#anyway I want to ask for prayer but I don't know how/what to ask about?

[isfjmel-phleg]

😶

[mocchii-writes]

can you do a thanos x reader (with slight dae Ho x reader) where they used to date before he became a rapper and did drugs and she’s the only person he ever truly loved. They break up because of the person he becomes and cut contact, seeing each other for the first time at the games. Thanos is keeping up his cool guy persona and flirting in a dickhead way, but then he sees her getting along with dae Ho (who likes her too) that cause thanos to actually be vulnerable with the reader in private, acting like he once was. up to you if you want to make it an angsty or fluffy ending

Well, all the stars would shine a bloody red

Paring: Choi Su-bong (Thanos) x fem!reader, slight Kang Dae-ho x reader

Summary: Seeing Thanos in the games after he changed for the worse, but he sees you too.

Words: 3k

Warnings: Brief mentions of prayer, mentions of drugs, swearing, death, squid game stuff

A/n: grr I'm not good with angst, I'm sorry if this sucks lol. Also, it came out way longer than I expected, so sorry for that ♡

~🍡���

The world seems blurry around Thanos. The leaves on the ground are nothing more than a distraction from your face. His heart beats faster as you smile at him, telling him some story he can't remember. The park is nice, a cool breeze ruffling your hair slightly.

His hearing is the first to go, and your voice becomes incomprehensible murmurs as the world slowly darkens and shifts. He can't see you anymore, either, and his vision soon blackens like an exposed film. Soon, the darkness is replaced by blaring lights as he opens his eyes.

Oh.

He sits up, his loose shirt clinging to his damp cold sweat. Why had he dreamt about you? It was so long ago, but he knew he'd never recover. His mattress always feels empty, now. No matter what girl is in it, it's always empty. You were so perfect, how could he have lost you?

It doesn't matter anymore, and he knows it. His life is better now. He just needs to keep saying that until he can wake up and feel like an entire person. But for now, he's just a husk, and he knows it. He'd never admit it, though. He can hardly admit it to himself. He knows he's changed. He wishes he could say for the better, but fame does something to a person. He still remembers that day.

He was high all the time, at clubs or concerts, hardly home, and hardly himself. You had spoken to him a week or two ago, telling him you were worried.

"Please, Su-bong." You had whispered. It was the first time you had gotten to speak to him in a while. "Why are you doing this? Why are you changing so quickly? So harshly?" He thought you were going to cry. So did you. Your hand rests on his arm. But he, for some fucked up reason, brushed you off.

"Chill, man. I'm not changing, I'm living my life. Why can't you just let me? Be happy for me?" He shoves your hand away. "I have a signing soon, see you later," he dismissed you.

That night, though. He should've been able to tell you were different. Your demeanor was cold and dry. But he couldn't even recognize himself, so you expected nothing more. You were sitting on the couch, arms crossed, zoning out into the ceiling. He stumbled in, clearly high off his mind. He had hickeys. You don't care, at this point. You can't remember the last time he even hugged you, but you stopped trying a while ago.

"Hey, Baby," he muttered, taking off his jacket. He walked over and sat next to you, turning on the TV.

"Do you know what day it is?" You calmly asked. You were prepared for this. You already knew what he would say, he didn't even deserve the benefit of the doubt, but you still asked him anyway.

"Happy anniversary." He'd said, dismissively, switching the channel. You scoffed, focusing your eyes on him. You stood, and he looked at you, almost annoyed.

"You're not yourself." You say, biting your lip, trying not to break.

"What? Flower, I thought we were past this." He groaned. You didn't say anything. You just grabbed your phone and walked to the door.

"Talk to me when you can remember my birthday." You said, slamming the door. He didn't comprehend it at the time, passing out after a while.

But he does now.

He can't take it. He lost all his money, unable to blind himself anymore. He rarely dreams of you, but it hurts more each time he does. He was stupid. He is stupid. He's never felt for someone like you since then. He stands, defeated, and heads outside.

He's not proud of what he plans to do, but he is confused when a man in a suit approaches him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You have to squint your eyes to get used to the bright florescent lights in the strange room you find yourself in. You panic, but only briefly, before remembering the Ddakji, the small card, and the ominous car you entered.

You take a moment to assess your situation but don't get very far. There are many different kinds of people around you, seemingly in the same situation. You wear identical tracksuits with different numbers and are surrounded by strategically stacked metal bed frames. You then notice the violin music playing from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, and you finally stand up.

