#and the ghost’s like a fragment or pathetic or something like that

[snail-day]

With All My Heart, Will You Be Mine?

Sum: Happy Valentine's Day!

Yan! Yakuza Gojo x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Graphic violence/torture, Terminal Illness (Reader), Blood, Gore, Dubcon kisses, Masturbation (Gojo), Manipulation, Forced Surgery, mentions of murder. MDNI

WC: 5.8k

A/n: Thank you 💖 anon for feeding me yummy ideas, lots of smoochies for you. You will receive my kidney for Valentine's day, keep it safe, use it for school! MWAH!

Really, truly - Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Absolutely. Intrigue at first sight? Happens all the time. But love? The heart-pounding, palm-sweating, head-spinning kind that made fools of otherwise rational men? No.

He was a romantic, sure, but not delusional.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a dingy little house in Tokyo, meant to be handling business like the good little Yakuza heir he was, only to be hit with something so absurd, so world-altering, so utterly ridiculous that it left him breathless.

And on Valentine’s Day, no less.

It was almost poetic, if not for the fact that he should have been spending his evening hunting for buy-one-get-one-free desserts, maybe stuffing his face with something obscenely sweet, letting powdered sugar melt on his tongue instead of dealing with this nonsense.

Instead, he was here, wasting time on a pathetic excuse of a man who had made one too many promises and delivered on exactly none.

The debtor knelt before him, flanked by two of his men, the poor bastard's shoulders hunched, his body shaking so violently that the faint sound of his teeth chattering filled the otherwise silent room.

Satoru sighed, rolling his shoulders, letting his hands flex, testing the weight of his own strength. A simple knockout, maybe - if the guy was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, there were other ways to collect.

If you can’t pay up, surely your organs can.

His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles shifting beneath his skin, ready to land a single, decisive blow. His arm swung back, muscles tensing, the force behind it measured yet lethal.

He missed.

His knuckles cut through empty space.

The Gojo Satoru, who never missed, whose strikes always found their target with effortless precision, had missed.

Something lurched inside him. Something sharp, something foreign, something completely uninvited. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his chest seizing up with a feeling that sent his pulse stammering, erratic.

The air in the room shifted, charged, like static clinging to his skin, humming beneath his fingertips, curling tight around his throat like an invisible wire. His breath hitched, a sharp, unexpected inhale that felt too much, too rapid, too overwhelming.

His body, his very existence, felt like it had been shoved off balance.

And all because of a picture frame.

A broken one, at that. Glass shards, littered the floor, glinting under the dim overhead light. His gaze flickered downward, catching the jagged fragments scattered like slivers of ice against the worn wooden planks.

And nestled between them, half-buried beneath the wreckage, was you.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, forcing himself to move slowly, as if rushing might break the spell of this moment. His gaze briefly flickered toward Ijichi, who stood stiffly near the door, face pale, fingers twitching at his sleeves.

Satoru ignored him, poor Ijichi's silent pleas to please get this over with. Instead, he bent down, his long, gloved fingers ghosting over the broken glass before carefully lifting the frame from the mess. His movements were strangely reverent, cautious in a way that had nothing to do with avoiding injury and everything to do with the image trapped behind the cracked glass.

You.

Oh.

His throat tightened.

A snapshot of softness. A moment of warmth and light and everything gentle in a world that had only ever been sharp edges and raw violence to him. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the frame over, gloved knuckles brushing against the broken glass, the sting of tiny cuts breaking through the protective barrier. Satoru barely noticed. The world had already tilted.

His breath came faster, shallower, something hot and unfamiliar crawling up his spine. His face felt warm. Too warm. Heat bloomed beneath his skin, creeping up from his chest, spilling up the curve of his throat, flushing the tips of his ears. His pulse—normally steady, untouchable—stammered, then slammed against his ribs, hammering like a war drum inside him.

His brain wasn’t working, actually Satoru's entire body was doing things it shouldn’t be doing. The way his fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like something precious, something irreplaceable, something already his.

And then—before he could stop himself—

He giggled.

A soft, breathless little sound, slipped past his soft pink lips without his permission, without his control. The feeling was utterly foreign to him, so completely out of place in this bloodstained room, that even the lackeys flinched.

The debtor—poor bastard, still kneeling, still hoping for mercy—dared to look up. His breath stuttered, a trembling, desperate sound escaping his lips when he caught the sight of Satoru, hunched over the picture frame, grinning like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

And then, in a panic-stricken voice, hoarse and broken, he begged.

“T-That’s my daughter,” he gasped, voice cracking, his entire body lurching forward before the men at his sides yanked him back into place. “P-Please! Please, don’t - d-don’t hurt her, please!”

Satoru stilled for a few beats. His long fingers twitched against the frame, his grip tightening just slightly. Slowly, he raised his gaze, sharp blue eyes gleaming, amusement flickering beneath something far, far more dangerous., a fool in love.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Satoru let out another breathless, giddy laugh.

“Oh,” he murmured, his voice a shade too light, a whisper too smooth. “Your daughter?” tilting his head, lips parting slightly, like he was tasting the words, rolling them around on his tongue just to see how they felt. Satoru's pulse was still racing, breathing still felt too fast, face still burned.

What a beautiful feeling. Love was truly a beautiful thing, he was a fool for thinking overwise. His lips curved into a lazy, lovesick smile. A slow exhale left him as he traced his thumb over the crack in the glass.

“What a lucky man you are,” Satoru mused, voice warm, teasing, almost affectionate. “To have someone so precious.”

Satoru's fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like he could sink it into himself, steal you away, make you his. Careless to the shards of glass pressing themselves into his shirt, sodden with blood.

And then, with a soft, almost dreamy sigh, he whispered into the room -

“Oh, I think I’m in love.”

The debtor was still babbling, breath coming in ragged little gasps, his face pale and sweat-slicked, as if he expected Gojo to snap him in half at any second.

Poor guy.

Satoru’s expression shifted the sharp gleam in his eyes melting into something lighter, dreamier. His lips curled into a soft, almost fond smile, the heat still high on his cheeks as he turned his attention back to the trembling man kneeling before him.

A soft chuckle left him - light, airy, amused.

"I think we got the wrong guy, Ijichi-san," he mused, voice kept casual, lilting as if discussing the weather. Ijichi stiffened from his place near the door, blinking rapidly behind his fogged-up glasses, clearly unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. Still kneeling, leaned in just slightly, one gloved hand reaching out to cup the debtor’s jaw.

The man flinched hard.

His entire body shuddered, a choked sound spilling from his lips, but Satoru’s touch was shockingly gentle - a stark contrast to the raw strength curled beneath his fingers. His thumb stroked slowly along the man’s cheek, a featherlight touch, almost affectionate as if comforting a dear old friend.

Then - he patted his cheek. Soft. Reassuring. And yet, something far, far worse than a punch.

Because Gojo Satoru was smiling.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the smug little grin of a man who enjoyed toying with his prey - but something softer.

Something warm.

Something that didn’t belong in a bloodstained room.

His head tilted slightly, bright blue eyes twinkling, the blush still lingering across his pale skin as he murmured, voice dipped in unsettling fondness -

"My apologies, father-in-law."

The debtor let out a broken sob.

The room was silent, tense, like everyone was waiting to see if their boss had finally snapped. He swallowed hard, forcing down the giddy little laugh bubbling up his throat. He needed to—no, he had to—figure this out. He had to figure you out.

Satoru was still thinking about you, even during his long day of hard work. Ah, he should be charging your rent for invading his mind like this!

The poor businessman in front of him wailed, body jerking violently against the restraints, but Satoru barely acknowledged it. He twirled the bloodied pliers between his fingers, splattering droplets of red onto the floor, his mind elsewhere.

“You guys ever been in love?”

The lackeys standing near the wall exchanged uneasy glances.

“U-uh… boss?”

Satoru hummed softly, affectionately as if he hadn’t just ripped a nail from the man’s hand a second ago. He turned to one of the lackeys, holding up the pliers like a microphone.

“Be honest with me. What’s the best way to impress a girl?”

Silence.

Even the poor bastard tied to the chair stopped whimpering. The loan sharks shifted uncomfortably, like they weren’t sure if this was a trick question.

Gojo sighed, tapping the pliers against his chin. Careless to the blood staining his pale skin.

“See, I’m thinking flowers - girls like flowers, right? But that feels so… normal.” Voice coming out light, thoughtful, as if he were discussing dessert options instead of dating strategies while actively torturing someone.

A lackey gulped. “Uh… I-I guess girls like grand gestures?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. Oh. Ohhh. That was good. That was so good. Satoru's grin stretched wider, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s what I was thinking too! Maybe I could make a little event out of it.” He flexed his fingers around the pliers before suddenly plunging them back into the man’s hand, gripping tight around another nail. The man wailed, body convulsing, but Satoru just clicked his tongue.

“Stay still, I’m having a moment here.”

He wrenched the pliers back with an almost theatrical flourish, watching as the nail came free, dripping red. He turned it between his fingers, examining it as he continued, “Like, I could just show up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend,’ but I dunno… that lacks finesse, don’t you think?”

Another lackey hesitated. “Uh… maybe you should… get to know her first?”

Satoru gasped. Ohhh. His fingers twitched, his pulse spiking, excitement crawling up his spine. “That’s a great idea! I should do some research. Find out what she likes, where she goes, who she spends time with - ”

He sighed dreamily, resting his chin on his gloved palm, pliers still in his grasp. “Ahh, this is so exciting. Who knew I’d find love on Valentine’s Day?”

The lackeys exchanged horrified glances.

The man in the chair sobbed.

Gojo barely noticed.

He was too busy imagining what kind of flowers you’d like.

Like any devoted future husband, he did his research.

By the time he finally stepped out of the shower after his long, excruciatingly confusing day—one he would rather you never know about—he had already started planning.

Steam curled in lazy ribbons around the dimly lit bathroom, clinging to the warm air like a ghost of the heat that had soaked into his skin. Water dripped from his snow-white damp hair, collecting in cool rivulets as they rolled down the sculpted lines of his collarbone, tracing the dip of his spine before vanishing into the plush towel slung around his waist. The overhead light flickered faintly against the condensation beading along the mirror, his reflection hazy and unfocused.

Satoru dragged a hand through his messy, damp white locks, pushing them back from his forehead, his fingers catching briefly on stubborn strands. He let out a slow breath, watching as the fogged-up mirror distorted his image, his usually sharp features blurred at the edges. For a moment, he simply stared, tilting his head slightly, his glowing blue eyes piercing through the humidity with an intensity that felt foreign, even to him.

His face felt… different.

He knew himself, had spent years looking at this very reflection - at the striking symmetry of his features, the lazy curve of his mouth, the effortless charm that had always drawn people in. But now? Now there was something wrong.

Or maybe something right.

His cheeks were warm, a soft flush spreading across his pale skin, settling stubbornly beneath his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. His lips—usually curled in an easy smirk, something smug and sharp-edged—felt softer, stretched into a stupid, giddy smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless, barely contained energy coiling under his skin. He could feel the uneven rhythm of his own pulse, the unsteady way it hammered against his ribs - too fast, too eager, like something wild and untamed.

A shaky laugh slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, and immediately pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to stifle the ridiculous giggle that threatened to bubble up again.

Oh, what the fuck was this?

His stomach clenched - not in discomfort, not in anger, not in anything he could name. The feeling felt like being electrocuted. It felt like a freefall, plummeting into something dark and bottomless, with no hope of stopping. His chest ached, a tight pull between his ribs, something raw and desperate.

This wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal.

Satoru’s fingers curled into the edge of the sink, gripping the cold marble, but it did nothing to steady him. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the haze filling his head, thick and suffocating. He needed to focus.

His smirk twitched, wavering for just a second before solidifying again, as he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here in the first place.

He had a plan.

Of course, he already knew he’d have to privatize a lot of your information. It wasn’t safe for someone as delicate, as beautiful as you to be left unprotected.

A beauty like you? Out in the open?

Far too dangerous.

You were just waiting to be taken, waiting for someone less deserving to snatch you up before he had the chance to make you his. The very thought sent an ugly, seething heat curling low in his stomach, his jaw tightening at the idea of someone else even thinking they had the right to look at you.

And then there was your father. Reckless. Stupid. Careless. Gambling away money, selling away your future with every thoughtless bet. If someone had to pay for his mistakes, it wouldn’t be you. It wouldn’t ever be you.

Satoru sighed, wiping the condensation from the mirror with the heel of his palm, only for it to fog up again seconds later. The humidity clung to him, soaking into his flushed skin as his gaze flickered toward the glow of his phone screen.

His research was proving… interesting.

His body froze.

The warmth in his chest twisted, coiling tighter, tighter, tighter, something sharp lodging itself behind his ribs. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the cold marble of the sink.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The words didn’t change.

Waitlisted for a heart transplant.

His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his vision blurring, as if the letters themselves were somehow wrong, as if seeing them enough times could make them disappear, could make them not real.

His throat was dry, the earlier lightheaded giddiness evaporating, replaced by something heavy and unfamiliar.

A slow breath, shaky and uneven, pushed past his lips.

Then another.

His heart stuttered.

Then picked up again, pounding, throbbing, screaming against his ribs with a force that almost hurt.

His lungs felt tight.

This—this wasn’t—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

His stomach twisted violently, sickening nausea curling through him as he forced himself to swallow, his fingers digging into the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

He could fix this.

Of course, he could.

It was so simple.

Well.

He could just give you his.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His own ridiculous, hopelessly lovesick heart—wasn’t it already yours?

Wasn’t it already beating for you, racing every time he thought about you?

He wanted you to have it.

Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be romantic?

A tremor ran through his shoulders, something between a laugh and a shaky exhale, his body shuddering under the weight of the thought. He grinned, wide and almost delirious, his fingers drumming absently against the counter, a restless, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

Oh.

Different blood types.

The air seized in his lungs.

An awful thing, really. A tragedy. A fucking crime.

It would have been the greatest honor - to have his very own heart inside your body, keeping you alive, keeping you safe, ensuring that he was always with you, always the one keeping you beating.

His grip on the counter tightened, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror. His stupid, desperate, lovesick heart was still hammering, pounding so hard it hurt, and—

And he just knew.

No one else could have you.

You were his.

And if fate wasn’t going to let him keep you safe the way he wanted, then— - He’d just find another way.

A soft, breathless giggle slipped from his lips.

It was almost sweet.

Oh.

Oh, he loved this.

You were going to love him too.

Satoru wasn’t sure how he ended up here, standing in the soft glow of your hospital room, arms full of entirely too many roses, pretending he didn’t just spend weeks memorizing everything about you.

This was supposed to be casual. A natural, effortless, totally normal meeting where he charmed his way into your life like it was meant to be. And it was meant to be, of course - he already decided that long before you even knew his name.

But none of his meticulous planning, none of the hours of preparation, none of it prepared him for this.

Because now that he was actually standing in front of you, he could feel his carefully constructed mask cracking at the edges.

And it was all your fault.

You blinked up at him, your wide, curious gaze unraveling him completely. Even in your frailty—IV drips, hospital gown, the telltale exhaustion clinging to your frame—you still managed to look like the single most perfect thing he had ever seen.

Then, it happened.

A smile.

A soft, hesitant little thing, warm enough to make his knees feel weak.

And then - the monitor.

The steady beep, beep, beep of your heart rate suddenly spiked, an unmistakable, rapid rhythm filling the otherwise quiet room.

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Oh.

The realization crashed into him like a freight train.

Your heart was racing.

Because of him.

