

“Not enough,” you whispered, your voice cracking at the edges.

Your hands trembled as you tried to snap a tiny blue brick into place. You blinked fast, but it was no use. The tears came before you could stop them.

“I’m so alone,” you said, barely a whisper.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You sobbed quietly against him. And he didn’t let go. Not once.

“I miss everything,” you mumbled. “The job. The apartment. Him.”

“I know.”

You pulled back slightly, your cheeks damp, your eyes swollen.

And then… there was a moment.

A long, still breath between you both. His hands still rested gently on your arms. Your face inches from his. And for a second, you thought he might -

But Daesung withdrew. Slowly. Carefully.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “You're still hurting. And in love with Jiyong."

You laughed bitterly, blinking back fresh tears. “Yeah, pathetic, isn't it? God, I need to move on already. I'm sure he's already onto the next."

“Don't say that.” Daesung said. "You're Jiyong and y/n... I don't think anyone could imagine you two with someone else. Even Jiyong."

You looked down, pulling at the cuff of your sock.

“Well, before you became a couple at least,” he mumbled quietly, turning over a Lego piece in his hand.

You looked up, staring at him.

“I liked you,” he admitted. “When we first met. I wanted to ask you out. But then…” he trailed off.

“Timing,” you muttered.

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. Timing.”

You leant back, letting the silence return. You stared down at the half-finished Lego structure. It was messy, crooked. Like you.

“I’m going to get better,” you said suddenly. “I have to. I’m tired of feeling like this. I need to… move on. From him. From everything.”

Daesung nodded. “What do you need? Whatever it is, I’ll help you.”

You hesitated. "I just want to feel something other than this. Something other than sad, angry, tired... disappointed.”

He was silent for a moment. “Well... I have an idea. It always works for me.”

You blinked at him, suspicious. “Should I be worried?

He just smiled. “Get your shoes.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The heater in Daesung’s car was a little too warm, and the air smelled faintly of the watermelon gum he always kept in the cupholder.

You were curled in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, staring at the streetlights flicking by.

“Dae,” you groaned, eyeing the dashboard clock. “I really don’t want to do karaoke right now.”

“We’re not going to karaoke,” he said, as he rolled the windows down. All the way down.

The wind hit you instantly, cold and sharp and shocking, and then he cranked the radio up, volume climbing until the speakers buzzed.

The intro of Since U Been Gone came on, that familiar guitar riff slipping into your chest like it had been waiting for you.

“This is not better,” you laughed, voice barely cutting over the music. “What are we doing?!”

Daesung didn’t answer. He just turned the wheel, merging onto an open stretch of road, city lights melting into streaks around you. He grinned like a man with a secret.

“This,” he shouted, “isn’t karaoke.”

You stared at him.

“Now sing.”

“No.”

“SING.”

“Dae - ”

“COME ON,” he yelled, already launching into the chorus with so much conviction you were startled. “And all you'd ever hear me say - !”

You stared at him, torn between horror and hysterics.

“Is how I pictured me with you!” he continued, dramatically pointing at you. “That's all you'd ever hear me say - ”

You broke.

You cracked right open.

And then you screamed the lyrics with him - loud, raw, desperate.

"BUT SINCE YOU BEEN GONE!”

The wind whipped through your hair. Your voice tore out of your throat, carried with the cold air like a release.

You stuck your head halfway out the window, breath catching, eyes burning, the cold wind like a shot of adrenaline.

You couldn’t stop.

Every line of the song felt like it had lived in your ribs for years, waiting for this exact night.

You and Daesung were practically screaming, gasping from laughing between lyrics, your voices ragged but real.

The car flew through the quiet city, past midnight streets and blinking lights, with you two as the only chaos left awake.

When the song ended, he didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

The gentle quiet that followed was calm and not suffocating.

He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and saw your cheeks flushed from wind, lips curled into something like a real smile - not the practiced, hollow one.

The real thing.

“Better?” he asked, quieter now.

You looked at him, chest rising and falling fast.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you weren’t numb. You felt the burn in your lungs, the sting in your eyes, the ache in your jaw from smiling too hard.