Many people join you as the crowd looks confused. Until a buzzing sound is heard, cutting off the peaceful music, as large doors at the front of the room open, and people in bright pink uniforms walk out. One starts talking about games, money, and lots of things that would normally interest you (or any other sane person), but your attention has drifted elsewhere, your world stopping in its tracks.

It's not like he's difficult to notice. His hair is still that stupid purple, and he still seems to carry himself with a sense of arrogance, but you almost wish you hadn't seen him, as memories come flooding in of the life you still sometimes mourn.

You barely begin to think of him in a positive light before your thoughts are interrupted by his voice, proving your hopes wrong. "What's with these shoes?" You roll your eyes as you watch the back of his head. "My shoes are limited fucking edition, they're hard to find." He whines. "You going to replace them if they get ruined?" Nice to know his priorities haven't changed. Your dread doesn't fade when other people begin asking questions. You almost get on your knees and pray, right there, that he doesn't see you. Instead, you decide to focus on more important matters and listen to the guards' answers.

One particularly whiny guy pushes a little too hard, and his name and number are soon ominously announced by the guard speaking, followed by his debt, age, and history. You refrain from smiling as a video is played on a large screen of him playing Ddakji and presumably losing. More videos are played, thankfully none of you, but there is one of Thanos, sadly without him getting slapped. The pink guard then continues speaking, offering a chance at a better life, or so he says. It's not like you have very many options, though.

The lights turn off as you watch a clear piggy bank lower, grabbing your interest. Even more when a prize of 45.6 billion won is announced. It's not like you have many options. So, when lines are formed, you sign the paper.

Eyes naturally trailing to Thanos, you notice him fussing with the whiner from earlier. You can't hear what they're saying, but you resist the urge to scoff at his immature behavior. He's nothing if not consistent, at least. It is kind of funny, though, watching him be pulled off of the guy.

You get your picture taken, ignoring a flight of fans to Thanos and an embarrassing moment to witness, and are led to an open, sandy area. You see an ominous-looking doll, but your thoughts are interrupted. "The first game is Red Light, Green Light."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

shit shit shit

What is this psychotic prison? You thought that 456 guy was crazy, high, or something other than honest! You know you don't have much time left. You glance up at the clock as it ticks down.

00:52

Well, fuck. You're going to end up like those people at the start of the game. Just another failure with no money or life dragged away before anyone could remember your name.

You can't distract yourself with that now, though. There are only a few people left (considering there are like 400 in total), and your position at this moment isn't the best. To make things worse, as soon as you hear that devilish singing, you're pushed. Hard.

Your body crashes to the ground, and you feel your leg bruising immediately. You struggle to stand up. You know you can't run anymore. The doll spins its head back around as your mind races.

00:28

You're going to die. You know you are. You can't make it that far whilst limping. You glance around, praying for something to happen in your favor when you make eye contact with someone at the end, already finished.

He looks kind, at least kinder than most people here. He sees you, he sees your situation, and he nods at you. You're unsure what that means until he runs to help you when the music plays again. When he reaches you, he freezes once he has an arm under you.

00:20

The doll looks away, and he pulls you up with ease. You wince, but you know you have bigger issues. He smiles apologetically as you both move as fast as your body lets you until the singing stops again.

00:14

You feel bad for this boy. He's just trying to help you, but you've now taken down another sweet person with you. He senses your tiresome energy and covers his mouth before the doll moves to look around.

"Don't give up. We're so close." He says, staring daggers into your eyes. You squeeze them shut and bite your lip. "You can do this," He whispers. The singing begins again.

00:07

You sigh and push yourself up again, both of you continue moving as you feel people's eyes on you.

00:02

He pushes you forward as you fall over the line, him soon after as the clock stops.

00:00

You instinctively cover your eyes as you hear the shots that echo through the room, as the remaining players lose their lives to this wretched game.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boy walks with you back to the sleeping quarters. You're both shaken, but you manage to speak. "Thank you," you whisper, but you know he hears you. "I thought I wasn't going to make it."

He looks at you and nods. "Of course." He says softly, "I'm Dae-ho." You smile at him and introduce yourself. You both make your way to a corner and sit on his bed as the guards enter the room again.