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the roses tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate stems, the thorns pricking at his skin, he barely noticed. His own heartbeat had gone completely wild, hammering so loudly against his ribs that he was sure the entire hospital could hear it.

Heat rushed to his face, a creeping blush crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his entire body betraying him. He could feel it, the warmth spreading under his skin, the dizzying, giddy sensation that made him want to scream into the nearest pillow.

You were flustered over him.

Him.

Gojo Satoru.

A helpless, breathless giggle bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he barely managed to cover it with a light cough, turning his head slightly as if that would somehow hide the absolute mess he was becoming.

He had to pull it together.

His entire existence led up to this moment, and he would not be the reason he messed it up.

Clearing his throat, schooled his expression into something softer, gentler, the perfect image of a man who had no idea what was happening.

"Ah," he started, voice almost too smooth, though there was an undeniable waver at the edges. He made a show of looking down at the roses, adjusting his grip as if suddenly realizing he was still holding them. "I… didn’t expect anyone to be here."

Your lips parted, the faintest hint of surprise flitting across your features. He wanted to frame the moment, keep it forever.

He forced himself to keep talking, keep lying, before his knees actually gave out, even if they did, he'd crawl to you, rest his head on your lap - He'd be your dog if you'd just ask.

“It seems the room has already been cleared a while ago,” he continued, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “I used to leave roses here for my mother.”

The words left his mouth too easily, even as his pulse refused to slow down. Satoru's fingers twitched, gripping the flowers just a little too tight because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you wanted him to stay.

And that damn monitor -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Each sharp little sound sent heat straight to his face. He could feel it, the way his blush deepened, the way it spread down his neck, his body completely betraying him in real time.

You liked him.

You were crushing on him.

You were falling for him.

Satoru had to physically stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to tighten his grip on the bouquet, had to plant his feet firmly on the ground because he swore to god if he let go of his restraint for even a second, he would throw himself at you and never let go.

This was dangerous.

You were dangerous.

Because he had barely even spoken yet, and you were already his.

And oh, you had no idea what that meant for you.

His stomach did another awful, fluttery thing, his entire world tilting as he dared to meet your gaze again.

“Would it be alright… if I left these here?” he asked, voice lower, smoother, betraying absolutely none of the chaos screaming inside him.

You nodded, still watching him with soft, wide eyes, and Satoru had to bite back a whimper. His stomach twisted, something fluttering, tightening - something unbearable and all-consuming. He had barely spoken to you, and yet, here you were, already accepting him, already letting him into your space. It was almost too much. Almost devastating.

He placed the roses carefully on the side table, arranging them with precision, as if they were an offering, as if their placement mattered more than anything else in the world. His fingers lingered on the petals, smoothing them down, before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

Your gaze was still on him. Soft. Trusting. Beautiful.

Operation: True Love had been enacted.

And it didn’t stop there.

It had become routine. Every morning, without fail, he made sure you had your favorite coffee in your hands before the sun had fully risen. Even on the nights when sleep barely kissed his eyes, when exhaustion tugged at his limbs, when his body ached from handling the scum that threatened the delicate world he was building for you, he always stopped by that little café.

It was such a simple thing, really - just a cup of coffee. But for Satoru, it was a symbol of devotion. Every single action, no matter how small, was done with you in mind. He memorized your schedule, your favorite flavors, the way you liked it just a little sweeter when you were feeling under the weather. He took a sip of it each time before handing it to you, just to be certain that it was decaffeinated, that your already delicate heart wouldn’t be forced to work harder than it needed to.

He had memorized everything about your condition, studied every prescription bottle by your bedside, traced his fingers over the labels when you weren’t looking, committing them all to memory. He knew your dosages, your restrictions, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when the medication began to wear off.

That was why, when the first drop of coffee hit his tongue that morning, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

The perfect order wasn’t right.

The bitterness was too strong, the warmth that settled in his stomach too telling. He pulled the cup away from his lips and stared at it, Satoru's mind running over the implications. The barista had switched it - either through incompetence or indifference, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

If he had been careless if he had handed it to you without checking if your poor little heart had struggled against the caffeine -

His hands began to shake, a slow, curling fury unfurling in his gut. The weight of what could have happened, of what he almost allowed to happen, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him. His fingers curled around the coffee cup, the lid creaking under the pressure as he slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just a mistake.

This was a threat.

Satoru's grip on the cup remained eerily calm as he turned and walked back to the counter, each step measured, deliberate. His head tilted slightly, a soft, almost playful smile curving at his lips as he met the eyes of the barista who had handed him the drink. The poor fool didn’t even realize what they had done.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, voice light, almost teasing, like he was about to share a secret. “Quick question.”

The barista looked up, confused, but obliging. “Uh, yeah?”

Satoru took another slow step forward, resting his arms against the counter as he leaned in slightly. Bright blue eyes studied the poor barista, carefully, searching for a flicker of remorse, of understanding, but all he saw was ignorance.

That wouldn’t do.

A wider smile traced his lips, tilting his head as if in thought. “Tell me,” he said, voice still honey-smooth, still light as air, as if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface. “Do you know what happens when a heart stops beating?”

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The barista blinked, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Uh - ”

Satoru didn’t wait for an answer.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the barista’s wrist before they even had a chance to flinch. He pulled them forward with terrifying ease, dragging them halfway over the counter, ignoring the startled gasps of the people around him. His grip tightened, just enough to feel the fragile bones beneath his fingers shift under the pressure, just enough to send a message.

He could hear the barista's pulse, feel the steady rhythm beneath their skin.

Pathetic excuse of a life.

“You see,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against their skin, “a little thing like caffeine doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just a tiny mistake.”

The barista let out a whimper, their free hand scrambling against the countertop, desperate to pull away.

Satoru grinned.

“But when the person drinking it has a heart that’s already struggling?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Well… then it’s a problem.”

He pressed down, just a little.

Just enough for something to pop.

The barista screamed.

Satoru sighed, shaking his head. “You almost killed someone very, very special to me,” he mused, watching the way their face twisted in agony. “And that makes me so sad.”

His fingers flexed.

The wrist in his hand gave way with a sickening crack.

The barista’s shriek pierced the air, loud and raw, but the café remained still.

No one moved.

No one ever did.

Satoru leaned in, crystalline eyes manic, lips just inches away from their ear, and whispered, soft as silk, “Do you know what that means?”

Their sobs were answer enough.

The next morning, Satoru entered your hospital room as if nothing had happened. The coffee was warm in his hands, a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth, exactly the way you liked it. You were just beginning to stir, your soft hands rubbing at your sleepy eyes, body curled up under the thick blankets.

You looked so sweet, so untouched by the world, that for a moment, he felt like he was burning alive. The moment your eyes landed on him, you smiled, slow and shy, and Satoru swore he felt his heart explode.

“Good morning, dumpling,” he greeted, sick with love, drowning in it, choking on it. You blinked up at him, looking so grateful, so happy, as you took the coffee from his hands.

He watched as you took a sip, watched as you sighed contentedly, watched as your heart monitor picked up just a little.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The world around him faded, the memory of bloodied hands, broken screams, the useless little stumps where the barista’s fingers used to be all vanishing in the wake of your soft, wide eyes.

Nothing else mattered.

Not when you were safe.

Not when he was the one keeping you that way.

You still didn’t know.

But soon, you would.

He was waiting for the perfect moment - something grand, something special. Something that would tie you to him forever.

He loved watching over you.

He loved the way your eyelids would flutter, lashes casting delicate shadows against your cheeks as the medication coaxed you into sleep. He loved the way you’d sigh - soft, breathy little noises, so unaware, so vulnerable, your fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve as if you knew you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

Because this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Pressed into him, into his warmth, trusting and unguarded. His perfect little angel, unknowingly tucking yourself into the arms of the only man in the world who could love you properly.

You didn’t know what he had done to make sure you were safe.

Didn’t know how many hands he had taken, how many screams he had silenced, how many unworthy bastards had been erased for so much as looking at you too long.

Didn’t know how many times he had sat here, in this exact position, staring at the fragile line of your throat, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, watching the way your lips parted slightly as you exhaled.

Didn’t know how much it hurt to love you like this.

Because it did hurt.

It ached.

It burned, it devoured, it twisted inside him like something feral, something unsatisfied.

You were so small in his arms. So delicate.

And yet, his love for you was so enormous, so all-consuming, that sometimes he felt like he would crush you under the weight of it.

Every time your fingers twitched against him, every time your body relaxed, every time you made those tiny, sleepy noises, something inside him curled tight, so tight, too tight.

It was adoration.

It was devotion.

It was worship.

And yet, beneath that softness, beneath the aching love, there was something else.

Something darker.

Something needy.

Something filthy.

Because sometimes, when your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, when your lips parted just slightly when your warm, sleepy body curled into his, something unbearable coiled in his stomach, something starved and desperate, something that made him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The heat would pool low in his abdomen, coiling hot, tight, a restless hunger, a pressure that made his breath come faster, shallower.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that you were so sweet, so trusting, so untouchable - and yet, your body fit against his so perfectly.

It wasn’t fair that you were right here, so warm, so soft, so completely his—but he couldn’t touch.

Couldn’t have.

Not yet.

Not the way he wanted to.

Not the way he needed to.

And God—God, what an awful man he was.

What a disgusting, depraved, vile creature he had become.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

You were pure, delicate, untouched.

You needed protection.

You needed his care.

And yet, his traitorous body was already reacting, already stiffening, already pressing painfully against the fabric of his slacks, already begging for relief.

The feel was humiliating, sickening.

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself to stop - Satoru couldn’t.

Couldn’t because you were so fucking beautiful. Because you were so fucking his. Because even long after he had gently laid you back against your pillows, even after he had stroked the soft strands of your hair away from your face, even after he had kissed your forehead so gently, so reverently, he still felt that sickening vile feeling, the pressure of his hardened cock against his slacks. That unbearable heat, that sickening desire, the overwhelming need to relieve the pressure before it drove him insane.

So he would excuse himself.

With the calmest smile, with the gentlest voice, he would whisper, "Sleep well, sugar."

Then Satoru would slip out of the room and head straight to the hospital restroom.

Lock the door.

Pull out his phone.

And scroll through the hundreds of photos he had taken of you.

Some were from your walks in the park, when you were strong enough to leave the hospital, your face turned toward the sunlight, your soft laughter trapped in still frames, preserved just for him.

Others were taken without your knowledge, stolen moments when you were distracted when your lips were pursed in thought, when your fingers played with the frayed edge of your hospital bracelet, when you gazed out the window with that distant, dreamy look.

And God, his angel, his girl, his everything -

With shaking hands, he would unbuckle his belt, slide his hand into his pants, stroking himself to the images of you, barely able to breathe, biting his own lip to silence the pathetic little noises threatening to escape.

It felt so wrong.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And when he was finished, hot and sticky, Satoru would take a moment to look at your photo, his release streaked across your delicate face, your soft smile, your innocent little eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, he would draw tiny hearts in the filth, circling your cheeks, tracing the outline of your lips.

Soon he will be able to be a bit more selfish, to feel those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock, be able to coo at you to take more into your mouth, to feel the swirl of your tongue around his hardened length.

Oh, Satoru couldn't help but feel his heart pound against his chest at the idea of your sweet warm cunt wrapped around him, he'd be so gentle. Take his sweet time, he knew he had to be gentle, you were a sick little thing. Should he cockwarm you first? Get you used to him? Get you used to feeling so full, to the stretch, to the feeling of having him deep inside you.

Fuck looks like he has to give it another go, you little minx. Raiding his thoughts as always - a slight giggle escaped his throat before he began to stroke himself once again.

Satoru had made sure you both were exclusive, ensured your father understood that no other man would come near you. Because when he finally was able to confess his undying love, when he finally gave you everything, the action would be in a way that you would never forget.

A grand gesture.

A symbol of his devotion.

And as Valentine’s Day approached, everything was falling into place.

Because love wasn’t just words. The notion wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t something to be given halfheartedly. Love, real love, demanded sacrifice. And he - he was willing to give you everything. Even if it meant murdering an innocent individual, claiming the poor saint had wronged the clan. Because he had found the perfect match for your heart transplant, a saint of a person, someone who had never smoked, never drank, never told a single lie. Someone pure, untouched by vice, someone worthy of becoming a part of you. Someone perfect, just for you, so you both could live your lives together.

Because a love like this? It was eternal.

And you would love him.

And you would be his, forever.

No one would take you away from him.

Not even death.

Not even fate.

Satoru had never known love like this how it had seeped into his veins like poison, sweet and consuming, twisting around his heart until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You had become his everything, the reason for his existence, the reason he woke up each morning, the reason he killed, the reason he breathed.

And now—now, you were here.

Laid out on the pristine white sheets of the underground medical table he had so carefully prepared, your delicate wrists bound with silk restraints, not to hurt you, but to keep you from thrashing, from making mistakes, from delaying the inevitable.

Because you were scared.

And that was killing him.

His sweet girl, his delicate little princess, his angel, was crying because of him.

Satoru's breath hitched, vision blurring with tears, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob tore from his throat. His fingers trembled as he cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing frantically over your damp skin, trying to wipe away the pain.

"No, no, no, my love - please, please don’t cry." His voice cracked, wavering between soft pleas and manic devotion, his lips quivering as he leaned down, pressing frantic kisses against your damp cheeks. He licked away your tears, swallowed your little whimpers, inhaled your soft, hiccuped breaths as if he could consume your fear and turn it into love.

His fingers stroked your hair, tracing the curve of your face, his touch tender, adoring, desperate.

“I can’t take this, sunshine. You’re breaking my heart.”

A shaky giggle slipped through his sobs, his fingers still trailing down the curve of your jaw, tapping gently against your chin like he was teasing you like this was just another one of his games.

His hands slid behind him, reaching for the small, heart-shaped box he had placed so carefully beside your bed. Satoru's breath hitched, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with sheer, dizzying excitement as he held it between you both. His tear-streaked face lit up, his lips parting into an eager, breathless grin despite the shattered, desperate look in his eyes.

This was it.

The ultimate proof of his love.

His grand gesture.

His devotion, laid bare before you.

The soft velvet of the box rubbed against your trembling fingertips as he guided it into your hands. Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You didn’t want to open it.

You didn’t want to see what was inside.

But Satoru - was watching you so closely, his radiant, unearthly blue eyes brimming with an intensity that demanded you obey. So, with numb fingers, you lifted the lid.

Your stomach lurched.

The room spun. The sharp, metallic scent of blood curled into your nostrils, thick and suffocating, coating the back of your throat, making your body convulse in disgust.

A heart.

A real, human heart. The flesh was still fresh, still glistening, nestled inside the plush velvet like a grotesque, bloody jewel. Thin, severed arteries dangled from the muscle, the tissue dark, rich, and far too real.

Your breath hitched in a choked, wet gasp.

The air rushed out of your lungs, your vision narrowing as cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around you. Your fingers trembled violently, nearly dropping the box, your hands refusing to function, refusing to believe what they were holding.

No.

No, no, no -

You could feel your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, erratic, uneven, weak. You could feel the sting of tears welling up, blurring your vision, pooling in your lashes as you tried—desperately tried—to make sense of the unthinkable.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to wrench yourself away, shove the box back into his hands, throw it, crush it, anything—

But you couldn’t move.

Your body refused.

Terror had turned your limbs to dead weight, keeping you frozen as if one wrong move might make this nightmare even worse.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you. That flicker in your eyes.

Horror.

Fear.

Rejection.

His grin faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

That look shattered something inside him. Satoru's breath caught, his smile wavering at the edges as his fingers twitched, his entire body stilling. For the first time in his entire, untouchable life, Gojo Satoru felt small. Like a child who had spent days, weeks, months crafting the perfect gift, only for it to be thrown away before his eyes.