You felt everything.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Better.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt like that - not good, not healed - but free.

Alive.

You turned back to look at Daesung and he was watching the road, eyes glassy with the wind and something else - that soft warmth that always came with him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And maybe nothing had changed. But something in you had.

The slump you’d been trapped in felt a little looser. The grief, a little lighter.

You looked over at him again, heart thudding a little steadier.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He reached over blindly and took your hand, squeezing it.

“Anytime.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your life looked different now.

There was no camera crew chasing you, no curated social feeds, no extravagant tour buses or flashing lights. Just a tiny café near your new apartment and a simple routine you’d grown to love.

You poured flower-shaped foam into cappuccinos and listened to the hum of radio music under soft morning light. You still missed the old world. But it was a memory now - faded, fragile, and far away.

Now it was just you, Y/n from the café.

And Daesung.

He still came by often. Always with a crooked smile and something ridiculous to say. He’d sit by the window, sipping the coffee you made for him - always with a little heart drawn in the foam - and wait for your shift to end so he could walk you home.

On Thursdays, he made you dinner. It started casually, when he realised you barely remembered to eat. Now it was a ritual.

It was the best part of your week.

No talk of the past. No talk of him.

Until today.

Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing - five, six, seven calls in a row.

Your manager gave you a raised brow from the register. “Either answer it or switch it off, hon.”

You chuckled under your breath and pulled the device from your apron pocket.

And froze.

Ji 🖤

The name blazed across the screen like a ghost risen from the dead. You hadn't even changed his contact name since he blocked you. A photo of him holding a tiny, fuzzy Iye haunting you.

Your fingers trembled. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The ringtone kept playing like a slow taunt. Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stared at it until the call ended - only for it to start again a second later.

Eventually, you powered it off.

“Didn’t want to answer?” your manager asked, concerned.

You shook your head slowly. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t.

A chill followed you the rest of the shift, even as the café filled with the comfort of clinking cups and low chatter. You were wiping down tables when the bell above the door chimed again.

Daesung.

But he didn’t smile this time. He didn’t order a drink or tease you about your latte art.

He just sat by the window, biting his nail, leg bouncing anxiously.

You knew something was wrong.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your shift ended.

He carefully helped you into your coat, and the two of you walked together in silence.

The sky was a deep grey, the air crisp with the promise of winter. You tried talking - anything to break the tension.

“So what do you want to cook tonight? I bought those mushrooms you like - ”

“I need to tell you something,” he cut in gently.

You stopped walking, pausing in front of your apartment.

“There’s been a development in the case. Your name’s been cleared.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They found out it was someone at your old company. They impersonated you, hacked your credentials to access the footage. It’s all confirmed.”

You turned away, pulling your keys from your pocket and unlocking the door. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Y/n - ”

“It doesn’t,” you said sharply, stepping inside and heading straight to the kitchen. “At least now I won’t end up in court. That’s something.”

He followed, watching as you set out the cutting board and knives.

“Maybe you should go to court and sue whoever it was,” he said quietly. “Make them pay.”

“Let Jiyong sue them. He’s already having his legal team handle it, right?”

You began unpacking ingredients from your fridge. Daesung hesitated.

“He is,” he admitted.

You let out a soft, humourless laugh. “He couldn’t believe me until he had cold, hard evidence. Not a phone call. Not a conversation. Not even a question. Just silence.”

Daesung started chopping in your place, the kitchen filling with quiet sounds of preparation. A kind of peace.

Dinner was simple and warm - a spicy stir fry and soda, your new usual.

Then his phone buzzed on the table.

Jiyong.

He looked at you. “Should I answer?”

You scoffed. “Sure. Let him know you’re having dinner with me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He knows, y/n. I told him I’ve stayed in touch with you. We fought about it. For a couple weeks. Then he stopped bringing it up.”

“Too tired to fight anymore?” you murmured.

“Too scared to lose anyone else.”

You didn’t reply. Just stood and fetched the bottle of wine. You poured two glasses and handed him one.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” he said gently.