Some people cry, some people start begging, and you kick your legs and watch it play out, frightened, but curious. Eventually, the familiar piggy bank dramatically stoops down again, this time filling with money, climactic music playing. The mood is soon killed, though. 24 million is the share each player would get, and you squint at the guard. Your mood isn't much better when you hear another voice.

"24 million?" Thanos asks, "You said 45.6 billion!" he says, an accusatory tone in his voice as the guard re-explains the situation. You aren't listening very closely anymore, though. Your heart and mind ache with thoughts of your past. You miss his kindness, the gentle Su-bong, who always closely cared for you. Now, all that's left is a harsh concrete wall between you two and the sting on your shins from the fall you took.

Before you know it, it's time to cast votes on whether to stay or leave this fever dream of a place. Your number is pretty low, so you get to see a lot of people's votes. Unsurprising to you, Thanos wants to stay. After a scene is caused by 456, you cast your vote and return to Dae-ho. He starts talking, breaking the silence between you.

Neither of you are quite sure what there is to say, but he talks anyway. He talks about his sisters, how they raised him, and his father, who never really knew him. He talks about his time in the military and what his life was like. You listen, nodding, laughing when he says something funny, and understanding. You both get food. It's not the best, but it's food, nonetheless. You begin to tell him about your life, but you're soon both distracted by 456, sharing his knowledge on the next game. Curious when you find out it's Dalgona, Dae-ho confirms your suspicions and verifies what the game is. Once the crowd dies down, he energetically offers you and himself to join the group, and they don't decline.

You're soon distracted, though. That empty aching feeling returns as you watch Thanos and his friend harass someone again. The same guy from earlier, 333. No matter how much you think you miss him, it's always drowned out by a hatred for who he is. You're soon brought to reality again as the sound of Thanos hitting the ground drives your attention back to the situation. The boy is soon held back and punched. Your stomach tightens as you watch the boy you once knew to be funny and kind, be so aggressive and violent. You know he'll never change, so you simply turn to focus on something less depressing, only to find Dae-ho slipping his egg onto your plate. You smile at him, distracting yourself successfully until even he looks over, noticing a man from your group kicking Thanos's ass.

You have to refrain from laughing, but Dae-ho doesn't try to hide the grin on his face. You could hardly admit to yourself that it slightly ached your soul to see your sweet boy be hurt like that, but the thought diminished quickly, replaced with an anxious realization that you're not just looking at Thanos, but his eyes.

He sees you.

Oh, fuck.

This was probably worse than watching that stupid timer tick away. His eyebrows soften from angry to shocked to bittersweet. He doesn't smile at you, but you can almost see his apology in his eyes if it weren't for his dilated pupils. His eyes look next to you, but your attention is soon changed as you hear Dae-ho. "Are you alright?" He asks, looking at you. It's only now you realize you're shaking, and you suddenly feel it all settling in. Your situation. The people, the place, the danger, it's a little too much. You bite your lip and nod, heading to the bathroom to clear your head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You honestly should've expected it, but you didn't. You're standing over the sink, washing blood off of your face when the door opens. You look and immediately look away. How did he even get in here? You let out a shaky sigh as you grip the sink, distracting yourself yet again.

"Hey," Thanos says, his tone a little lighter than what you've heard so far.

"I can't believe they even let you in here." You scoff, trying, and failing, to hide the crack in your voice as you look at your reflection. You're a mess. Your hair is damp with sweat, water, and probably blood. Your face is tired, your lip is quivering. You honestly look worse than him, and he just got the shit beaten out of him. "What do you want from me?" You say, not looking at him. You honestly don't expect him to be gentle with you, he never was before you broke up, but you're proven wrong.

"I don't want to upset you, Baby." He whispers, walking closer slowly.

"Don't call me that." You say, closing your eyes. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be an asshole like he always was. Then you could tell him off and leave him in the dust again, but now you have no plan. He's not being Thanos, he's being Su-bong. You haven't heard from Su-bong in a painfully long time.

He's still coming closer. You don't move, though. You're not sure what you want him to do, but you don't think he knows either. He leans down a little bit to look at you from the side, and you open your eyes and look at him, finally. He's so pretty. You feel your eyes getting glassy as you look at him, the pain of your burnt love story refreshing in your mind. His eyes aren't as dilated, but still a bit. You hope it's just because he's looking at you, but you aren't going to think about it.