A slow, breathy laugh fell from his lips - unsteady, cracked at the edges, but still so devoted.

“Aww, baby,” he whispered, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the side of your wrist, thumb dragging over your rapid, panicked pulse.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His voice was soft, teasing - but his grip on you was tight. The air grew heavier and thicker, the scent of blood still hanging between you like perfume.

You wanted to move.

You wanted to run.

But his fingers curled tighter around your wrist, and those crystal-clear, feverishly bright blue eyes locked onto yours, swimming with something too deep, too raw, too unhinged for you to break away.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His voice was gentle, cooing, like he was humoring you, like you were simply being shy, overwhelmed, unsure of how to accept such an important gift. His free hand reached out, brushing your trembling hair away from your face, tucking a stray strand behind your ear.

“I mean, I did all this for you,” he murmured, voice feigning innocence, his lips curving into something softer, something that might have been mistaken for genuine hurt if it weren’t for the twisted madness shimmering beneath it.

His fingers slid down, grazing your cheek before resting against your collarbone, pressing - just slightly. Feeling the erratic flutter of your weak little heart, the heart he was so desperate to protect.

The heart that could have failed you at any moment.

The heart that was soon to be replaced.

"I went through so much trouble," he continued, his voice quieter, sadder, fraying at the edges. "Just to make sure you’d be okay, sped up the process even, to make sure we can be together."

A tremor ran through his shoulders, his lips parting like he was about to say something more, but instead, he only let out a soft, shuddering exhale. His princess was rejecting his love.

But he had to be strong.

He had to be brave.

For you.

And so, he forced himself to smile, to press another kiss to your forehead, to whisper sweet nothings into your skin, even as his heart shattered.

"I promise, my love, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing."

Satoru's soft lips hovered over your ear, his voice a trembling whisper, thick with the kind of love that could ruin a man.

"And when you wake up, you’ll be all better." His fingers trailed over the silk restraints, his touch lingering against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

Everything was going to be okay.

You were just scared.

You loved him too.

Major heart surgery is a scary thing. You’re just scared.

And if the doctor made a mistake - if you so much as whimpered in pain, if there was a single second where you suffered, where the operation was anything less than perfect -

Well.

There was a reason he had a backup doctor waiting in the next room.

A little extra insurance.

Because nothing could go wrong.

Everything had to be perfect for you. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him, pressing a lingering, feverish kiss to your trembling lips - a kiss full of devotion, of desperation, of a love so strong it had become a sickness.

His heart raced, his breath shaky, uneven, manic.

And then, in a voice so soft, so full of adoring madness, he whispered against your lips -

"Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart."

As the medication in the IV lulled your eyes to sleep, all you could feel were soft kisses - featherlight, desperate, pressed against your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips.

A lover’s touch.

A farewell.

[mayahours]

7 minutes

A stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven cracks you both open. In the dim light, confessions slip out—and so does the hunger. It pulls you together, quiet and undeniable.

18+ mdni! sylus x reader. mean and jealous sylus. exhibitionism. mentions of alcohol. MENTIONS OF YOUR EX.(tw for the traumatized ones! me too) sex with panties on. reader helps sylus put it in. hair pulling. neck biting.

give it a listen while reading!

Your peers, drunk and jubilant—shove you and Sylus into a dim, empty room. A single bed sits like an altar in the center, bathed in the flickering light of scattered candles. Shadows dance along the walls, mocking the childish ritual everyone insisted on reviving.

“Have fun, you two.” A friend giggles, their face like a menace as they close the door behind them.

Seven Minutes in Heaven. A game for teenagers, not the ghosts you’ve all become.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sylus doesn’t move, but his neck twists with an audible crack, his gaze snapping toward you, like a compass finding north.

“We’re not in fucking college,” he spits, venom curling in every syllable. His tongue clicks sharply against his teeth as his hands drag down his face, frustration etched into every line. “This is pathetic.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already continuing, voice edged in scorn.

“Why the hell did you even agree to this? What are you, fifteen?” His crimson eyes bore into you, not with fury, but something colder. He’s irritated, exhausted, and you’re the misfortunate target standing in his line of fire.

You falter, trying to explain, trying to find the words to deflect the heat of his stare. “My ex,” you whisper, throat dry. “They—”

He cuts you off, stepping on your words like a death match. “You wanted to make them jealous?” His tone rises with disbelief. “Is that it? You thought dragging someone in here would have them fuming?”

You can’t meet his eyes. You look down instead, as if the floor might open up and swallow you whole. “Even if I hadn’t agreed... they still would’ve played. Everyone wanted to. I—it was a majority win.”

He scoffs, disgust curling his lips as he rakes his gaze down your frame like judgment. “But you did agree,” he says, bitterly triumphant. “So that’s on you.”

A beat. Then, with a cruel twist of the mouth, he adds, “Didn’t your ex cheat on you? Why the hell are you still performing for them?” He gestures vaguely toward the door, disdain thick in his voice. “Why give them anything?”

You fumble for words. “My ex ain’t the only reason,” you murmur, nerves unraveling. The air between you grows hot, charged. You bite your lip, fingers tangling around each other, betraying you.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, something darker gleaming in his eyes. “Let me guess. There’s someone else here you’ve got a stupid little crush on?” His voice drops, laced with mockery. “Someone you’re hoping will notice?”

You look up at him, heart hammering like war drums in your chest, the nerves rushing through your veins like wildfire. Your mouth parts, but your voice stumbles out in fragments. Your mind knows the truth before your lips are ready to speak it.

He was the reason. The man who kept you company through silent nights, the one whose words you read between, searching for meaning in the quiet spaces. At times, he is the sweetest soul you’ve ever known; tender, gentle, impossibly kind. And at other times, he burns with a distant anger, as if he’s trying to forget you ever existed, just like right now. You ache for the sweetness you once held close, now drifting like distant galaxies, silent and unreachable.

“Um... yeah,” you murmur, eyes flicking to the floor like it might save you from your own confession. Shame sears through you. What the hell did you just say? Your chest tightens. You feel foolish, small. You dare not look at him again.

“I know you like me too, Sylus.” The words leave your mouth before you can take them back. Your heart stops. Time shudders. You want to vanish.

Sylus stares at you, stunned; like you’d just slapped him. His expression twists, not in kindness, but in incredulity.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, recoiling. “Why can’t you just be normal and say how you feel, instead of pulling stunts like this?”

Your shame hardens into something else; indignation. You rise with it, fists curling. “What are you even talking about? At least I try. At least I shoot my shot.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a bitter laugh. “Well, you missed.”

The words strike you like a gun to your chest. You flinch internally, but wear your pain in silence. His sarcasm coils around your body like a snake, suffocating.

You take a step back. The distance feels safer. Your legs give in, and you sink to the edge of the bed. The candles around you flicker with your breath, with your defeat. You look anywhere but at him.

He follows.

Still burning, but his fury ebbed, dissolving into something more tender.

“You know,” he says, standing over you, arms crossing over his chest but his voice softening, “I did feel the same way. I do. But this? This was the wrong move. I didn’t want to be dragged into some childish game.”

You let out a frustrated groan, pressing your forehead to your knees. “Me neither,” you say, muffled. “I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

But of course, it had to get worse.

Because the rules of the game weren’t just a joke; they were a trap. The pair inside the room wasn’t meant to just sit and stew in awkward confessions. No, the bare minimum was a kiss, not just a sweet peck on the cheek, but something deeper. Erotic. Lingering.

And now here you were. The bed behind you. The candles around you. The weight of your words hanging between you like thunder.

And Sylus is still watching you. Breathing hard. Trying to decide whether to walk out that door or reach for you.

“I wanted to see where things might go with you,” The man mutters, his voice striked with frustration, but beneath it, something almost soft, almost real. “But not like this. Not in some idiotic party surrounded by people I don’t even know.”

The words hit like a balm. A cracked bandage pressed against the wound of your heart. You blink up at him, tears glassing your eyes, your lips trembling into a deeper frown.

He scoffs, suddenly averting his gaze, almost as if your sadness embarrasses him. But then, unexpectedly, his hand rises to your cheek. Not in comfort, not quite — just enough to stop your spiral. His palm is warm, rough, fleeting.

“Ugh, don’t give me that look,” he mutters, annoyed. “Let’s at least make this believable.”

You sniff, confused. “What do you mean?”

“They want a show, right?” he says, fingers tapping his chin in mock calculation. “Then we give them one. Kissing… maybe more, I don’t know. Whatever sells the fantasy.”

Your breath hitches again.

“When the seven minutes are up, the door swings open, boom! They catch us mid-makeout. Scene complete. Unless…” He raises a brow. “You’d rather chug a bottle of Don Julio and end the night with a blackout instead?”

You grimace. The thought of liquor burning your throat and your dignity doesn’t appeal in the slightest. You shake your head, then reach up and brush his hand away, heart thudding louder.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this,” you snap, voice sharper now, raw.

He rolls his eyes, and then suddenly, the air changes.

In one swift motion, he grabs the hand that had pushed him and slams it down against the bed, pinning your wrist to the mattress. You fall back with a startled gasp, the softness of the comforter doing nothing to cushion the tension that flares between you. He’s above you now, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

“You think I do?” he growls, his voice low, tight with restraint. “I’m trying to do you a favor. Keep your pride intact and avoid a drunk-driving charge all in one move. So the least you could do is stop acting like I dragged you in here.”

You squirm beneath him, stunned, breathless. His grip is firm, but he’s not hurting you; just holding you in place, forcing you to listen. Then, just as quickly, he lets go.

He straightens, running a hand through his hair as if to dispel the moment.

“This sucks,” he mutters, stepping back, pacing like a caged animal. “But it’s what we’ve got.”

The candles flicker behind him. The clock ticks down.

And still, something in your chest, even after everything aches toward him.

You sit up slowly, the mattress sighing beneath you. Disbelief still coils in your chest like smoke; heavy, unshakable. You stare at him, at the storm still settling in his bones, his shoulders, his silence. For a while, you say nothing. You just breathe.

But then, finally, a nod. Barely there. Barely brave.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word nearly swallowed by the knot in your throat. You bite down on your lower lip to steady yourself, but it only tightens the anticipation curling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales, low and guttural, like this costs him something too. “Then c’mere,” he murmurs, voice cracked and rough at the edges.

But his eyes, god, his eyes; they betray him. There’s no disdain in them now, no frustration. Only heat. Only hunger. They look at you like a dream he never asked to have, but can’t stop chasing.

You rise, tentative, your steps slow, delicate, almost hushed. But the slowness makes something inside him snap.

He groans, frustrated, desperate. In one sudden pull, he grabs you, hands flying to your face, fingers threading through your hair and cradling your jaw as he drags you forward.

His lips crash against yours like a storm meeting the shore. Fierce. Unforgiving. Starved. Your breath catches in your chest, your eyes wide for a moment, stunned by the intensity. But then the world fades. The candles blur. The silence grows loud with your pulse.

Your lashes flutter shut. You sink into it.

His grip tightens slightly, anchoring you to the moment. And instinctively, your hands reach for his wrists, fingers curling around them, not to stop him, but to keep him there, to hold onto the fire he’s giving you.

He’s kissing you; deeply, hungrily, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your breath. His hands keep you in place, but his mouth... his mouth moves with growing urgency, like he’s slipping, losing control in the worst and most delicious way.

But even as your heart races, your cheeks flush warm. You go soft, not from disinterest, but from the overwhelming tenderness flooding through you. You kiss him slower, gentler, lips molding against his like a confession you can’t speak aloud.

A sound escapes him; low, guttural. A groan pulled from somewhere deep. Then he pulls away, exhaling hard, his hands releasing your face like you’re made of fire.

“Okay,” he breathes, stepping back a half-pace. The golden light of the candles flickers against his skin, painting him in a glow that makes him look unreal. You stare, dazed, lips parted, still tasting him, still feeling the imprint of his palms on your jaw.

But then his voice cuts through the stillness, sharper now, dissatisfied. “No. You’re too soft.”

Your brow furrows, raising. “What?”

“It’s not convincing,” he says flatly, eyes scanning your face, as if searching for something he can’t quite find. “You’ve gotta do better if you want to get out of here.”

You look around the room, confused. “What do you mean?”

He leans in just enough for the weight of his next words to fall heavy. “Kiss me like you’ve been waiting for it all night.”

Your breath catches. The way he says it, like a challenge, like a plea, like a dare. He takes a step closer, and his voice drops firmly.

“Kiss me like we’re a couple who lives together—and we're about to have some insane sex and then suddenly we get dragged to this stupid party, and now we’ve got to wait until we get home to finish what we started.” He looks at you dead-on. “That kind of kiss.”

The specificity cuts through you like a blade wrapped in silk. It’s too exact. Too vivid. Too lived-in. Had he thought about this before? About you in that way?

You can barely breathe.

His tone is stern, almost reprimanding, but his eyes forsake him again. They're intense, yes, but not cruel. There’s heat behind them. Yearning. He’s not just talking about acting anymore. And you know it.

You swallow hard, your body still, your heart otherwise. His words echo in your mind like a dare you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet. But part of you wants to. You move before you can think, the silence between you thick and electric.

You grab him by the collar, pulling him down to you, and your lips crash into his with a hunger that's been simmering beneath your skin for weeks. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, your fingers tangling into his silver hair like you've wanted to for far too long.

Sylus stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden urgency, but only for a breath. Then he groans, low and deep, and melts into you. His lips match yours beat for beat, heat for heat. His hand snakes around your waist, fingers tightening with a possessive grip, pulling your hips against his until there's nothing left between you but the thrum of need.

Your body acts before your mind can stop it. You jump into him, legs wrapping tight around his waist. He catches you instantly, like he knew you would do it, like he's wanted you to. His hands shift down, gripping beneath your thighs, and his nails scrape your skin just enough to make you gasp.

The air around you is thick with heat, the candlelight gleams against the walls like it's trying to keep up with your pulse. His breath is ragged against your cheek, and his forehead rests against yours for half a second, his chest rising fast.

"Just like that, baby… Why were you holding out on me, huh?" he mutters, voice rough, almost accusing, but there's wonder in it too. A dazed kind of awe.

You don't answer. You just look at him - flushed, trembling, eyes locked like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. And then you kiss him again, slower this time but deeper, like you mean it.

With careful steps, Sylus comes closer to the bed, sitting down on the soft cushions with you now sitting on his lap. He tugs at your hair, making your head tilt back for his access. His lips separate from yours, trailing down your neck with kisses.

“Been wanting to do this to you,” he growls against your skin, his lips brushing just below your ear, his breath warm, his touch lingering. It sends a shiver down your spine. Your knees threaten to give away, and your fingers press instinctively to his chest, where his heart pounds wild and unrestrained against your palm.

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can even think to hold it back. He’s too close, too intense, and yet, not close enough. The heat of him, the sheer presence of him, drowns everything else out.

“Why’d you have to be dumb about it, though?” he mutters, almost like he’s scolding you but there’s something softer buried beneath the edge. Something that sounds like disappointment, not just in you, but in the time wasted.

“S–sorry… didn’t kno—” you try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat, unraveling as his hand slides into your hair; gripping, tugging, the pressure just shy of pain, just sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

Then, in one smooth, commanding motion, he drags you back down to the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, the room spinning in adrenaline. He hovers over you now, silver hair falling into his eyes, his breath mingling with yours. His gaze pins you in place, heavy, unreadable, but full of something fierce, something that makes your stomach knot and your pulse sing.