“I did.”

He raised a brow.

“This is a celebration,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m no longer the world’s favourite backstabbing bitch.”

He accepted the glass, and you clinked yours gently against his. The wine tasted sharp. Almost sweet.

The two of you curled up on the couch and started a movie, horrors were your favourite.

And he never said a word in protest, but you were starting to suspect that maybe, despite his assurance he was happy to watch too, he was less of a fan. You'd occasionally catch his eyes squeezed shut or feel him jolt at the jump scares.

When it got late, you glanced over at him, voice soft. “Will you stay?”

He looked at you for a moment and nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

You turned off the lights and pulled the blanket over both of you. His arms found you naturally, curling around your waist, anchoring you in the moment.

And to him.

Just before sleep stole you, you felt his lips brush against your hairline.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

When morning came, the sun peeked softly through the curtains. The room was still. Warm.

And Daesung was gone.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i fear i would have picked up...

also dae singing kelly clarkson? let's not question it and live in fantasy land together ok? great 🤣

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf

#mashtatosworld #bigbang #kpop #gdragon #kwon jiyong #mashrecs #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #daesung x reader #daesung

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tojisteddy · 20 hours ago

Text

party 4 u

or: Immortal!reader can’t stop falling in love with Kyle Garrick no matter how hard you try not to.

cw: 3k words (idk tbh) 18+ mdni, angst with plot, no smut, immortal!reader, mentions of death, mentions of blood, violence, heartbreak, unrequited love, reincarnation, no use of y/n.

a/n: another drabbles turned into a long story. Inspo is party 4 u by Charli xcx.

You’d been immortal since you made that fatal mistake. You’ve lived a thousand lives. Youve been a nurse, a dentist, a singer, a vet, bus driver— you name it, you’d probably done it. Especially in this long life. You’ve fell in and out of love, you’ve “died” countless times, had numerous pets, seen loved ones pass too many times.

But you keep getting stuck meeting and falling in love with all of Kyle Garrick reincarnations.

The first time you two met, was a war. Kyle devided and conquered just to have you. You were stunning, citizens of your country were sure you had been the child of the goddess Athena herself. It was a blessing to for anyone to see a glimpse of your glowing brown skin, angelic smile, the heavy crown that adorned your curls everywhere you went, lilac fabric that hugged every one of your curls.

Kyle was lost at the sight of you when you’d visited his country the first time. Astonished that someone could be so mezmorizng. And it wasn’t the way you looked, it was how you showed kindness to whoever you interacted with. From fellow important guests to servants and his countries citizens, all were treated with respect and dignity.

His citizens of course would politely bow for you, they would have to get used to it, you’d lift there heads with your delicate hands or worse, you’d bow back. Giving them a mischievous smile, “Lift your head. I’ve been told you have most wonderful fruit in the land, I’ve come to see it for myself. Plus, I have some friends who’ve been dying to try it back home.”

The citizens adored you, loved you even more when you tipped them. Joined in on the festivals dancing and games. You’d turn into another loved and precious goddess in his country without even trying.

Kyle decided, you wouldn’t be leaving his country after that.

At first there was such a burning hate on your love. He’d taken your family, your home, your loving citizens, your country— you, and made it his own. How dare he try to smile in your face, go on about his life like it was nothing. The man even tried to romance you. The audacity was laughable. Surprisingly enough he didn’t force you into anything. Didn’t want to eat? No issue. Didn’t want to sleep? No issue? Not even go and see daylight? No isssue.

Kyle played the long game.

Your grandmother, former queen of your country, didn’t raise quitters. They raised the best of the best, power no matter the circumstances. You caved, you didn’t know where your family was, but you would survive. Do what you had to, even if that was sharing your meals with the likes of him that stole you away. Taking slow walks around the palace, guards right behind and infront just in case you ran, enjoying the somber and quiet of the scenic view of the castle that overlooked the major town down below.

Correcting the fool when he didn’t understand the deeper meaning in the literature he read to you.