He seems to notice your glossy eyes and furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly and looking at you sympathetically. It felt unwelcome but familiar. He lifts a hand slightly, appearing to try to touch you, but doesn't move it from its place in the space between you. You don't pull your eyes from his until the stinging is too much, and you close your eyes. You tilt your head downwards to hide the trickle against your cheek.

You feel his hand hold your face gently as he sighs lightly. "I'm so sorry," is all he whispers. You want to lean into his touch and accept his offer of love and forgiveness, but you're scared. He knows you are. But you don't move. You don't want him to stay, but you don't want him to leave.

"I know." You say, defeated. You bring your arms away from the sink to play with your hands, your body naturally turning to him. "You always said you were." You whisper, sniffing. You see his eyes close and he looks frustrated with himself, but you feel his other hand on yours, gently rubbing his thumb over your hands.

"I was so stupid, angel. I couldn't see what I was igniting until our love was already burnt." He says, never taking his eyes off you. You laugh lightly, and he smiles, confused. "What?"

"Kinda sappy, but I'd expect nothing less from you." You tease, as he scoffs. You sniff once more before dragging your eyes to meet his. You're met with nothing but care in his eyes. You look at him and are reminded of your perfect boy, who always made you smile.

"Please forgive me." He whispers. "I still dream about you. I've never loved someone like I love you." He admits, so quiet he was scared you might not hear, but you did. Your heart beats a little faster as you move closer, leaning your forehead to his. he closes his eyes, and you copy. You had certainly missed this.

"It will be difficult," you say, he nods, "Don't hurt me again, please." He bites his lip, and both his hands find your jaw, moving back to look at you.

You inch closer to each other, painfully slow. Your breath is shallow, you can feel your brain screaming to stop. He's so soft, though. Nothing is stopping you. You can feel his breath fanning onto your nose as his thumb glides over your cheek. Your hands have the urge to hold him, to let him love you and cherish you. You want to lay your face on his neck and fall asleep in his arms.

You want to question yourself, too. You want to stop, run away, and ignore every call. That is until your hands find his shirt, and you realize you can't stop if you try. This is what you need. This is why you want to cry. This is what you're aching for, and the heart wants what it wants.

So, you lean forward, accepting the wave of warmth that washes over you when he softly kisses you. You get chills up your body, one of your hands moving to his neck, then to his hair, slowly pressing a little harder, feeling him loosen in your grasp. You want to keep it this way forever, to stay in his presence and be showered with gentle love and appreciation until you're suffocated. But still, you lean back. You can't deny you're glad to see his smile when you open your eyes, and he can't say he's upset to see yours shining back.

[inkskinned]

the car broke down by the denny's where you used to work and therefore could never return to. i am trying to pick out the satisfying parts of my life, one-by-one, like i am 12 and in a frog dissection. everything in my life all viscera and formaldehyde. if i can sort the good things from the bad things, i will have a nice clean pile.

i call you and make it sound like i am happy and hangin' in there! when really i am kicking a rock and i am outside without a jacket and i am so in love with you it makes the little bones in my ear shake. someone called my tinnitus an angel choir. i like that it means i carry the echo of every concert.

this isn't the right setting for love. this is a roadside, and a denny's, and i am nauseous and ashamed i never escaped the town where i grew up. the clouds here are this strange yellow, like spilled sour milk. "someone once told me that the orange coating on the teeth of a beaver is due to the particularly high rate of iron in their enamel," i tell you. "the beaver is the largest rodent native to north america."

your voice is crackly on the other end. i'm going into a garage soon, i might lose you.

what i should be doing is calling the tow truck and explaining that my brother's car (that i'm borrowing) (that i broke now, i guess) needs to be lifted by another, bigger, stronger car (which is love too, i guess).

i shouldn't say so much. i should wait, and let you ask about my mom, and ask if i ever got over that cold, or how it's going at work. i should let you lead the conversation, for once, so the love doesn't leak out of me into the gravel. i open my mouth anyway. "if you had to choose between being a beaver with very few trees or being a tree around a bunch of beavers, which would it be?"

i don't know. your voice always has this warm cast to it when you talk to me, but maybe i am just imagining that - i am a poet, though, so i imagine things sort of chronically. through the static, you sound like you're laughing. are you the beaver?

i know, like, logically, not to fall in love with a girl-that-is-your-best-friend. like, who would i even call if we broke up? you're my best friend, you're the person i'd want to speak to. so what if these last few months we keep sleeping over at each other's houses, calling each other for hours, sending each other poems. so what if you keep wrapping your fingers into mine. no best friends. that is the first rule. what you are supposed to do in that situation is leave the situation.