“Could’ve made it so special for you,” he murmurs, the regret in his voice slicing between the lust. “If you hadn’t turned it into a childrens’ game.”

His words sting; not cruelly, but truthfully. And they settle somewhere deep in you.

You swallow hard, caught between guilt and solemn, your lips parting like an apology is about to slip out again, or maybe even a plea.

You don't even know if the door is locked. Time has slipped through your fingers like smoke, you've been in here with Sylus for too long, and he seems just as lost in it.

"Sylus... the time," you whisper, your hand falling limp beside your head as your gaze drifts toward the door. Voices hum on the other side, laughter and music bleeding in through the crack beneath it.

"Fuck the time," he breathes against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw, soft and burning. His hips press into yours, slow and deliberate, grinding down with a hunger that makes the room feel smaller. His hand sliding up your wrist and into your hand, fingers intertwined with yours.

"Gonna remind your pathetic ex exactly what they lost," he growls between clenched teeth, each word seething with something deeper than lust; a promise, a fire.

Sylus' mouth trails along your skin, the scrape of his teeth sending a shiver down your spine. A quiet moan escapes you, unbidden, as your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, fingers fisting just to stay grounded.

"God, Sylus—" you breathe, hips rising to meet his in a slow, aching rhythm. Desire hums low in your chest, unsteady.

But your eyes flick toward the door—a whisper of fear, the world pressing in. The risk of being seen. The weight of being caught.

His hand finds your face, thumb pressing beneath your chin, lifting, forcing your gaze back to him.

"Look at me," he says, voice low, rough with something no amount of water can quench. “Let’s at least have some fun with this.”

You swallow, your throat tight as you watch his brow knit with raw, aching desire. His gaze holds you captive, those crimson eyes, dark and endless, drawing you in until you're drowning in them, willingly lost.

You finally give in. Your lips find his again, crashing together with a desperate urgency. Tongues meet in a feverish tangle, tasting the need that's been building between you. The risk of being caught fades into nothing, replaced by something far more dangerous; thrilling, intoxicating, you’re almost rushed with excitement.

His hands are on your hips, large and sure, lifting you effortlessly against him. The space between you disappears as he pulls you in, chasing the release he's been aching for with every touch, his cock trembling underneath the fabric of his pants, and you can feel it on your clothed cunt as the pressure hardens.

The kiss never breaks. Neither do you. But your hands move downward with purpose, fingers curling around his waistband, tugging hard in your impatience. He groans into your mouth, helping you with one hand shoving his trousers down, hips shifting as he kicks them off the bed without care.

You follow, shimmying out of your shorts beneath him, discarding them with a toss. There's nothing left between you now, just heat, breath, and the promise of what's to come.

The man pushes your panties to the side, the lace wet and warm against his digits. He keeps it in place with his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” Sylus says, finger gliding up your slick. “Barely even touched you.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, leaving you momentarily speechless. In the silver hush of moonlight, his arm glows, every curve of muscle sculpted in shadow and light. Drawn by something tender and magnetic, you reach out, your fingers gliding along his skin. Where you touch, goosebumps rise beneath your palm, a silent response to your closeness.

“Gonna have my way with you, baby.” His arm cages you in, braced over your head. He leans close, eyes dazed, a wicked grin curving his lips, desire crackling off him, aching to be unleashed, to pour itself into the girl fevered beneath him.

Your hand trails downward, slipping between your tightly pressed bodies. The space is narrow, but your touch finds his cock; tough as bark, pulsing in your grasp. You curl your fingers around him and give a slow, teasing tug. His breath catches, lips parting with a quiet gasp of pleasure. His eyes lock onto yours, silently urging you to go on.

After a few slow strokes of your hand along his length, you guide him to your entrance, your breath catching, body strung tight with need. Your free hand finds the curve of his shoulder, clutching for balance as your anticipation sharpens into ache. With his tip resting at your core and your fingers still wrapped around him, he begins to press in, slow and deliberate.

A gasp escapes you both, shared and unguarded, as he stretches into you. You wince through clenched teeth, the sudden fullness drawing a deep, ragged groan from his throat. His hands grip your thighs, dragging you closer with a desperate pull, needing to feel every inch, to lose himself in the heat of you.

He begins to move with you, every thrust heavy with desire. Your back arches instinctively, breath hitching as your hips surrender, melting into his rhythm. You let him take control, slowly succumbing to the heat between you.

His hand glides from your stomach to the small of your back, pulling you tighter, his body pressing down, grounding you both in this moment. His breath brushes your ear, urgent, as a low groan slips past his lips, raw and bare.

Your moans rise and fall together, a perfect, wordless harmony. Outside, the world fades, the distant noise softens and dims until it's just silence wrapped around you. It's only you and Sylus now, skin to skin.

"Too good, Sy..." Your voice falls away, soft as a sigh, trembling on the edge of breath, head falling back as he pulls you closer under him. He nods, gentle fingers tracing the shimmer of sweat upon your skin, cool and tender against the heat still rising from within.

"Yeah, I know, baby," he murmurs low, a teasing edge curling his words like smoke. "Your ex can’t make you feel this good, right?" His voice wraps around you, both challenge and caress, setting your core aflame. You bite your lip, nails digging lightly into his shoulder, holding on as if to tether yourself to this burning moment.

Your eyes, heavy and glazed with desire, lock with his, silent and unyielding. You shake your head at his rhetoric, and his grin deepens at the sight, fierce and wild, as he drives into you with relentless rhythm, drawing from your throat a moan that trembles, into the charmed air between you.

He chuckles, teasing sound slipping past his lips as his pace quickens, his length driving past that tender spot where pleasure consumes you whole.

"I'll make sure they know," he breathes, voice thick with possession, "you're mine now, baby. Completely."

But his words dissolve into the haze clouding your mind, slipping past comprehension, swallowed by the relentless rush of sensation. Your lips part, uttering nothing but soft, tangled murmurs. Your eyes flutter back, lost in the depths of pleasure, and with every powerful stroke, your fingers lift the sheets below you, clutching them tighter, grasping for something solid amid the sweet, shattering chaos.

“Y-yeah… mmngh—like that. Just like that.” You're babbling now; soft, broken sounds slipping past your lips like prayers, half-formed and breathless.

Words no longer belong to you; they've melted under the weight of sensation, dissolved in the rhythm of his body claiming yours. Sylus watches you closely, and a quiet coo escapes him, sweet, laced with mock affection, like he's savoring the way you fall apart for him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a velvet hum, thick with pride. "So fucking pretty when you're gone like this..."

His gaze lingers on your face, studying every twitch, every quiver of your mouth, the dazed glassiness in your eyes. You look utterly undone, beautifully ruined, and entirely his.

Inside you, that familiar coil tightens; sharp, burning, exquisite. Each thrust pushes you closer, each stroke dragging across your sweet spot, a velvet trigger that makes your spine arch and your breath catch. You're trembling beneath him, muscles tightening, hips trying to meet his every motion even as your strength fades into the waves overtaking you.

"You're close, aren't you?" he growls softly, more a statement than a question. His words curl against your skin like heat. "Gonna give it to me, baby? Gonna come just for me?"

The sound of your slickness echoes between your bodies, your arousal coating him, wet and shameless.

His lower belly is slick from it, the friction only stoking his hunger. Your walls begin to flutter around him, grasping greedily with every thrust; like your body already knows what it needs, what it craves. The pleasure is white, hot now, swelling, cresting. Sylus feels it too. His breath hitches, a rough, primal growl rising from his chest as your heat clutches him tighter, pulling him deeper into your unraveling.

"That's it," he hisses, voice low and reverent. "Let go for me. Give me all of it."

And just like that, you do. Your body gives in with a shudder that rocks through you, eyes rolling back, hands clawing at the sheets as you're swept under.

He doesn't move.

He just watches you; eyelids heavy with something deeper than lust as your body slowly rides the last waves of your release. You're draped across him, glowing and breathless, hips still rolling in soft, instinctual motions, as though your body refuses to let the moment end.

And you look divine like this.

He sees it all; the way your skin glistens, how your chest rises and falls in shaky, uneven breaths, how your lips part with quiet gasps, trying to recover from the high that still clings to your bones. You're not even aware of the way you move, chasing the echo of what he gave you, but he is.

So he stays still. Buried deep. Letting you take from him what you need, letting your body speak its own language as it trembles around him. He could thrust, could claim more, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he gives you the space to feel, to come down, to revel in your own pleasure.

His hands slide to your hips, just enough pressure to remind you he's still there, still holding you. Not controlling. Just present. Anchoring.

"You don't even know what you do to me," he murmurs, voice low, rough with restraint. His eyes drink you in like you're something sacred-something to be worshipped. "Just look at you... so perfect f’me.”

You can't answer, not yet. You're still floating, your body loose, your muscles clenching around him without rhythm, like aftershocks in a storm.And he takes it all in; the way you surrender, the beauty in your unraveling, and stays there with you, deep and still, like he belongs nowhere else.

Your breath is still uneven, your body still pulsing faintly with aftershocks when the weight of reality suddenly crashes back in. Panic flickers in your chest like a spark catching flame. You sit up quickly, scanning the bed, sheets tangled around your legs as your hands fumble for your phone.

“The time,” you breathe, urgency rising in your voice. “How long have we been in here?”

Sylus glances lazily at the watch on his wrist, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I’d say… ten minutes. Maybe.”

“Ten?” you echo, eyes wide in disbelief.

You leap out of bed, tugging your shorts back on with hurried hands, fingers shaking with the twisted fabric of your shirt as you try to smooth it back into something that resembles presentable. Sylus chuckles quietly behind you, already slipping into his trousers, still entirely unbothered as he trails after you.

You push open the door. Silence.

The low hum of conversation in the hall dies as heads turn, eyes flicking toward the two of you with a knowing gleam. The air hangs heavy.

“You guys are like… twenty-three minutes past the clock,” someone calls out, tone teasing, laced with amusement.

You stop short. Slowly, you turn your head to Sylus, who stands just a breath away from your side, looking down at you with that same infuriating calm. You do the math.

Ten minutes, he said.

But thirty have passed.

Your heart sinks. Heat floods your cheeks, not from desire this time, but embarrassment, tinged with disbelief.

Thirty long minutes.

“Yeah, alright. Bye, everyone,” Sylus calls out with a casual wave, completely unfazed. His hand slips around your back, drawing you close with that effortless confidence he wears like a second skin.

You keep your eyes low, cheeks burning as you walk beside him, letting him guide you through the quieted crowd. The buzz of whispers trails behind you like a shadow, but Sylus carries you both through it with his usual cool indifference.

Once you’re outside, he glances over at you, that ever-present grin still tugging at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, mischief lacing his voice, “I think your ex noticed.”

You let out a groan, nudging him hard in the side. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs, the sound warm, and then leans in to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, so soft it makes your heart catch. You smile, despite yourself.

No more eyes on you now. No more pressure. Just the quiet hum of the night as you both slide into his car, the door closing behind you like the punctuation at the end of a chapter.

“What I said earlier, before, you know…” he murmurs, the car shifting into reverse, easing both of you out of the neighborhood.

“Yeah?” you reply, your head resting against the seat, body melting into the cushions like you’re trying to disappear into the moment.

He glances at you, just once; quick, sharp, but his eyes return to the road.

“You want to finish what we started?”

author's note: wrote this with one hand and the other in my pants—WHO SAID THAT?

also, would you guys appreciate some goth music recs too? or just rnb, let me know :)

also!!! i'm highly aware that there's a possibility u might think this is out of his character. but idrc, just use ur imagination :P

[vorachii]

ㅤㅤㅤ⸺ CARE.

pairing: sukuna x gn!reader

cw: nothing except a very brief mention of violence (like two lines).

synopsis:ㅤdoing sukuna's skincare who—though begrudgingly, enjoys it.

The vast, echoing halls of Sukuna’s palace were usually filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the faintest rustle of the wind through ancient stone corridors. The cold marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering columns, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with cursed energy. Crimson silk banners hung from the vaulted ceilings, their heavy fabric swaying ever so slightly, as though the palace itself breathed with a life of its own. Enormous windows, framed by dark stone arches, cast fragmented moonlight onto the cold floors, the patterns dancing like ghosts in the shadows.

But tonight, the air inside Sukuna’s private chambers felt different, softer, warmer, as you sat cross-legged on the silk cushions sprawled across a sprawling blackwood rug. The chamber walls were adorned with towering shelves filled with relics, ancient scrolls, and the occasional bone-white skull, each one telling a story of conquests long past. A towering brazier in the corner bathed the room in a flickering amber glow, casting dancing shadows across the high, vaulted ceiling. Behind Sukuna loomed a grand bed draped in dark crimson silks, the headboard carved with symbols you couldn’t begin to decipher. The heavy scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, grounding the room in a strange, unexpected calm.

Sukuna sat in front of you, his tall frame slouched lazily against the foot of his extravagant bed, though his crimson eyes burned with barely-concealed irritation. An eyebrow twitched upward in obvious disdain, his jaw tight, muscles flexing as if he was resisting every natural instinct to push you away. His many tattoos glowed faintly in the low light, the raven markings tracing sharp angles along his jawline and down his collarbone. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but there he was, letting you smear moisturizer and an array of skincare products across his infamously fearsome face.

“This is pathetic,” he sneered, voice laced with venom. “You think I care about something as worthless as skincare?”

“You have dry skin,” you replied simply, as if that justified everything.

He clicked his tongue, crimson eyes narrowing. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Acting all smug while touching my face, do you have a death wish?”

“But” you murmured, dabbing the cream onto his cheekbones, “you're enjoying it.”

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Bold. I could rip your arms off before you blink.”

“You won’t,” you replied, meeting his glare head-on.

His jaw tensed, crimson irises burning with annoyance, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he sat there, rigid, his clawed fingers twitching in irritation, as you rubbed gentle circles along his temples. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, rough in some places but surprisingly smooth in others as if decades of battle didn't even land a scratch on him. He tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if despite himself, he didn’t entirely hate it.

“You’re playing with fire, brat,” Sukuna growled, though there was a crack in his usual cruelty.

“You’re letting me,” you shot back with a small grin.

His lips curled into a sharp, mocking smile. “Hah. You’re lucky I’m bored.”

“Lucky, indeed.” you teased, tracing the edge of his jawline.

Sukuna’s eyes flickered, a dangerous gleam in them. “Keep running that mouth, and I might actually shut it for you.”

“Duly noted,” you replied dryly, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

As you smoothed the cream across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, your fingers brushed over a marking running along his temple. Sukuna’s breath hitched, so subtle, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so close. His eyes snapped open, narrowed slits of red locking onto yours.

“What?” he snapped, though his voice was softer than before.

“Nothing,” you replied, your thumb still grazing the marking. “Just... you’re not as terrifying like this.”

He barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re either brave or stupid.”

“Maybe both,” you mused.

Sukuna’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in—just a fraction. “Don’t get any ideas. This means nothing.”

“Obviously,” you echoed, though your grin said otherwise.

Finishing the last of the cream, you sat back slightly, admiring your work. His skin gleamed under the flickering torchlight, the sharp angles of his face still fearsome but softened, just barely.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Be glad I’m in a good mood. One slip and you’d be nothing but a stain on the floor.”

“Yes, my lord.” you replied, waving him off.

For a moment, the cold, merciless palace felt almost... alive. There was something softer hidden beneath the layers of cruelty, though Sukuna would die before admitting it. “Don’t get used to this,” he growled, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

You smiled. “Ofcourse.”

But deep down, you both knew you’d be doing this again. And Sukuna? He didn’t hate it, not that he’d ever say it out loud.