“No, no, no, it’s not just words Kyle. It’s about the wanting. The yearning. Despite everything, through thick and thin, he’s there waiting for her even if the woman got married. He’d wait for her.”

And that fool, would have the stupidest grin on his face. Completely swooning when he heard your voice fill his ears, even if you did sound terribly annoyed with his lack of comprehension. Literature wasn’t his favorite, you were though.

But he sat you down one night, right next to the large lake he’d built out for you. Surrounded by flowers it was rumored you’d liked, he took your hands in his, chills running up his arms when you fingers tickled his own.

“I-I’m in love with you.”

Well, obviously. You scuffed, glancing off.

“I know I’ve made a stupid decision doing all this. But I- if you could just think about falling for me, I’d be forever greatful. If you hate it, just push me away and I’ll give you back. But just for a little while, if you could think about it. Please?” Kyle looked to you with those stupid brown eyes, giving your hands a light squeeze. You let go, looking towards the star filled sky.

“The moon,” you sighed, feeling the cool air on your skin, “it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

But how could Kyle look at the moon at a time like this, when you sat so beautiful in your green dress, breasts spilling out with every breath you took, lashes long.

He was breathless, but nodded, “Yes, yes it is.”

Love is slow, a slow dance to the old song your mother used to hum to you to sleep, and then suddenly it’s filling you. Up, up, up till it’s over spilling— that’s what falling in love was. It’s enchanting, the feeling of true love. Kyle was a dream come true. You’d meet for lunch in his office, dates in town, endless conversations of the future, hopes and dreams. Sneaking kisses whenever he got close enough. Kyle was a sly dog who melted your heart so easily. If only he had done things right, had courted you like a gentleman.

But there was so much in the way, you were spoken for before Kyle took you. By some old cunt who didn’t see you as anything but a tool to control your country, with plans to destroy the lower class.

There was only one way to save it. Save you.

You were being introduced to new servants that would attend to you— Dimitri. He was your right hand since childhood. You sobbed as soon as you got the chance to be alone with him.

“Listen to me well your highness, you mustnt tell a soul, alright?” You nodded at his words.

“We are planning a revolution. We deserve our home back. I’m here to kill the king.” Your stomach dropped. Kill the king? Kill Kyle? No. No way.

“But the king- he- Dimitri, he’s not that bad-“ you stammered, you sounded foolish.

Dimitri’s eyes squinted at you, confused, “Do you know how many of our people he’s killed? How many people have been uprooted [+], because of him?”

“I understand-“

“No, you don’t understand!” He whisper yelled, crossing the room towards you. “My brother is gone because of him! It doesn’t matter if he tries to smile in our faces, or give us new homes— family is family. I will avenge my brother if it’s the last thing I do.”

Dimitri pulls out a knife and you stumble back into your vanity. “This is yours, your highness. You could do it. Right in his sleep in five nights. It will be perfect.”

You shake your head, eyes finding his that were shaking. Erratic. “Dimitri, I-I can’t. There has to be another way.”

“It’s for your country princess. Think of your people, your land, your family— your mother. You have to. Save your country [+].” He slips the pocket knife into your shaking palms. Enclosing it in your hand with a gentle pat.

“Five nights. You do it, or I will.” He repeats.

Your stomach continuously turned, what right did you have to fall in love with the man that attacked you home, your family?

You had no other choice. You either prove your love of your country by slitting his throat, or you take the blade the servant reserved for Kyle yourself.

You didn’t want to kill him. Kyle had so much to live for, he had a vision. Create a country that celebrated both your country’s history, marry you right at the border, on the shores, citizens from all around in attendance. But he ran into your knife, you’d thought you heard some strange noise, went to go investigate yourself. You two ran into each other, the knife entering his abdomen. Blood spread through his attire, you immediately went to him.

“It’s okay [+], it’s okay.” He coo’s Tears filled your eyes.

“It’s not okay! I need to get a physician. Give me one moment Kyle-“ but you can’t even stand to get before Kyle grips your wrist tightly.