but my car broke down, so. where exactly am i going to go? the car is a very-old chevvy and also where i almost-but-not-quite kissed you after you'd raised one shoulder and looked up at me and said i don't know, i think i'm straight, but for the right person - i'd try anything. the music had been good and it had been raining and your thick eyelashes had made me feel god crawling up my throat like a spider. and i didn't kiss you, because i am a coward.

anyway on the chevy the whole exhaust pipe fell out, and is now scraping on the ground like one silver finger stroking the back of the highway. recently we were watching netflix in my bed and you pushed my hair back from my face like you were making the slowest, most desperate prayer, and then your boyfriend called. i remember us both jumping. i couldn't look at you in the eyes for like a week after. i kept feeling the heat of your fingerprint; computer science, you'd unlocked something dark in me.

google says the closest tow (joe's pick up) is 50 minutes away and also closed permanently. so that's not great. you live in another state and i should be calling my insurance company. i should be calling anybody else. this is not helping. i need an uber. i need to get moving. instead i say: "i need three words for a poem."

yesterday i said love you, goodnight after our 2 hour call like always and then you just, like. paused. all i could hear was your breathing. and then you'd said what a pretty three-word poem. i love you too, sweet thing. the words made my tinnitus act up again, and i must have some kind of synesthesia, because the sound travelled into my mind until it became the shape wedding rings.

orange, you say. the static is now chewing through most of your words and i only catch - borrowing the chevy -

the call dies. i have 12% battery. i never get the 3rd word, but i know you're still going to get a poem from me. actually this rest stop is kind of pretty, and so is the exhaust pipe, and so is joe's pick up, and so are the clouds. the light here is the color of a glue trap. before you worked at the denny's, we used to get milkshakes every wednesday and called it a friend date. you said you'd wanted to work there because it reminded you of me.

the sign's gone dim. the letters now spell out deny. and isn't that something.

[moody-alcoholic]

On a Wing and a Prayer

Part 9 - Déjà vu

CW: dead dove don't eat, torture, death, suicidal thoughts.

The playlist I have been writing to for this series is here!

Previous parts - masterlist - next

This is real, but it doesn’t feel real. Your breathing picks up, your heart is thumping in your chest. You try to remember the techniques your therapist taught you for avoiding a panic attack. 

This is real though, you’re not fighting against your subconscious and memories, this isn’t like the flashbacks you get in the shower.

This is real.

You’re still in the dark, maybe that's on purpose, maybe it's already started, the psychological torture. Keeping you in the closest thing to a sensory deprivation room. You don’t bother trying to keep track of time. They don’t bring you food or water, you can’t hear anything on the other side of the walls, it’s just you and your thoughts. 

Someone comes to collect you, slapping cuffs back on and walking you down a windowless corridor into a brightly lit room with a table bolted to the floor and chairs on either side. He shoves you down into a chair, there’s a large one way window in the room, on this side you can only see your reflection. 

You expect the soldier to tie your hands to the table or the chairs. He doesn’t though, he takes the cuffs and leaves. You’re alone now, you hear the door lock, not like you were going to run anyway. You’re not waiting too long before the door opens again.

Philip Graves walks in, you’ve only run into him a few times, he doesn’t look any different from what you remember. You straighten up in your chair, he walks over to the other side of the table. He has a folder tucked under his arm and two cups, one in each hand. 

“I didn’t know how you took it. Milk and sugar?” He asks as he puts one of the cups in front of you. You ignore him looking behind him at the one way glass. You wonder if they’re watching; John or Johnny, maybe even kyle. 

Graves puts the folder down on the table and sits down. 

There’s nothing they can do. It was days before Laswell managed to exonerate you before, you have a feeling this time it’s going to be different. 

“It surprised me when I heard 141 were getting a medic.” He leans back in his chair sipping his coffee. “How many times have you had to pull them out of the field for some dumb shit?” 

You stay silent. 

“Well, I always knew they would ruin every nice thing they get.” He chuckles, it makes you feel sick.

God you hate him. Good, at least when he hurts you it won't be as painful. You don’t have to worry about moving on without him, forgiving him. You can spend the rest of your life hating him for what he’s going to do. 

“Your personal devices are being checked. Want to let us know in advance if we will find anything?” He says, raising an eyebrow. Your stomach twists, they’ll find nudes pictures you sent to tease them before everything fell apart. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to look at them let alone get rid of them.