[yandere-wishes]

𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

Summary: You try to escape from two fearsome Sith Lords. Surprisingly they take it rather well.

Author's note: This is totally getting a part 2. Or maybe a series we'll see. 

Warnings: dark, absolutely no regard for the rule of two, sorta a vent fic (venting that these two are so fine and I can't get them out of my mind), slightly fluffy.

The empire's warships have a tendency to blur reality. The interiors of their large hulking exoskeletons house endless corridors and makeshift chambers. Vast, endless arrays of space. They've been optimized for housing droids, clones, and artillery. Not for escape, not for an endless search of a freedom that has long since eroded. 

Calling yourself anything but desperate would be a lie. Your feet run to the chorus of your broken heartbeat. The need for freedom, the need to escape spreads through your body like a poison. You know it'll end up killing you, either from exhaustion or by their sabars. But you have to try, you have to run. Even if you've left fragments of yourself in the warm bed the three of you sleep on. Even if you forgot your heart under Anakin's pillow and your soul still lingers in Maul's warm embrace. Maybe freedom is worth cutting off pieces of yourself, if only in the hope that someday they might grow back. 

There's something wrong with the corridors you're sure of it. You've never been one for directions, instead relying on the holo screens and navigation systems to lead the way. Mirror images as far as the eye can see. Identical, plain. Nothing substantial to store in your memory. There's something ironic about this situation, a punchline that doesn't quite land. You half haphazardly tug on the skirt of your nightgown, desperate for anything familiar. You're not sure why.

You remember how Anakin called you pretty this morning, still hazy, still clinging to the sensation of slumber. Perfect blue eyes too dazed to look at you. Really look at you. The chosen one gazes at your ghost, your ethos. the perfect doll he and Maul had morphed you into. Behind you

 Maul pulls you to his chest. Hand running up and down her side, trying to resurrect you into his dreams. It's only when Anakin's eyes close, seeling the shimmering blue orbs, that you crawl out of bed and into the unknown. 

You're lost, abandoned in absolute desolation. The marble tiles bleed frost into the soles of your feet. Somewhere in the distance, you feel a disturbance in the force. Too far away to matter, yet leaking with a potent rage that burns. It's hope you think, albeit pathetically, maybe it's better to capitulate this pointless crusade and wait for the Sith lords to find you. The crash comes just as you're about to stop. You bump into him, falling in the process. All armor and steel. The Stormtrooper's mask is off giving you a clear view of his scarred face. His eyes flash, some dreary emotion too obscure to read, he offers you a gloved hand, something human something casual. 

You stare frozen. 

When exactly did you stop comprehending human idiosyncrasies? 

When exactly did you start reading every interaction as a threat? 

He's a monster, you think, just like the ones you've been warned about. Lectured time and time again by both Anakine and Maul. Monsters pry on little girls, especially ones who wander off on their own. Monsters lurk behind unsuspecting walls, ready to pounce when their prey approaches. You wonder if, the definitive definition of "monster" could be passed on to the two Siths who call themselves your lovers. 

There's blood, too crimson to be real. Metallic aromas wafted through the air. You've only now noticed how close the disturbance in the force really is. Close enough to distinguish itself. To reveal that, in actuality, it's not a disturbance at all.

 It's two...

Something cold yanks at your forearm. Pulling you to your feet. for a split second, your nerves calm. The familiarity of the cybernetic arm grants you a heavy ease. Anakin pushes you over to where Maul is standing. Golden eyes burning holes through the stormtrooper's armor. 'He didn't do anything' you long to say. But the words wisely die on your tongue as Maul grips your shoulders. Anakine's saber is lit, stabbing through the soldier's armor as if it were flesh. As if killing him where as easy as killing a rogue thought. "You're quite a foolish soldier for daring to touch that which belongs to your commanders. Even more imbecilic for so much as looking at emperor Palpatine's disciple." 

Maul's grip on your shoulders tightens, eyes never once leaving the bloodshed. One of his hands instinctively roams to your belly, then slides down to your thigh. Rubbing it ever so gently as his claws pierce your soft skin. You close your eyes trying to make yourself smaller. You hate how his touch grounds you. How the familiarity plucks at your heartstrings. When he touches you like this you wish you would forever rot in his arms.

"'I'm sorry" You don't know why the words come so easily. As if they've been itching to spill from your tongue. Maybe it's easier to say 'I'm sorry' rather than 'You've broken my perception of love, of reality and now I can only find comfort in your darkness.' "Hush" Maul's anger spills with every syllable. His claws dig deeper, earning him a pained hiss from his doll. 

"You're not sorry, in fact, you rather enjoyed this didn't you? Running away making us chase you down, I never thought your species would enjoy being the prey so much, little one." Anakin walks over, saber seethed at his side. His every step promised pain, retribution. He's angry, furious. They both are, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'll end it all today. 

Maul's chambers have always been a testament to Dathomir, bathed in deep scarlets and endless ebony. You wonder if he's homesick for a place he's only visited in his worst ephialtes. After the incident in the corridors, they drag you back to the Zabrak's room. Neither bothering to say a word. Merely permitting their rage to engulf you, subduing you into submission. It's an unwelcome surprise when they begin to prep for the day. Throwing on their black cloaks, prior to choosing your outfit. An abnormal affinity settles across the room. Too unnerving to go unchecked. 

They dress you each morning, a ritual you think, some attestation of love that's never been quite right. Maul drapes you in velvet dresses. Each one harbors a sui generis softness that sits erroneously across your skin. Their opulent sensation only brings forth feelings of aversion and despair. Their softness an ode to your imprisonment. 

the dresses come in shades of crimson, detailed sometimes in black, sometimes in gold, and sometimes in a frigid blue that sends shivers running up your spine. 

Anakin fusses over your accessories, why they feel the need to dress you so extravagantly daily is beyond you -as you've come to realize many things are- On days when Anakin's hubris reaches its apex, he bathes you in gold. Astonishing glittering collars across your neck and Kuat bangles hanging from your wrists. When he's sober from his pride he chooses black diamonds. Simple and exotic. scintillate and opaque.

Allusions to the dark side.

A hidden reference that crawls inside you. 

Once, back when you'd been sure defiance was still an option. Back when callow hope still dared to flow through your veins. Back when you'd been a jejune, stubborn thing. You had refused to wear one of the dresses they'd bought. Adimant in your refusal until Maul had stuck out his hand. Summoning the Force to remind you just who held the supreme authority here. 

The Force had strangled you, clawing hungrily at your neck. You felt your bones caving in on themselves, watched with exacerbating hysteria as your feet abandoned the floor. He'd only released you when he was sure you were near death's adorned door. Permitting you to molder on the floor akin to a ragdoll. 

Anakin had chastised you after you'd conjured enough strength to sit up, gasping greedily for air. He'd broken two fingers that day. One still harbors a small scar.

A Promise ring. 

An augury.

There are days, few and far between. When they've deemed you've been behaving adequately for long enough. That they permit you the choice of which dress you'd fancy wearing for the day. It's a rare event, reserved as a special treat. You think it's their way of proposing variety, giving you the illusion of choice. Making you feel a little less smothered. 

Today is not one of those days. Today, you feel them pick you apart, only to reassemble you in their image. Drowning you in extravagance. A reminder, one whose deprecating nature weaves itself within your muscles. You, little girl, are nothing more than a doll. And dolls should know their place.

No sooner do you feel the final lace fasten across your back, that Anakin is tugging you outside the door. Metal arm clasped around your forearm. 

Maul follows behind molten gaze locked on your face. The hallways bend to their will as if the walls themselves quiver with their presence. You recognize this corridor, recognize the frigid forlorn. 

There's something wrong with Emperor Palpatine's throne room. It's surreal, makeshift. His real throne lays somewhere cold, somewhere even his apprentices don't dare wander off to. The ironclad throne has never felt right. Never felt like it held any real power. Just terror, just dread, just hatred. But here it is in all its glory. Left to two apprentices who'd rather treat it as a toy than a sacred place.

 Anakin dramatically throws himself onto the throne. One leg thrown over the armrest as he leans against the other. His other leg planted firmly on the ground. He keeps you steady on his thigh. Torturing you with his distant, disappointed look. Maul stands in front of you. His eyes liquid gold melting into you. You see the galaxy in them. Hear it whispearing secrets meant to be forgotten. It's Anakin's voice that rattles you from your disjointed thoughts. 

"You caused us so much worry angel" he's being nice. You don't trust that. There's something sinister plaguing his words.  

"You know Ani, she may cease escaping if you'd cease to spoil her." Maul leans down, gripping your chin and squeezing. " The brat forgets her place, merely cause you'd rather coddle her than discipline her." 

Anakin glares, a shift in his eyes, blue bleeding into gold. "Hmm, Maul, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Kenobi right now."

"Why's that? Did the old fool tend to also point out your shortcomings?" 

You wonder who this Kenobi is, as you watch the Siths' exchange crude childish vitriols. Maybe he'd make a better lover than the two men you have the misfortune of being adhered to. 

They never could truly see just how similar they were.

Two sides of the same coin. 

One born of copper, the other, black rose petals.

Subconsciously you reach out. Grasping Anakin's robotic hand, fiddling with the panel, peeling it away to gain access to the wires and circuits. You have a bad habit of ripping things open. Anakin learned this the first time he kissed you and you tried to gnaw at his chest with your nails. Not in malice, but rather to satisfy a ravenous curiosity. A raging need to open him and see just how he ticked. You'd wished to perform an autopsy on his soul. Rip him open and devour all his secrets. Back then you'd wondered if you could kiss sunrises into Anakin's eternal night. Strip him of bleak blackened skies and introduce him to stars and a moon that shines. He'd only vaguely permitted it. Opting to pluck the stars lying within you. Swiping them for steel and lava and other mundane things that fueled his incessant rage. 

Anakin's head dips, lips pressing on your jugular vein. "You're ethereal" Anakin mubbles against your skin, like the dying prayer of a collapsing star. He's so pretty when he kisses your neck. Biting away pieces of you. Stealing your light for himself. 

"Princess" Maul seethes venom pelting from his words. You realize you'd been ignoring him. Something he's not too fond of. "What in the stars was going through your pretty little head?" 

 he looks like he'd love nothing more than to wring your pretty little neck right now. "I just..." your words feel heavy. Tiny bullets polluting your tongue. It feels so cruel to say when you know just how much they love you. "I just wanted some freedom. Just a bit of space." 

"Dumb little angel" Anakin chastes. You lower your head in embarrassment watching Maul kneel in front of you. He cups your cheeks, placing a soft kiss on your head. "You can never escape us beloved".

 "I love you," says Anakin. All you hear is, I'll haunt you, I'll break your ribs one by one so that I may possess your heart. Maybe they mean the same thing. 

"And I'm pretty sure if Maul could feel normal emotions like everyone else, then he'd love you too." You can't help but let out a giggle as Anakin throws his head back laughing. A rare melodious sound, that causes your heart to skip a beat. Maul merely rolls his eyes before pecking you on the lips.

You trace your fingers across Maul's chest, feeling the pummelling of two hearts. A double heartbeat. Two melodies entwined, You wonder who he harbors in those hearts. One for love and one for family. You nip at his bottom lip. Ushering the blood into your mouth. He tastes of Ichor and smoke. Of sadness and rage. From behind you feel Akanin bite into the hollow of your flesh. Leaving traces of himself upon your skin. 

"Our pretty little problem" Anakin mumbles. 

You're a problem, a vexation draped in velvet, an unsolvable equation. Trapped between a love that seethes through your body like a toxin. Engulfing you until your mind relents. Maybe it's easier this way. Easier to say 'I love you' without the double entendre. 

You do love them.

A rather arduous conclusion to reach.

Maul and Anakin.

Palpatine's apprentices. 

Your lovers

Yeah, that sounds about right...

💜💜: @athanasia-day @hotpinkboots @jenn-patterson-69 @nickiiiixoxo-blog @the-chains-are-the-easy-part

[z-zeph]

A few days after his birthday, Xiao found you burning his old letters in a bonfire of qingxin blossoms.

The bonfire roared, devouring parchment and petals alike. Qingxin blossoms—once symbols of celestial purity—curled into skeletal shadows, their ivory hearts blackening as flames licked the night. You fed another letter to the pyre, its edges crisping, Xiao's stark handwriting dissolving into smoke.

"What is this."

His voice cut through the crackle of kindling, colder than the flowers that wept in Dragonspine's frost. You didn't turn. You knew his stance—rigid, spear-straight, the jade pendant at his throat catching firelight like a malevolent star.

"Closure, perhaps," you said, watching a sentence fragment escape the flames—'protect you'—before it withered to ash.

Xiao stepped closer. Heat warped the air between you, yet his presence chilled the sweat on your nape. His gaze traced the scars peeking beneath your sleeve, the ones that ached in time with his karmic debt. Always linked, even in ruin.

"You kept them." A statement, laced with something raw. Accusation? Regret?

"And now I don’t." You tossed the final letter, its seal unbroken—the one he’d left after April 17th. The flames surged, greedy.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then—

A gloved hand seized your wrist, yanking you backward. Embers spiraled as you collided with his chest, the jade shard in your sternum vibrating like a struck bell. His breath fanned your ear, uneven. "You think fire can erase what we are?"

You tilted your head, exposing the scar he’d gifted you—a jagged line from collarbone to heart. "No. But it makes pretty light to see our scars by."

His grip tightened. You wondered if he’d break the bone. Instead, his thumb brushed the pulse beneath your skin, a traitor’s caress. Above, smoke coiled into the shape of dragons, their forms crumbling as they climbed.

"Fool," he hissed, but the word trembled.

You tried to smile, for him. "You kept count of the letters, didn’t you? Every one."

The fire dimmed. Qingxin ash settled on his hair, a mockery of snow. He didn’t deny it.

Was there someone else to write letters to? Was there someone else to long for? Was there someone else, but you? You, traveler of faraway lands, on the rare peaceful nights where Xiao found himself closing his eyes, did you know? Your feet had even roamed the grasslands of his dreams. He remembered, he had mentioned it to you in one of the letters that now served no purpose but to fuel the fire.

“...”

As he let you free from his claws, there it was.

A scrap of parchment clung to a stone, its edges still smoldering. Xiao knelt, glove hovering. His own handwriting stared back, accusatory, and his throat constricted.

‘There are… many people in this world who care… you…’

Fire had gnawed its edges into lace, the characters bleeding where embers kissed them—care reduced to a charcoal smear, you dangling like a severed nerve. He also remembered drafting those words by moonlight, the ink mingling with blood from a gash he’d earned defending a village that no longer existed. Pathetic. As if sentiment could armor her against the ruin he carried.

You didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed fixed on the pyre, its flames reduced to a sullen glow. Shadows pooled in the hollows of your cheeks.

What were you thinking about?

The new faces you’d collected like trinkets in Fontaine’s glittering courts? The way that merchant’s daughter had laughed, bright and unburdened, as she tucked a silk flower behind your ear? Or perhaps the scholar from Sumeru, whose fingers brushed yours as he passed a scroll, his touch lingering just long enough to imply warmth without promise?

Xiao’s jaw clenched. He could’ve carved the answers from your ribs. Let him try. You’d built a gallery of ghosts in your marrow—every smile, every accidental touch, every ‘you matter’ hissed by strangers who didn’t know your blood ran with jade dust. But none of it mattered. Not when the letters he’d penned in stolen moments between battles lay in ashes. Not when you’d chosen to immolate even the possibility of his voice reaching you.

“They mock our suffering.” The words left him sharper than intended, a blade slipped from its sheath. “These… people.”