“[+], it’s okay.” He insists, cupping your cheek, “I know about the plans. It’s okay.”

“Kyle, listen to me. That wasn’t- this wasn’t my plan. None of this was my plan. I didn’t want any of this! I wanted- I wanted to be-“ you choke on your own words.

I wanted to be with you.

“-I know.” He winces. It’s the words you two have left unsaid. Hanging in the air. He coughs, “Your family, is on the countryside. Safe. The counsil wanted the dead but- ugh- I could let them be treated like that. You take that jewelry box on the nightstand and run to them. For me, okay? Live your life just as you wanted [+].”

Why didn’t he tell you that sooner? Why didn’t he you that they’d been okay? Safe? Did he think you’d run once you’d heard those words? Never come back? You want to groan, punch him in the face, but you just shake your head, applying pressure onto the stab wound with trembling hands. Tears spilling over your face.

“I would’ve chosen you Kyle. A thousand times, I would’ve always chosen you.” You sob.

Faintly, the ends of lips curve up, caressing your cheek with his weak hand, “I’ve always loved- I love-“ Kyle chokes on his own blood. The words unable to come out. He gives you a nod, go. You kiss him like it’s the last time, gently on his pretty lips. Youre shaking when you scramble yourself up, one last look to his handsome face, then you grabbed the jewelry box and ran.

You didn’t even get to lay Kyle to rest, the guards were coming, you had to go in your blood stained dress, bare foot through the woods, still crying. You went exactly to the place he said your family was. It didn’t take long to hear that the king was dead. The revolution didn’t end up happening. Kyle’s younger brother taking the thrown. You prayed to the heavens to let you atone for your sins, let you see Kyle one more time.

But this wasn’t what you asked for. A curse fell upon you. You’ve tried everything to die, gotten in car crashes, took as many drugs as you could, stabbed yourself— to no avail. You were stuck on this earth until some other power took you.

You’d known John since he was a kid, about eight when his parents asked you to babysit him and his younger sister. John was one of the people few people who saw you, spotting out the tiredness in your deep brown eyes that hid behind your youth.

“You wanna take a nap? I’ll protect you and the baby,” He offered, big blue eyes peering up at you. You wanted to laugh, a cute little thing. Eager to prove himself, an adult label him as strong. “I’m good baby, thank you though.”

John had to be twenty five when he found out you were immortal. There was no way you, who had been twenty-three, nineteen years ago and still look exactly the same. No frown lines, no weight gained nor lost, no facial or body changes from surgery (and John was one that could tell). You were still his hot childhood crush from all those years that he gave up on. You’d confessed without a second thought, what did you have to lose at this point?

John was still the same as you’d known him to be; patient, understanding, protective— he was like a kid brother to you. Even though now, as you made your way over to him after him being in no man’s land for months with his comrades, the child you baby sat was getting old. Grays showing in his beard, more worry lines in his forehead, hairline receding, but he still looked at you with those giddy ocean blue eyes.

“Can’t believe you’re actually showing up [+].” You finally agreed to meet John and his friends. You needed a night out after the long and tedious move from Canada. You’d have a laugh and a drink, enjoy his friends company.

“It’s actually Shannon according to my documents.” Way of the world, there was no way you could live for 1000 years and not change your name a couple times. It’d been five years, you’re always off somewhere since you can never stay too longs people ask too many questions. You kept in contact with the aging man though, a few calls and texts here and there. John was so text savvy you couldn’t keep up with some of the things he’d sent you.

“We’re sat in the back, you can’t miss the man with the skull mask when you see it.”

Skull mask?

“Just trust me old woman, nothing to worry about!”

You hadn’t even realized you said your words aloud— hold it— old?

Your mouth opens in astonishment and amusement, “Now you listen here you little fuckin brat-“

“—The musics getting loud, can’t hear you!” And the call disconnects.

You chuckle to yourself, that old man was still such a fucking kid. The bars crowded, typical for Saturday night. The bar was filled with regular civilians and then the military folks who noticeably just got off of work. You’d seen that skull mask from a fair distance away, the brute was tall, out of place but had a glint in his eyes.