You stare him down until just sighs and takes another drink of his coffee. 

“I respect you, you’ve been here before and you’re still so.. put together.” He leans forward studying your face. “How do you do it? I would love to give some tips to my men.” 

It feels like a pathetic attempt to get you to lower your defences; make you think you’re the one with the power. You’re not going to say anything, not until he forces you, and even then you’re not going to make it easy for him. You’ve had your time to panic, you’ve had your time to cry, now it’s your time to fight.

You tune out Graves as he batters you with questions you ignore, you don’t want to build rapport with him. Instead you end up looking past him at the one way window in the room. You never got a chance to tell John you forgave him, maybe he’s watching, maybe he’s not, you don’t know what's worse. 

You don't know if Simon is okay, if he’s out of surgery or if he’s stable. That makes you sad, you hope he survives, a few months ago you wouldn’t have had the strength to push gauze in his wounds if he was bleeding out. Now you can’t stand the thought of him not being around. 

Your therapist was right, even though you didn’t believe it during your sessions, you feel stronger, brave. You worked the trauma into something positive, you forgave the people you love, the people you hurt you. You close your eyes letting out a breath, you remember the first day you were in the house you all bought. 

The kitchen was being renovated, the place was empty, all there was was a single mattress on the living room floor. That's all you needed apparently, that and takeaway, it was a good night. Even though the acoustics of the empty house were less than ideal, you had some really good sex, then you fell asleep in someone's arms. 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your thoughts, you look up at Graves who’s demeanor has changed. Maybe he’s bored of you ignoring him. He gets up and goes over to open it. He blocks the door, you try to look but you can’t see. You can’t make out what he’s saying either. 

When the door closes the mood in the room is different. Graves comes over and puts your phone on the table in between you both. He doesn’t sit down. 

“What do you think we found?”

You look up at him blinking. You won’t break this easily.

“It will be easier if you talk.” 

You hold your ground. There is nothing incriminating on your phone, on any of your devices. He crosses his arms. 

“I didn’t expect you of all people to be the one attempting to take out 141 twice.” He scoffs. “I can’t fault your dedication. But here’s the thing, you stepped on the toes of someone you probably didn’t mean to. Now we need to find out what you know.” 

You raise an eyebrow at him. He lets out a huff pressing his lips together. 

“Andrei Nolan, ring a bell?” You try so hard not to react, you can feel your jaw clenching though. Graves reaches over and picks up the folder. He flicks through it until he finds what he’s looking for, he throws one of the CCTV snapshots on the table. You don’t even need to lean forward to look, you know it's the same ones John showed you months ago. 

It’s happening again, John and Simon didn’t believe you when you were screaming and begging at them. You have a feeling Graves gives less of a fuck. 

“This really doesn’t have to be hard.” He puts the folder down bracing on the table, his arms spread apart. He studies you for a reaction you unclench your jaw keeping eye contact with him. He stands up striding round the table to stand next to you. You don’t move, keeping your eyes looking at yourself in the mirrored window.

“Your life is about to get extremely uncomfortable extremely quickly if you don’t cooperate.” His breath is hot on your ear, his voice low as he grits his teeth. “You think 141 were bad, you haven't seen anything yet. You should really think hard about how you want to continue these little talks.”  

His fingers are gripping your arms as he pulls you to your feet. He knees your thighs forcing you to bend over the table as he pulls your wrists into cuffs. Your heart rate picks up again, he's dragging you back to your cell. He throws you in without taking the cuffs off. You stubble against the metal bed, the door is slammed closed. Your arms are stuck behind your back as you steady yourself the best you can. 

You let out a grunt sitting down on the floor as the lights go off again. 

You’re not going to let them break you.

…

This time it’s harder. That surprises you. 

You don’t get to sleep, you can’t keep track of time, they don’t bring you food or water. Everytime you’re about to nod off or get comfy you're dragged out of your cell into the same blindingly bright room. The torture hasn’t started quite yet, Graves just shouts at you, his voice going horse after a few hours. 

You don’t say a word. 

Your body is exhausted, you have no idea how long it has been. One day at least, Graves took a shower. You could see his ruffled hair groomed, he smelt of the shitty base soap. 