You finally turned, not quite comprehending exactly what the Yaksha was referring to, until you saw the resentment in his eyes. Jealousy, perhaps. You were no longer sure, unwilling to even try to decipher this beast's silences one more time. Firelight gilded the scar he’d left on your neck, the one that ached when rain brewed over Jueyun Karst. Your smile was a shard of broken glass. “But they care.” A pause. “Or, at least, they pretend to. It’s kinder than the truth.”

Kinder than you, went unspoken.

Xiao crushed the paper fragment in his fist. Let it cut. Let it burn. The pain was nothing compared to the way your aura buzzed now—a dissonant hum, as if the jade in your chest were grinding against his own poisoned veins. You were becoming a stranger. A mortal again, in the worst way. Fragile, hopeful, reckless.

He stepped into your space again, close enough that the heat of the dying fire prickled his skin. “You crave liars, then.” His thumb grazed the scar, a mockery of tenderness. “Tell me—do their pretty lies warm you when the shard freezes your lungs?”

You didn’t flinch. “Better lies than silence.”

The bonfire gasped its last breath. In the sudden dark, Xiao’s fingers found yours, pressing the crumpled fragment into your palm. A phantom confession. A curse.

“Then take this one, too,” he said, and vanished into a swirl of anemo and qingxin ash.

[spring002]

now playing. . . didn't wanna do it by cass elliot 🎧 <- fun fact! i looped this while writing

he doesn’t understand it. scaramouche found himself awake, indigo eyes staring blankly at his popcorn ceiling. the silence was overbearing to ignore. he was biting his tongue, it’s pathetic really. he kept finding himself having dreams of you. it’s odd. admittedly, they’d never start the same way either. he can’t call it a recurring nightmare, more like distorted fragments of his memories broken and scattered in a dream-like state. similar to those dumb tiktoks, “oh no, my avocado somehow fell into my taba squishy”, but instead, it’s “oh no, my stupid, dumb, infuriating situationship is falling into my dreams.” 

the dream was escaping him now like a lit incense, the aroma lingering but the steam dissipating in the air. he tried to grasp the air as if he could pull it back to try to remember you in his dreams. you were the same, maybe, a little grown now. no longer as a naive mortal like you were before. 

he stifles a laugh when he realizes what he was doing. noticing how he’s mimicking a child, pulling over his blankets over his head, as if it would shield him from his underlying thoughts– his subconscious telling him something he can’t bear to understand nor accept. he doesn’t want this stupid dream to haunt him like a ghost inhibiting a house. he doesn’t want to have any moral ties to someone, pulling his guilt him like a ball to shackle. 

a voice whispers, “why? why would this happen?” 

tsk. 

after all, he was the one who initiated it– ending what was needed for the world. he was the one who snipped the bud when it was going to bloom. it’s what he needed. the voice nagged him, again, now louder. it was harder to ignore when it’s all he could focus on. it’s either that or you. 

“why?” 

why? … why did he end the relationship talkative and honest. something that was so raw and real. something he couldn’t physically handle because who would truly love him for him? frankly, you could’ve been a spy. someone hired by his enemies, which he has plenty. you were definitely one, tasked with the mission impossible: to rob him what he still has little, his humanity. his soul, his raw very being… in simpler terms, his heart. 

if he remembered the dreams, only bit by bit. he squinted at the ceiling, trying to remember the tender, softened look in your eyes that never changed. maybe you are just as bad as you are in real life. pitying him but he knew that wasn’t the case. maybe you were thinking of him the same way he is to you. 

why is the universe who knitted these dreams together, taunting him for what he can’t have?

[bzurk]

touch

It would be too selfish to have all of you - your thoughts, your body, your mind and soul. Simon doesn't deserve it. But he needs it, craves it. So he'll break you down, bit by bit. Because if he can't have you wholly, he'll settle for the pieces instead.

<- part 1 here

part 4 here ->

The world is a blur of shadows and whispers. You’re trailing behind your team, a shadow among shadows, adrenaline pumping through your veins like jet fuel. The mission is covert, silent, every step a careful calculation. Your senses are on overdrive, every flicker of movement, every rustle of leaves a potential threat. The air is thick with anticipation, the scent of damp earth and sweat clinging to you. You taste the metallic tang of fear on your tongue, feel the cool trickle of sweat down your spine. Your heart hammers in your chest, a relentless drumbeat. You grip your weapon tighter, its familiar weight both a comfort and a reminder of the stakes. Every movement is deliberate, every breath measured. The world narrows to the path ahead, your teammates’ silhouettes barely visible in the darkness. The ground is soft beneath your boots, muffling your steps, but every crunch of leaves sounds like a gunshot in your ears.

Suddenly, there’s a shift - a flicker in your peripheral vision, one too many footsteps. Before you can react, an attacker is on you, a blur of motion and aggression, heavy against your chest and arms, ice-cold steel to your neck. The shock seizes your breath, but it quickly transforms into something darker, something primal. Paranoia, ever-present, ignites a raw, unfiltered surge of anger and fear.

He’s found you. He’s caught up, and your team is too far ahead, and you’re going to die-

You let out a guttural snarl, fists flying in a violent frenzy. The knife plunges into the dirt next to your head, clanging against your helmet deafeningly, the sound reverberating in your skull. This man, this coward, would not be the end of you, you wouldn’t let him be. In your rage, it’s easy to swing your body weight to the side, legs wrapping around your attackers until you both roll, trapping the shadow beneath you.

Each blow is a release, a cathartic purge of the terror that’s been building up inside you, sloshing and overflowing from your soul. Your knuckles crack against bone, the pain a distant echo as you pummel your attacker. You don’t think, you just act, driven by an animalistic need to dominate, to survive. Your vision narrows, your world reduced to the brutal exchange of flesh and bone. The attacker’s face is a mask of terror and pain below you, their blood splattering with each impact, fragments of teeth and bone and cartilage debris to your destruction. You’re lost in the violence, overtaken by a primal fear that fuels your every strike. The enemy’s resistance fades, their body going limp under your assault, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Each hit is a desperate attempt to banish the shadow of your stalker, to prove you’re not helpless, not weak. You weren’t afraid.

“Fuck you!” Fire burns your throat, licking against your lips as you scream, shrill and wild and animalistic, “Fuck you! Fuck you! You pathetic fucking creep! Fuck you!”

The world fades, leaving only the raw, animalistic need to survive. Your fists are relentless, each strike a hammer blow against the phantoms haunting your mind. The taste of blood, not your own, fills your mouth, a bitter reminder of the violence.

Through the haze of your assault, you barely register the shouts of your teammates. They’re on you, hands pulling you back, trying to restrain your fury. Gaz’s face swims into view, his eyes wide with shock and concern. Soap’s grip is firm, elbows hooked under your armpits, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. “Easy, Stitch, easy!”

Someone else - Ghost, you think - grabs ahold of your kicking, flailing legs, fully restraining your body and forcing you away from your human punching bag.

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice is shrill, painful to your own ears, only interrupted by sobs and hiccups as you struggle to breathe amidst your wild flailing.

“It’s just us, love. Just us. Just breathe, okay? Breathe. Breathe.” Sergeant Garrick holds your face between his palms, his hold steady despite the slick of blood and sweat and tears. He repeats himself a few times before his words register in your screaming mind, the violent whirlpool that only settles when your oxygen thins.

Your breathing is ragged, your heart a sledgehammer in your chest as you finally relent, the fight bleeding out of you. The enemy combatant is a broken heap on the ground, moaning in pain, blood pooling around their battered body. The silence that follows is deafening, your heartbeat the only sound. Your hands are stained with blood, your knuckles raw and throbbing. You stare down at the crumpled body, the face unrecognizable, the violence of your attack evident in every broken feature. The shadows seem to press closer, the forest closing in around you, and for a moment, you feel weightless, lost in the maelstrom in your head.

Captain Price steps forward, his presence a weighty anchor. His gaze is fixed on you, a mix of stern authority and concern, ice-cold and sharp with clarity. You hesitate, your body still trembling with adrenaline, as you meet his eyes, legs wobbly as Ghost releases them, held up only by Johnny at your back. Inside, a storm rages - a whirlwind of fear, vulnerability, and shame. Your mind races, trying to find the words to explain, but they stick in your throat, heavy and unyielding. You want to prostrate yourself before him, to sob and beg for forgiveness under his gaze, reduced to a speck under his scrutinous stare.

Price’s expression softens, his stern facade cracking with sympathy. He doesn’t need words to see the turmoil you’re in, the cracks in your armour. “Talk to me,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

You flinch, unable to meet his eyes. The words tumble out, disjointed and raw, your voice tinged with desperation. “I... I can’t, Captain. I can’t.”

He listens, his eyes never leaving yours, searching for the truth you’re unwilling to share. His determination is a palpable force, but you’re too far gone, too crazed and paranoid to let him in. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words and shared pain. Finally, he sighs, a sound of frustration and resignation, before calling for an evac.

—

Captain Price’s office is a stark contrast to the chaos outside. It’s quiet, almost eerily so, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your thoughts loud. The walls are lined with maps and tactical plans, the scent of coffee, tobacco and old leather filling the air. You stand at attention, trying to suppress the tremors that still ripple through your body. Price’s gaze is a steady weight on you, his blue eyes sharp and assessing.

“Stitches, sit down,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a command that brooks no argument. You nod, your movements jerky, and lower yourself into the seat. The leather creaks under your weight, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

Price leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. “I want to know what’s going on with you. That out there... that wasn’t just about the mission, was it?”

Your mouth is dry, the words sticking to the back of your throat. You drop your gaze to your hands, clenched in your lap, knuckles still raw and bruised. “No, sir,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t.”

He doesn’t push, just waits, his patience a palpable thing. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until finally, you can’t take it anymore. The dam inside you breaks, and the words come tumbling out, raw and unfiltered.

“There’s... there’s someone. Someone on base. I don’t know who it is, but they’re fucking with me. They have been, for months. They’ve been leaving notes, pictures, items.” Your palms sting, nails digging half-moons into your flesh, “I’ve been collecting them all.”

Price’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the gears turning in his mind. He leans forward, his gaze never leaving yours. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

Shame burns through you, a hot, searing pain. “I thought I could handle it. Thought they’d grow bored if I didn’t react. But it’s... it’s too much. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

For a moment, Price says nothing. Then he stands, moving around the desk to crouch in front of you, his hands resting on the armrests of your chair. “Stitches, you’re part of this team, and we look out for each other. Always. I’m your captain, and you’re my responsibility. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

His words are a balm to your battered soul, but they don’t ease the fear gnawing at your insides. “Please, Captain. Don’t send me home. I can’t go home. It’s safer here, with you and the team. I need to stay. You have to let me stay.”

Price’s brow furrows, his eyes searching yours. “I can’t ignore what happened out there. You’re barely holding it together. You need a break, some time to get your head straight.”

“Please let me stay,” you plead, desperation creeping into your voice. “I’ll stick to medical, or- or learn admin, anything. Just don’t send me away. I need to be here.”

He studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods, a slow, reluctant movement. “Alright, you can stay. But you’re off active duty. I’ll look into it, Stitches. Promise.”

Relief washes over you, so intense it’s almost dizzying. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Price stands, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Stitches. You’re not alone in this.”

You nod again, the words failing you. As you leave his office, a fragile sense of hope takes root in your chest. It’s not much, but it’s something. And for now, it’s enough.

—

The days blur into weeks, a monotonous rhythm that barely holds you together. The paranoia doesn’t subside, but you find yourself slipping into a twisted routine. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. You throw yourself into your medical duties, grateful for the distraction. The infirmary becomes your sanctuary, a place where you can lose yourself in the rhythm of work. Bandaging wounds, setting broken bones, administering meds - it’s familiar, grounding. But the shadow of your stalker looms large, a constant presence at the back of your mind.

Lieutenant Simon Riley, Ghost, is always near. His presence sets your nerves on edge. His lingering gazes, the way his fingers brush against yours just a bit too long when handing you supplies - it’s all too much, too similar. You can feel his eyes on you, burning holes in your resolve, eroding your sense of safety. The tension coils tighter within you, a snake ready to strike. He’s silent, an enigma, all broad muscle and intimidation, yet goes undetected if you lose sight of him. The hair on the nape of your neck is always on end, and you know it’s because he’s always around.

You have a feeling Price sent him. Whether it’s to keep an eye on you, or for your safety, you don’t know.

Even at night, you can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you.

Price had you moved into a new room, in a more populated wing. Still, you take nothing for granted anymore - checking under your bed, cupboards, even inside your goddamn shower stall for any potential surprises. But your room is empty, just as barren and lifeless as before. Sleep doesn't come easy that night.

The darkness is a suffocating blanket, the silence deafening. Every creak, every rustle, sends your heart racing. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, unable to succumb to the oblivion of sleep. You can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you. The shadows seem to move, to shift, forming shapes that shouldn’t be there. The paranoia is a living, breathing entity, feeding on your fear, growing stronger with each passing hour.

Finally, you give up. You can’t take it anymore. Slipping out of bed, you move silently through the darkened corridors, making your way to the infirmary. Maybe some paperwork will help distract you, make the hours pass a little faster.

The infirmary is bathed in the cold, silvery glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. The familiar space feels unsettling and eerie in this light, shadows dancing across surfaces and making them seem almost alive.

Your footsteps are muffled by your thick socks as you approach the door, but your heart thunders loudly in your chest. You hesitate, hand hovering over the doorknob, as a dark figure moves within the infirmary. From here, you can only see their silhouette outlined against the faint light seeping into the room.

Fear grips you like icy fingers around your throat as you press yourself against the wall, barely daring to breathe. The sound of metal and paper rustling through drawers and files echoes loudly in the tense silence. What are they looking for? Why are they here?

With bated breath, you peer around the corner just enough to catch glimpses of the intruder's movements. They seem precise and deliberate as they search through your belongings. Time stretches on endlessly, each moment filled with creeping dread.

Finally, the figure stands up and turns towards the door. Your blood runs cold as the moonlight reveals his face - it's Ghost. The same man who has been watching you with his calculating gaze, haunting your every step.

You wait until he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, before daring to move. Your legs shake beneath you as you rise, trying to quell the tremors in your hands. You need to get out of here - now.

Silently and quickly, you slip out of the infirmary and make your way through dimly lit corridors. Fear and anger swirl within your mind as you reach your room and shut the door behind you, leaning heavily against it as if to keep out any remaining traces of danger.

—

The first light of dawn filters through your window, casting long, ghostly shadows across the room. You haven't slept, and the exhaustion weighs heavily on you, a thick fog that makes every step feel like a monumental effort. The events of the night replay in your mind, a relentless loop of fear and betrayal. Ghost. It was Ghost all along.

You force yourself out of bed, moving mechanically through your morning routine. Each action is deliberate, grounding you in the present moment, trying to push away the lingering dread. But it clings to you, a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate.

The corridors are quiet as you make your way back to the infirmary, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken secrets. You enter the room, the cold, silvery light of dawn mixing with the sterile fluorescence, casting an eerie glow on the surroundings. Your sanctuary feels tainted now, the shadows hiding sinister intentions.

You approach the drawers, your heart pounding in your chest. With trembling hands, you open them, one by one, your breath hitching each time you see your personal belongings disturbed. And there, amidst the medical supplies and paperwork, you find them: another gift and more photos. Moments you thought were private, angles that make your skin crawl. Your room, your workspace, your bloodied knuckles hanging limp by your side - too recent.

Ghost had left them there. You saw him do it.