You didn’t even need to see the front of his face to know who it was. Brown skin, a short fade showing off his little curls atop of his head, big ears, and that annoyingly contagious laugh.

You’d felt nauseous.

Immediately turning on your heals and out the door.

John pout was noticeable through his beard, standing up and looking around for that head of curls you could never tame, mumbling where the hell you were.

Ghost cocked his head, licit ing his drink to sip on his beer, “She’s gone.”

Gone?

His phone buzzed.

‘Feeling sick. Let’s catch up next time.’

You weren’t one to run away from anything.

John knew that, not even that Great Dane came pouncing on you that scared him and his sister when he was kid, not when someone tried to rob you at knife point when he was ten and not when you had to perform cpr on his sister after she went swimming by herself when she wasn’t supposed to.

But there was one time, one singular time John remembers all too well because he’d never seen such fear in your eyes. You were shopping for him and his sisters school clothes, listening to the story his sister was rambling on about, and then your smile dropped when they touched. You almost dropped the bag in your hand. You lifted his sister and started walking in the opposite direction. “Why are we leaving? We just got here!” John whined standing in place.

Your eyes snapped to the little boy, and he almost gasped at the state of you. Those tired eyes were there again. “Just- damn it John-“ you squeezed your eyes shut in frustration then bent down, smoothing out his hair and gave him the best smile you could, “John, I need you to help me out? Watch my back for me, alright?”

Young John didnt hesitate to protect you, he saw you as a princess, just like the stories you’d told him as a child. And he your loyal servant. A mini Dimitri.

John hadn’t realized the stories you told him, which you’d tweaked to be age appropriate, were about you till you confessed you were immortal. And he’d remembered those details you said, like you were recalling something that just happened. Gaz fit the description to a T.

The man pressed you about when he randomly came over for lunch, dangling a bag of Nandos in hand.

You were a sucker for free food.

“Does- does the man you love— he’s the sergeant under me, isn’t he?” There’s an uncomfortable pause, the only sound of the mini tv and the crumbled bag on your kitchen table. You sniffed.

“You trynna upset me John? This was supposed to be a quaint meal.” You laugh his question off, continuing to eat and take a sip of wine. Day drinking on a week day? Not like you had shit else to do. You catch John in the corner of your eye, unmoving. Watching you, his eyebrows down in worry.

You sigh, setting you plate down and sipping your hands with a napkin, “If you could find him someone to love John, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“But [+]-“

“—John.” You raised you voice.

You lean over, resting you elbows on your knees and pushing your hair to your back. “I’ve fallin in love with Gaz over 100 times in my life. Fallin out of love with him 20 times. Both things you’ll never witness in your one life time. I’m stuck here while everyone leaves, and I mean everyone.”

“I’d just rather he’d never met me and live a proper life for once. Maybe God will free us from this endless cycle.” You look over at John, eyes glossy and clasping your own hands.

You plead, “Could you do this for me John? Please? Just this one time? Watch my back, like you’ve always done.”

Five months.

You’d watched Kyle go on dates for five months.

Price kept his promise to you.

Maybe it’s cynical. Delusional. But you wanted Kyle to find happiness to badly, you made sure John played the best wing man anyone’s ever seen. You’d given the old hag your description of Kyle’s type though he didn’t feed into it too much. He’d known you were what Gaz was looking for.

You and John were watching across the backyard of the party his friends were holding at their house that was too large. The music is loud and people were dancing, laughing and drinking to their hearts content. Times like this took you back. The late 60s, you and Kyle would dance any chance you could, till both your feet hurt but Kyle was the one who had to carry you home. You two would dance in clubs, basement parties, in the streets, while waiting in line at the grocery to that song your mom used to hum to you.

Another life Kyle died too soon. Too young. He drowned.

“I don’t think he’s happy doing all this [+].” John finally says, passing your cigarette back.

Ensuring his happiness didn’t make him happy?