“141 may have believed your bullshit but I don’t buy it for a second!” He shouts, slamming his hand down on the metal table. It’s been another long session, your head is swimming, your body is feeling weak, you could use some food, or a sleep. At least 141 kept you fed and let you get some sleep.

Graves comes over to you yanking your hair forcing your head to look straight. His grip is tight causing you to grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palm. It’s the first time he’s been physical with you. 

“Lieutenant Riley is dead.” It’s like a punch to the gut. Your eyes widen, your breathing stops. 

You feel like you’re going to be sick, your head swims. No. he can’t be dead. 

“You did that. You killed him.” He points in the mirror. Your vision blurs as tears well up in your eyes. He grips your hair tighter as he throws your head forward. Your neck pops, you look down at your knees, tears falling on your pants. 

He can’t be dead. 

You don’t move, you don’t listen to Graves, just let the silent tears come, being the only outlet for the pain in your heart. You never got to tell him you forgave him, you never saw him smile one last time. You never got to tell him you love him. Now he’s gone and that's all your fault.  

Arms grab you pulling you out the chair, you don’t fight them, you don’t have the strength, you don’t care. You expect to be taken back to your cell. Instead you’re taken to another room, a new room. There’s a table and a chair, you sniff looking around as Graves takes you over to the table. 

Another person walks into the room. You see a tray with some tools on it, a bucket with clothes soaking inside. You know where this is going and you don't care. Let them drown you, let them hurt you, you deserve all of this. 

You should have been there, you should have saved him. 

The other man is bigger than Graves, he manhandles you, your body is almost betraying you fighting against their grip. Something deep inside you knows what's about to happen and wants to fight. You end up slipping from Graves grip and falling to your knees. It’s not long before there is another person in the room. More hands on you.

Panic rises in you adrenaline pumping through your veins, your sadness has turned to anger, your fight or flight has kicked in and you’re choosing to fight. You scratch and kick, screaming at the top of your lungs until your throat is sore. It doesn’t matter though there are too many people, you don’t have the energy to fight them, even with the boost of adrenaline.

You’re picked up, your body slammed hard on the metal table, it’s cold, your ankles and wrists are cuffed. You can’t move or fight anymore. You look up watching everyone but graves leave the room. He grips your head pulling it down, it slams hard against the table making your ears ring. 

“I really didn’t want it to turn out like this.” He says, he sounds sympathetic. It’s bullshit. Your breathing is rapid; it feels like you can't breathe, your fingers tingle as Graves leaves your side. You hear the running of a tap, the sloshing of water.  

“How long did you last last time? A day? Two?” The door opens and another person comes in. You don’t bother looking, just stare at the fluorescent light on the ceiling. It stings your already raw eyes. “I bet we can do better.” 

You feel like you can hear a chuckle in his voice. The wet rag comes over your nose and mouth, you flick your eyes back to Graves standing above you. There’s a smile on his face, he’s enjoying this. 

You squeeze your eyes closed wishing you were anywhere else as cold water is poured over your face. 

next

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[aesthetically-dying101]

Very long but just asking if u wanna do a oneshot in this. What about the reader being a person transmigrating into the Jjk world , but for whatever they change they need to place someone else so like for example to prevent anyone from dying they need to die/or someone else needs too , so the reader tries to save nanami but then nanami dosent know that the reader has more than one life(reader will regress until she changes the fate of everyone) and so he breakdown realising the person whom he cherished gone for him but then she comes back alive but nanami forgot about the reader (he hasn't confessed but he liked the reader, and whom ever she saves they forget about her)

A/N: screaming and throwing up THANK YOU FOR THE ASK, anyways... yeah. took me a second to answer this cause i wanted to make it perfect hhehehehhehee

warnings: death. angst, sadness, pain and emotional torture, BUT, happy ending so don't come at me with pitchforks, also this is LONG, inaccurate description of being a midwife.

You never asked for this.

Hell, you didn’t even know what this was. Some cosmic punishment? Divine irony? Whatever cruel god—or thing—out there had pulled the strings to place you here, in a world where death loomed as naturally as breath, must’ve been laughing their omniscient ass off.

Because you were a joke.

Transmigration? Sure. Sounds exciting. New life, new opportunities, maybe a harem if fate was feeling extra generous. But this wasn’t one of those stories. No, this was a twisted little tragedy dressed up like a second chance. Every change you made to save someone—a person, a moment, a goddamn outcome—came with an unbreakable price.

One life for another.

And here you were, the cosmic accountant in charge of balancing that equation.