But the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: you need more proof. You can't just go to Price with your collection of photos and gifts and point fingers. Not after your breakdown on the field - a quick way to label yourself as mad. You need something undeniable, tangible.

Your mind races as you consider your options. You can't confront Ghost directly; he's too dangerous, too unpredictable. Six feet and four inches of honed muscle and skill.

The rest of the day is a blur, the minutes stretching into hours as you move through your duties with a robotic precision. The paranoia is ever-present, a shadow that clings to your every step. You see Ghost in the periphery, always watching, always waiting. His presence is a constant reminder of the danger you're in.

You’ve had enough of waiting. Too long have you been looking over your shoulder, waiting for the shadows to move and strike and ensnare.

This time, you’ll act first.

[acapelladitty]

Ooooooh, Jonathan Crane + Lachryma by Ghost! (totally not trying to spread my agenda of forcing everyone i know to listen to Ghost hahahaha)

Ghost - Lachryma

Tears were his first memory.

The events leading up to the hazy recollection were scattered at best, little more than fragments. He recalled desperate pleading. Promises to be a better boy. To be a good boy. But it had all fallen on deaf ears and the sting of those tears, pain-filled and earnest as he sobbed alone in the darkness of the church, had nurtured the very spark of memory within him.

He shed a tear for his lecturing career when not one of his colleagues would stand for him and he was forced to pack up his life into cardboard boxes and leave. The hot prickle of despair at least had the decency to wait until he was inside his car, shame and uncertainty making him feel like that miserable child once more. A pathetic babe trapped in the body of a man who had once again been abandoned and left to rot by everything he knew.

Now, no longer the man but the monster who lurked in the shadows to spark terror in the hearts of others, he couldn't recall the last time he had shed tears. His victims were the ones to hold that catharsis and they revelled in it as each of them begged for a mercy that would never come.

Time stole many things without care for the consequence but the spring of his upset, dried out for many years now, was not something he wished to see returned. His days of sorrow were long wasted on a woman perhaps more monstrous than he could ever lay claim to be and a society which held no love for him nor his life's work.

No one would weep for him when the inevitable came and he would afford the world that very same luxury as he continued to carve a cruel path through it.

[sylusonychinus]

Episode 8: Fragments of the Past

Series Masterlist

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Reader’s apartment, casting a soft glow over the small space. She stretched, exhaling a slow breath. A day off. A real, honest-to-god day off. It felt strange—almost foreign—not waking up to the sharp buzz of her pager, not rushing up thirty floors to deliver coffee or clean up after the untouchable Sylus Qin.

She tied her hair up as she moved around the apartment, gathering the mess she hadn’t had time to deal with all week. The worker dorms weren’t anything luxurious, but they were hers. Her space. Unlike the penthouse, which constantly smelled like expensive cologne and trouble, her little apartment smelled like fresh laundry and something simple, something warm.

She had just finished sweeping when her phone vibrated on the counter.

Chris: Day off? Let’s hang. Your treat. 😜

A soft laugh escaped her lips as she leaned against the counter, typing back.

You: What makes you think I have money?

Chris: You live in a billionaire’s penthouse.

You: I WORK in a billionaire’s penthouse.

Chris: Same thing. C’mon, let’s go. I’ll even let you pick the place.

Reader hesitated for a moment. Maybe she should just stay home, enjoy the quiet for once. But the idea of being alone with her thoughts for too long didn’t sit right. She had been spending too much time in Sylus’s world. Maybe some normalcy was exactly what she needed.

You: Fine. But you’re buying dessert.

Chris sent back a dramatic crying emoji, and she rolled her eyes, grabbing her coat.

The streets of N109 were always alive, always moving. The towering shopping district boasted some of the most expensive brands in the world, filled with boutiques that dripped in gold and excess.

"Man, what are we doing here?" Chris whistled, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as he eyed the storefronts. "I can’t even afford to breathe in these places."

Reader smirked. "Then maybe stop inhaling so much."

Chris snorted but followed her lead, weaving through the busy streets. It wasn’t until they passed a familiar boutique that she faltered.

The same one where Sylus had zipped up her dress.

Her stomach twisted, memories rushing back—the feel of his fingers against her back, the slow glide of the zipper, the way his lips had ghosted over her skin just before he stepped away.

"You okay?" Chris’s voice snapped her back to reality.

She blinked. "Yeah, just… I was here before. With Sylus."

Chris raised a brow. "Oh? That kind of shopping trip?"

"Not like that," she huffed, pushing past him. "It was for an event."

"Uh-huh."

She ignored his teasing and kept walking, but the memories wouldn’t stop. Maria’s cruel smirk. The way she had belittled Reader in whispers, making sure Sylus wasn’t paying attention.

"Pathetic. You actually think you belong here?"

Reader clenched her fists.

Maria had done everything in her power to make her feel small. And yet… Sylus had never once looked at her like she was out of place.

Even if he was frustrating beyond belief, even if his teasing drove her insane, he never made her feel lesser.

"You’re making that face," Chris said.

"What face?"

"The 'I’m thinking about my ridiculously rich fake fiancé' face."

She scoffed. "I do not have a—"

"You do."

"Shut up, Chris."

They wandered deeper into the district, ending up at a quiet little café nestled between the towering storefronts. Reader ordered an iced coffee, Chris got some overpriced fancy drink, and they both split a plate of pastries that neither of them could pronounce.

"Alright," Chris said, leaning back. "Let’s talk about something fun. Like how I’m gonna be rich one day."

Reader snorted. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan?"

"Marry rich. Obviously."

She laughed, shaking her head. "And here I thought you had ambition."

"I do. I’m ambitious about being a trophy husband."

They ate, they talked, and for the first time in a long time, Reader felt… normal. No billionaires. No auctions. No fake engagements. Just her and a friend, sitting in a café, wasting time like any other person.

After lunch, they wandered into an ice cream shop, a small place tucked between luxury boutiques. Reader picked her usual flavor, while Chris experimented with something ridiculous that had gold flakes in it.

"You’re seriously eating gold?" she asked.

Chris took a dramatic bite. "Tastes like capitalism."

She shook her head, smiling as they made their way toward the river. The cool breeze rolled in as they sat on the railing, ice cream in hand, looking out at the water. The Onychinus Casino loomed in the distance, its golden lights flickering against the darkening sky.

Chris let out a low whistle. "You ever wonder how people like Sylus end up with everything?"

Reader was quiet for a moment before answering. "They take it."

Chris hummed. "Yeah. Makes sense." He glanced at her. "So… what’s the deal with you and him, really?"

She exhaled. "It’s complicated."

"It always is."

She hesitated before speaking again. "Before all this—before Sylus—I had a different life."

Chris stayed quiet, waiting.

"I was in an accident years ago. A car crash." She swallowed. "I don’t remember much from before it happened."

Chris frowned. "You lost your memory?"

"Not all of it. Just… pieces." She stared at the river. "Some things are clear, others are just—gone. It’s like trying to remember a dream that slips away the moment you wake up."

Chris didn’t say anything right away, just watched her. "And Sylus?"

Reader let out a small laugh. "He’s impossible. Frustrating. Arrogant. But sometimes…" She hesitated. "Sometimes, I feel like I’ve met him before. Like I should remember something about him. But no matter how hard I try, there’s just—nothing."

Chris didn’t push. He just sighed, stretching his arms. "Well, if he’s as rich as he is annoying, maybe he can buy you new memories."

She snorted. "If only it worked that way."

The city lights shimmered in the distance, and for a moment, she let herself get lost in the quiet.

That night, Reader tossed and turned, caught in the grip of a dream that felt too real.

She was small. Cold. The scent of rain filled the air.

A voice called out to her, muffled and distant.

"Don’t cry."

Her chest ached.

The dream shifted.

The sound of tires screeching. Glass shattering. A sickening crunch.

Pain.

She gasped, body jolting upright, heart pounding.

The memory was gone before she could grasp it, slipping through her fingers like sand.

But the ache in her chest remained.

And somehow, she knew—whatever she had forgotten, whatever was buried in the past—it wasn’t finished with her yet.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @seris-the-amious @paninisstuff @mysticcollectionvoid @animegamerfox @mcdepressed290 @fries11 @placeholdddddd @madam8 @demon-master-zero @the-reaper472

[kamesama]

— dairokuten-maō: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: n/sfw because suggestive. romanticisation of unhealthy stuff. it's sukuna, you get the point. — word count: 531

he is a ghoul — he  bleeds you out and licks your wounds with a foul tongue. he praises you; his pathetic little doll, his gleamy-eyed plaything, his beloved crybaby. dear god, you sigh as he crushes you, burns you, only to bring your crumbled fragments, your charred remains together again, shaping you into a prized possession on his shelf. the grandest piece in his collection. he shreds your pride and cracks it with a twist of his heel. he drags it in the mud and puts it in a grave with no intention of uttering a single prayer.

he is an artist — the twisted kind, the unconventional. his teeth paint vile scenes across your skin; red, blue and purple. he turns your lips into something precious; into rubies, garnets, jaspers. you scribble across his marked back in the thrives of cruel ecstasy, dragging desperate lines bearing crimson pearls in their midsts, and he kisses the edge of your jaw almost tenderly with horrific joy and horrendous pride. go on, go on, he encourages, tempting you to wound him in return all the more. squirm and resist, gasp and plead, because he wants you to keep trying. keep trying. 

he is a disaster — not a single thing blooms in the palm of his hand save for the starving, warmongering curls of flames. they twist and devour, and their passionate kiss brings the underworld to its knees. not a single thing blooms in the palm of his hand save for you; desperate and doomed, open and willing like a peony flower matured minutes after rainfall. you come undone. unraveled. time and time and time again until your lungs drown in the inferno and throat chokes on the embers. he handles you through the fluorescence and you wrap around him like ivy, aware that you might as well wither otherwise. 

he is a menace — with his crooked, wicked smile and bent neck. filthy tongue ghosts over his lip before he flashes his fangs, something unholy dripping right out of his mouth, piercing. amusement seeps from his pores and floods his face as you turn chagrined and exasperated, your mind filled with nothing but the thoughts of him and him alone. you can only spit out his name, and your eyes can only shed tears that he adores sucking off your lashes like morning dew on grass strands. can you even hear yourself, he asks, eyes beaming with curiosity as he cocks his head. your heart throbs and overfills and spills all over.

he is an alleviation — only in the way he submerges your thoughts and deluges your senses. he kisses away the frostbite across your ribcage solely to set your lungs aflame and make your skin gleam with sweat. he is the sole torrent coursing through the present with a force so ferocious that it leaves you no gap to catch a breath of past or a glimpse of future. there is only now that he chains you to, for you should not perturb your pretty little head with the thoughts of yesterday's wars or tomorrow’s armageddon. hush and take it. think of nothing else. you wouldn’t dare think of anything else, would you?

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[alicethemadhatterapprentice]

From the Specter!Carlo AU of ash-arts-a-thing, I present to you another snipper from my the brainrot happening H24 in my brain!

Thank you @ashes8338 for the AU and @miss-chouquettes for listening to my ramblings and giving so many awesome ideas!!!

Not really angst ? But some Carlo introspection happening, as he follows P around Krat. This takes place before they fight the King of Puppet, probably ? 

No beta we die like Carlo. Enjoy !

Carlo was going to kill his father.

It didn’t matter that he was technically a ghost following the puppet made in his image by said father around. He was going to fucking kill that piece of shit of a human being. 

He had been following Pinocchio for a while now, and was - as much as he didn’t want to admit it- growing fond of the kid. But also so very concerned. 

This boy - he couldn’t refer to him as a puppet anymore, not in good conscience- was growing, changing, and refusing.to.take.a.bloody.break.

Even the cricket was getting concerned !! And wasn’t that absurd ??

But no, Pinnochio was running himself ragged, running around Krat, beating things twice his size, being thrown around, and refusing to stay down. In a sense, Carlo could admire the spirit. Kid had a true Stalker’s soul. 

Carlo also had enough brain cells (if he still had them? He was dead after all, so who knew.He was trying not to ponder about his condition too much, it usually made him panic.) to know the kid was heading straight into burnout, fast. 

All that because their dear old dad wanted him to be a “good son”, telling him how “proud” he was, and that he needed to hurry. Carlo could see how fake Geppeto was being. But Pinocchio ? Who didn’t know any better ? He didn’t ! 

The poor sod actually thought their (when had it become their ? When did Carlo start to consider Pinocchio a member of his family ? A brother almost ? He didn’t know) pathetic poor excuse of a father was being genuine !! 

So, Carlo was going to find a way, even in his dead-but-not-really state, to kill his dad, and make sure the fucker’s ergo was split in so many parts that there would be no chance ever of it awakening again. Cause fuck him. 

It hurt, seeing his - damn it he had to admit it, at least to himself- younger brother running around in pain, exhausted, because he refused to sit down and take a break.  

He wished Romeo was still around. Maybe he could help in the “Hey, let’s murder my dad before he kills my brother in an attempt to resuscitate me” plan Carlo was thinking about.

He had to figure something out, but his only moments when he was solid where usually after his brother used a meteor fragment, and that usually meant being focused on fighting some monster way too fucking big. And he couldn't exactly leave and abandon the kid to a fate worse than death and break the trust Pinnochio had in him, now could he?? 

He sighed, before catching up to Pinnochio. They were about to enter the Opera…well that was bound to be interesting. 

[angrelysimpping]

Not only am I incredibly normal about @rotting-ink 's Rot of Witchwood, but I'm *also* incredibly normal about the two demons, mhm mhm 😖

Contents: GN Saleos, (they/them); Saleos has a cock but I 1000% feel like they'd have a strap on that they'd still refer to as as their cock; GN Reader/Witch, (you/your); pet play; the witch has a collar; begging; slight pain; toxic relationships

Words: 865

Your thighs ached from having fucked yourself on Saleos for what must have been well over an hour by now, but that didn’t matter. They just watched you, gold eyes flashing with a small smile as you rode them. They didn’t even touch you, help you. Saleos, for all the time you’ve been humping their cock, looks unbothered. They could just as easily be watching a show at the opera right now for how unruffled they looked.

Arms looped around their shoulders, you tuck your head into the crook of their neck, inhaling their scent as you keep moving. Hole puffy and sore, pain mixed with pleasure, exactly what Saleos loved to shower you in. They chuckle low as you groan, thighs trembling. Your fluids stain your skin and Saleos’ clothes, cum and drool and tears. Later they’ll tease you about what a messy pet you are, as if they didn’t get off on having you naked in their lap while they were fully dressed.

“So good,” you slurred into their skin. You lean back from their neck, try to meet their gaze. Eyes hazy, you can see a spark of something in those golden depths as they hook a finger under your collar, tugging you closer to them.

Their teeth flash in the low light as they smile, hummed words rumbling in their chest as they speak, “Yes, pet? You feel good?”

Their words curl in your ear, and you shudder as you nod. “Good, s-so g-good.”

They laugh again, tongue flicking out to lick over your neck, the skin right above your collar. Their collar. Saleos’ collar decorating your throat. You whine at the contact, tongue still somehow hot against your burning skin. You try to press closer to them, to seek out the safety that had been hiding your face in the hollow between their neck and shoulder, but they don’t let you.

“Go on my pretty little pet witch, tell me more.”

You sob, brain struggling to find the words you needed. “So g-good. You, you m-make me feel s-so good.”

They give a low hum of encouragement, making a small gesture for you to continue.

You know what they want, and you're in no position to deny them. Any restraint you had left, any shred of dignity that once stilled your tongue, died.