Kyle was with talking to a girl across the way. She was pretty, short, perfectly blown out red hair, pretty green eyes, a slim body— anyone would fall for her. She was rubbing up Kyle’s arms while laughing at something he said.

Did it hurt? Of course it did.

But this was for the better. You could imagine him walking down the aisle, him grinning at her with his pearly whites, you would’ve killed to have that yourself. But you’re letting it go. Let that dream die.

“You don’t think he should be the one to choose who to love [+]? It’s his life you know.”

But the option would always end up being you. No matter what he did, no matter what you did. You were too magnets, drawn to each other no matter the time or place.

You shook your head, inhaling the cigarette between your fingers, “you wouldn’t get it.”

“I’m trying to, really I am. But if the kid loves you-“

“-You don’t think it’s painful for me John?” You snap, hands balling into fists, “Seein him be with someone else? Seeing him live a happy life without me?”

“Then be happy with him, [+]! Even if it’s just for a little while! Have you ever just decided to love him without thinking of the repercussions? Just love him as is. Maybe- then maybe-“

“—You don’t know what it’s like John!” You whisper yelled. You huffed, dragging him further out so no one could hear your conversation. “I’ve seen Kyle die over and over and over. There’s no happy ending for us! There will never be a happy ending for us. Can’t you get that!?”

“He’ll look at me but he won’t even know who I am! But I will. Me, who’s seen every side of him already John, every misstep, every flaw, every beauty— I’ve seen it. John I’m tired! I’m sick of having my heart broken.” You angrily wipe your tears.

It was like you were trapped in a revolving door.

“It’s always just me. Always. Someone has to move on.”

It was almost like insict when Kyle’s eyes fell on you. An, “where’ve you’ve been this whole time”. The woman in front of him was rambling but he couldn’t register it. Now when he found you smoking with John.

“Look out for my friend Shannon tonight. I think you’ll like her more than who Soap’s got you foolin around with.”

The younger man didn’t take his Captain serious at first. There was no way Price would try to set him up with an older woman, would he?

But there you were, young and beautiful. Your facial expressions dancing from irritated to amused, chuckling at whatever John had said. He indulged in the current conversation for a second and then lost sight of the two of you.

He pouted. “I’m sorry, i think my friend is callin me.”

“Hurry back!”

Gaz wouldn’t see her for the rest of the night.

Kyle made his way through the crowd, eyes trying to catch a glimpse of you one more time. Maybe you were already gone, just a one time face Gaz would see in his dreams. But his gut told him to keep looking for you and Price.

And there you were, on the dock, just the two of you. A silence between the two of you but a pout on your lips. Maybe Gaz could cheer you up.

Kyle glanced between you and Price as he walked over, shaking off his sudden nervousness when his eyes met the state of you. Face tear stained, mascara running, plump lips painted dark red. Long braids in a low pony tail with and edges laid, cigarette dancing between your fingers with a leather jacket hanging off your shoulders, and short black skirt. Gaz was enamored by you even though you knew you looked a mess. Goosebumps rolling up his arms as he extended his hand to greet you, “You must be Shannon, Price has been talking about you. ‘M Gaz.”

Oh, you know.

You sniff, head throbbing and heart breaking for the umpteenth time. He didn’t remember you, again.

Roll credits.

Another cycle on the carousel that was being in love with Kyle.

“It’s [+], actually.”

And he tilts his chiseled face, a pout forming, “You alright there [+]?”

And you’d get on this merry-go-round again and again, only for him, always for him. You extend your hand, grasping his large yet gentle hand in yours with a small smile. Just like you first met. Here we go again.

“I’m perfect now.”

a/n: to the three people who end up reading this. I love you. Lmk what you think. This is my first time writing for Gaz, hopefully I did okay.

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heyitspapayaontop · 3 days ago

Text

Oh, Amore...

Request: 🌺 (But Kimi version!)

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x WEC Driver!reader

Themes: Minor angst with fluff (againnn!!)

Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)

Summary: Losing Le Mans wasn't supposed to happen. So Kimi cuts his weekend short to go help you.

A/N: imma move this up here. Kimi looks so cute in the first pic