“Fuck, Saleos.” You let a high pitched whine, angling your hips so the tip of their cock presses against a particularly sensitive spot inside you. “Fuck,” you sigh again, eyes rolling back as you chase that pleasure. “You m-make me f-feel so good. O-only you make me feel l-like this.” You hiccup, vision going fuzzy. “G-God, you. Only you. Saleos. Saleos.”

You keep babbling, unthinking as you go on and on. Saleos lets you, their grin widening all the while.

Soon, you're not saying any words at all, just whining and making tiny, unintelligible sounds as your hips keep moving.

Saleos let go of your collar, and you let your head loll back. Every little sound you make seems to reverberate in the room, chest heaving as you keep bouncing yourself in their lap.

It's now that Saleos finally touches you.

A shudder racks your body as their hands ghost up your sides, fingers tracing over your stomach, ribs. Every inch of your skin tingles, craving their touch, and you can't help but let out a pathetic, choked sound as there's hardly any pressure behind their touch, a phantom fragment of feeling. That is, until nails scrape over your nipples, slow and cruel.

“Saleos,” you gasp, brain going utterly silent as the euphoria of their touch overwhelmed you. “Saleos, please.” The air feels heavier against your skin as your head spins. Almost delirious, you continue. “Please, please.” You don't know what you're asking for, what you're begging for. But it feels right, like you're doing exactly what you're meant to do. “P-please, please, Saleos.”

You keep begging, thighs shaking, straining as you finally start to reach the end of your stamina. Chanting, it starts to feel like those are the only words you know, the only words you need to know: your owner's name and how to plead with them.

Their hands leave your chest and in one quick, rough motion, they curl two fingers under your collar and yank you down so your pleasure glazed eyes look into theirs. You could get lost in them. Deep golden honey. The sun itself. Warmth and life, rich and endless. The eyes of the demon who owned you.

“Cum for me, darling.”

That's what you needed. What you'd been unknowingly begging for. Your orgasm rips through you violently, a high pitched keen ripped from your throat.

You collapse forward, each breath more a sob than anything else. Utterly spent, you press your lips to the soft skin of their neck as you struggle to form two more words before you slip into unconsciousness.

“Th-Thank y-you.”

If you'd managed to stay awake, maybe the light in Saleos’ eyes and the sharp grin on their face would make you rethink choosing them as your mate. Yet, as it was, you were blissfully unaware, cocooned in their scent as you finally rested.

[archangedelamort]

Neither the living, nor the dead could deprive me of the meaning of Château de Coucy in my life. When the clouds went dark and sinister above the village, coming from the forest, or, when the air became suffocating with the imminence of something humanly unbearable or humiliating, I found solace in the confines of the walls - not in their warmth, but in the shadow they've cast.

The past echoed in my mind there, in my bones, it could write the most genuine words on my bare skin and mind, with its sharp quill not using ink but untold memories yearning to be told. I was a very ardent victim of those voices coming from the past, I felt; they chose me, for I was too willing to listen. And they told me everything.

I sat down on the tall grass with colours black and green and - how far I went, both in body and mind, to find repose there! - the bucolic idyll crowned me with laurels. A chestnut tree over there, and then farther, bushes of berries - a summer that could not last but never ended, there, where I treasured and locked up my boyish innocence.

The moss and murk, even in the time of winter, could offer a certain clarity, and I felt no shame in being absent-minded there, crafting silly poetry I never wrote, yearning for things I would never wish to truly possess.

During those times, my mind was a temple of the most exquisite contradictions, but I could be intentionally cruel, occasionally; I preferred to be both dead and alive, understood, loved and despised and feared, all at once, for who I was, and these feelings were consuming me, relentlessly. From the depths of my soul, suddenly, I was constantly torn between killing myself or everyone else, being real or unreal; with a torch in my hand and a dagger in my heart and Socrates' poisoned cup on my lips, wearing a smile with the untold truths in my mind - only to have a little silence.

I watched the gathering storm at the ruins, the stone hard and cold against my back. They already waited me back, for dinner, in the house. But the cold stone behind me was like a reprimanding tone - not like my mother's, it was far more intelligent, saying: there was no time to waste, there was only time for being rigid and persistent with resilience. But the hot breath of summer and the vivid green of the grass, the fresh Aliette that was flowing not so far from there, only glistering amidst the trees - from up there, the world became a nuisance, a ridiculous collection of useless tasks, pathetic lies, and only nature seemed to be real -, made me forget everything, and all I could think of was the eternity that the sturdy stone walls represented. Front of my eyes, flashed fragments of medieval battles, they came to life. Echoes of sword against sword, a crash, horses whining, sweating blood, cries of knights carrying heavy armour and shield, beneath the sun, in the name of something greater, something permanent, something holy.

The ivy swirling beside my shoulders was like untold tales woven into the bricks, and, if I listened closely, if I leaned against the walls enough, I could hear them, I could even feel them all around me, like ghosts. I could not pretend to be real without being thoroughly possessed by the spirits of those knights, the mystery of war, - when I sat there, in the winter, the night-camp's embers and whispers, all around, took me back to centuries, and I hoped I would not return to where I truly was. And the battle, that was raw, that tasted flesh and heavy metal blaze all at once, as brothers fought and died together in ecstasy of a dream that was beyond life's dust, was a pleasant desire to be the part of - only once! It was white-blinding flame which didn't only challenge but also conquered eternity.

[koukaaa-descent]

experimental writing about two old ocs I’ve never brought up anywhere #lol

>You miss the sky?

>>No. Not the sky that you recall. The sky that I knew saw things beyond your imagination. Gods, dragons, dinosaurs, meteors, rain, storms. A plethora of peculiar things.

>But they all had names. They always had names.

>>They always had names.

>Sometimes I wonder how long we’re gonna last. You were born to die. So was I. It’s just a tragedy in motion, one neither of us can stop.

>>A car crash. A tsunami. A dream.

>Yeah. A dream. I’m sorry about the time that I had kept clinging on to you. When you died, I lost something. Didn’t even know that you were you, and that I was I, and it still hurt the same.

>>That’s the problem with this, Lagrus. The sky falls, the dream ends, the curtains close. We’re still here. The beginning begins again, and I’m left in the same world in which I lost you. And now, I spend eternities finding you again.

>Wont you get tired of this? I’m tired of it. Knowing intrinsically but only in those very last moments before you’re gone, and I’m left to live a solitary life until the end of this story.

>>I made that bracelet for you for a reason. Even if we don’t recognize each other, even if I can’t recall the first fragment of your name, or the color of the spark which first created you, or the taste of your carbon on my tongue, there’d always be that piece with you. Always.

>Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll last, Eternatus. All of the time in the world is not enough time. Sometimes I find you, and you find me. We get to spend these fleeting lifetimes wrapped up in each other, just like we are now. It’s a little pathetic to hug your own body, isn’t it? But we only have so much time. Eternity is too short. It’s too long.

>>Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll last, Lagrus. The story is long but it has always had an end. Will it end when you tell me goodnight over the phone? Will it end when I walk away? Will it end when my spark never ignites? I hope so. I pray not.

>An eternity is not long enough. Ouroboros; möbius strip. The eternity is long but not forever. Sometimes I remember your hand as that which is made out of starlight, Eternatus. Sometimes it’s nothing at all. Sometimes I am guiding your ghost through a dark sea, ferrying you somewhere safe. Sometimes I am young, and you are too, and I am laughing as I drag you behind me, dappled in light. Sometimes we are old, and your hand is in mine, and you are staring at our hands and admiring the rings with the same awe you felt the day I presented them to you.

>>Sometimes we are monsters, Lagrus. But not always.

>The story has always needed to end, Eternatus. But perhaps it should last a moment longer still.

>>I would miss you, if we were nothing. If we were atoms, scattered across the vast nothing.

>I would miss you, too.

[glamphantasm]

OMxWhumptober 30

Satan really didn't get enough attention this month - I have my favorites, and it shows. I really need to revisit OG Satan a bit more, to remind myself of the character's actual history. This prompt gave me a bit of trouble - this one was the third attempt.

Satan crouched in the ruins of his room, blood blooming beneath the jagged cuts on his knuckles, but he barely felt it through the anger that simmered beneath his skin. Shattered books lay scattered around him, their spines split and pages ripped as if torn by some primal creature – something raw, untethered. The whole room felt like an exposed wound, and in its silence, his heart thundered louder than any rage-fueled howl he’d ever unleashed.

His hands trembled as he stared at them, still stained with the marks of his outburst. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this. Not the destruction, not the fearful glances from his brothers, not the way their bond had frayed so much he could feel the edges unraveling every time he got near.

“Look what you’ve done,” he whispered again, voice a rasping echo against the cracked walls.

And it wasn’t enough. The words barely scratched the surface of the horror clawing inside him, a deep, festering thing that grew with each moment of silence. Satan didn’t know who he was anymore. He wasn’t Lucifer’s rage made flesh – not in any way that mattered, anyway – yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was little more than some shadow, a fragmented reflection that could not be appeased, soothed, or understood.

He thought of his brothers. Belphie’s eyes, normally cold with a shared sort of cynicism, now avoiding when Satan looked his way. The way Belphie’s voice had softened to little more than a murmur, quiet and cautious, as if wary to provoke him further. Mammon, too, skirting around him with silent footsteps, sidelong glances weighed with wariness – no jokes, no laughter, no familiar taunts.

The guilt twisted inside him, a clawed grip that made him feel like he’d swallowed glass, shards tearing him apart from the inside. He’d seen how Leviathan stared at him during the last blow-up, jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. Levi had closed his game, fingers ghosting over the phone as he’d whispered a strained “Can’t you just control yourself?”

And that had stung – no, not stung. It had gutted him, leaving him hollow and gasping, even as rage continued to surge through his veins. But control? How could he tell Levi that control was the one thing he didn’t have, that no matter how he tried to cage his temper, it slipped through the bars like smoke, like venom, poisoning everything he touched?

Satan’s vision blurred, and he blinked away the bitter sting in his eyes. Tears? Pathetic. Weak. In the solitude of his shattered room, no one was left to witness the raw wound he’d been hiding. He’d tried so desperately to be more than what he was – a creature of wrath, a being sculpted from rage. He’d convinced himself he was more, believed he could be the brother they needed. But in the end, wasn’t he just the monster they feared he’d become?

He reached down and picked up a torn page from one of his books, a fragment of poetry, stained with his own blood. “I am no prophet – and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,” He mouthed the words, lips barely forming the syllables. They felt like a requiem, like something final. And wasn’t that fitting? Because whatever dreams he’d held about family, about acceptance, lay dead in the rubble around him.

*Recovery.* The word rang hollow in his mind, no more meaningful than ash slipping through his fingers. He’d read about it, written the word in notes, watched his brothers struggle toward it. But what did it mean for him, a creature with ruin etched into his very bones? Could he fix this? Could he heal what he’d already broken?

With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, trying to force the tears back, but they wouldn’t stay down. His brothers – his family – they were all he had, and he feared he’d lost them already, that he’d shattered the fragile trust they’d placed in him so completely that it would never be whole again. The ache clawed at his chest, a hollow pit of despair that grew with every passing second. And oh, how he longed to undo it, to rewind the moments, to take back every furious word, every lashing insult, every time his rage had spilled over and hurt the people he was supposed to protect.

He reached for one of his shattered books, cradling it like a dying thing. His fingers traced the torn cover, the rough edges, feeling a sick sort of kinship with the ruined pages. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice breaking into a whisper, a plea, a confession to the empty room.

And maybe if he whispered it enough times, the words would matter. Maybe they would undo the damage, rewind the clock, bring his brothers back. He whispered it again and again, until the word lost meaning, became an empty, trembling sound in his throat. But it changed nothing. There was no miracle, no forgiveness, no sudden mending of the broken things scattered around him.

He was left in silence, clutching at remnants that would never be whole, knowing that, at the end of everything, the only thing he could do was pick up the pieces and wait. Wait for his brothers to forgive him – if they ever could. Or worse, wait in the empty dark for the day they left him behind, another scar on their hearts, another thing they had to recover from. And maybe, he thought with a shiver, that was the punishment he deserved.

[salty-accords]

WIP Novels Fragments #4

TW: Implied/Referenced Child Sexual Abuse; Horror Themes

These are more drafty than usual.

The porchlight was on, as it usually was this time of year. A beacon wandering dogs home from the fields. In times like this, Alice remembered that some people truly do treat their dogs better than their children. Soaked through as she was, she had no trouble with the rattly plastic handle of the screen door; the brass lever behind it was less cooperative and she fumbled to get the door unlatched for several minutes.

Such was the racket she made with the old doors, her shepherd, Bo-Peep, began an uproarious bout of howling. The Mini Aussie, eager in her alerting sonnet, jumped and scratched at the other side of the wood. Her high whines and insistent barks scrapped at the inside of Alice’s brain. She mumbled half-hearted assurances and comforts to her pup, likely inaudible to the old girl. The door finally cracked open, the sounds of sticky insulating rubber and too-tight wood grinding deafening in the tiny doorway.

“In—” Alice urged, using her knee to block Bo-Peep’s escape—“It’s not time for pasture; in, girl, in.” The fluffball whined pathetically at her entrance, hopping and wheeling around in place like a tiny gymnast. “Settle, Bo—settle.” Two fingers poised above the dog’s snout and she knew to back down, wiggling frantically even as she flopped into her practiced lie down. “Good. Good girl,” Alice soothed, catching one of her old pup’s ears in a palm to scratch gently under it.

Bo-Peep eased her incessant squirming and tilted into the affection with eagerness.

Alice pushed the deadbolt into place absent-mindedly, giving her darling dog a final pat on the top of her head before turning away from her and toward the dreaded stairs. Bo trotted after her, winding desperately around her legs like a cat, and whining. Resolutely, Alice did not give in to her begging, opting to march straight into the proverbial lion’s den.

___

Her pillow was cold from the draft in her bedroom, a stark contrast to the residual flush on her skin and the humidity from outside. There was a hole in the wall of her closet, just feet away, that let in air from the night outside. It blew through a tall hickory and was cool when it came in, even during the hottest summers. Mixed with the artificial breeze created by her ceiling fan, the draft created a perfect environment for Alice to settle into a restful night’s sleep.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

Alice did not sleep peacefully that night despite the warmth of her bed, the coolness of her pillow, the exhaustion in her bones, and the haze in her brain. Her mind was overcome with images and sensations: the pit in the road and the feeling of cold wind drifting out of it; that voice rambling nonsense; Eric’s hands, demanding and eager, on her back and her thighs. She tossed and turned for what felt like hours, never comfortable or secure in her privacy. It was like a million eyes were peeking out at her from the shadows. Never blinking. Never straying.

The sensation of being perceived prickled along her spine. Goosebumps crawled over her despite the warmth within her nest. A pit in her stomach formed, her throat closing as her anxiety rose again, threatening the cleanliness of her blankets with more sweat than she was already soiling them with.

Everything physical was so far away. Her blankets, her pillow, the rustle of leaves outside her bedroom walls. Despite her usual hyper-sensitivity to those things, the ghost of eyes and hands were much more real to her. The memories floated in front of her, her insides clenching protectively and heart hammering within her ribs.

She slammed herself onto her back, catching a whimper between her teeth. She clenched her thighs together under the covers, trying desperately to block the ghastly fingers’ access to her. The wind whistled somewhere, a high noise that sounded too much like air between teeth.

Something clacked against her window, sharp and heavy.

Alice bolted upright, scrambling to the foot of her bed, as far from her window as she could go with her trembling legs. From where she sat leaning carefully against the footboard, her window pane looked cracked. A wide, long spiderweb of fractures spread out from the center of the glass, stark and white against the dark backdrop of night.