But no one told you how much it would hurt.

Nanami Kento’s life hung in the balance, and you couldn’t let it happen.

Not him. Not now. Not ever.

His death was etched into the timeline—clear as blood on pavement, sharp as the edge of a curse’s touch (fuck you Mahito). You’d seen it a dozen times, the vision playing out like a film reel stuck on a loop. The exact moment when his light would go out, when his voice would falter, and the world would swallow him whole. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape the truth: if you wanted him to live, you had to die.

Again.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To rage against the stars and demand an explanation, a reprieve, anything but this endless, unbearable cycle. But there was no one to hear you. Just the echo of your own thoughts bouncing back, mocking you.

Because deep down, you knew.

You’d already made your choice.

I’m sorry, Kento.

The words echoed in your mind, a prayer he would never hear.

And then it happened. The shift. The reset.

It always felt like utter shit, like your nerves were being pulled from your body like some weird puppet.

The world trembled, reality folding in on itself like a film reel burning out, and you felt it—the sharp, searing pain of being erased. It was always like this. Your existence, your memories, every fleeting moment you’d shared with the people you saved—gone, wiped clean like you’d never been there at all.

When the world righted itself again, you were already fading. You saw Nanami kneeling beside you, his hands shaking as he cradled your face. There was something in his eyes—grief, confusion, disbelief. Like he was trying to hold onto something he couldn’t quite name.

But even as you looked into his eyes, you could see it happening. The forgetting. The cruel, unrelenting hand of fate wiping you from his mind, piece by agonizing piece.

You wanted to scream, to beg the universe for mercy, to cling to the fragile thread of connection between you. But it was too late.

It was always too late.

*-*

Nanami woke up confused.

He hadn't noticed it at first.

The hollow feeling crept in quietly, like a thief slipping through a crack in the door. He chalked it up to exhaustion, a natural byproduct of this cursed life.

Another mission, another brush with death (fuck you Mahito), another day spent wondering why he was still fighting in a world that seemed determined to grind people like him into dust.

But it didn’t go away.

If anything, it grew worse. It gnawed at the edges of his mind, a shadowy presence that whispered something is wrong. He couldn’t place it. Couldn’t name it. But it was there, constant and maddening, like a tune he couldn’t quite recall no matter how hard he tried.

He sat alone in the faculty lounge, the quiet hum of the overhead lights doing little to ease the unease coiling in his chest. His fingers tapped absently against the table as he stared into the void of his coffee mug.

Empty.

Fitting.

“Nanami.”

He looked up to see Gojo leaning casually against the doorframe, his ever-present blindfold pushed slightly upward to reveal one piercing eye. He wore his usual grin, but there was something in his tone that felt off.

Concern, maybe. Or as close to it as Gojo ever got.

“Is this about the mission? You’ve been acting weirder than usual.”

Nanami sighed, his gaze dropping back to his mug. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, no,” Gojo said, striding into the room with that infuriating confidence of his. “You’re not. You’re sulking more than usual, and honestly, that’s saying something.”

“Gojo, I’m not in the mood.”

Gojo paused, leaning against the table, his grin fading just enough to reveal the seriousness beneath. “You sure? Because you don’t look fine. You look... I don’t know. Like you’ve lost something.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Nanami stiffened, his fingers tightening around the handle of his mug. Lost something. Yes. That was exactly it. But what?

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. What was he supposed to say? That he felt like he was mourning something he couldn’t even remember? That every time he closed his eyes, he felt the weight of a name he couldn’t recall?

“Nanami?” Gojo’s voice softened, just barely. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Nanami admitted, the frustration bleeding into his voice. He set the mug down harder than he intended, the sound echoing in the empty room. “I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s like...” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “It’s like there’s a hole in my chest. Like something’s missing, but I can’t remember what. Or who.”

Gojo straightened, the teasing edge vanishing from his expression. “That’s... not nothing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the school’s ventilation system.

“Have you talked to Shoko?” Gojo finally asked.

Nanami shook his head.

“You should,” Gojo said, his tone oddly serious. “Maybe it’s... I don’t know, stress or something. But if it’s bothering you this much—”

“It’s not stress,” Nanami snapped, more forcefully than he intended. He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I just... I don’t think this is something a doctor can fix.”

Gojo studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable behind the blindfold. Then he gave a small nod. “Alright. But if you ever feel like talking about it... You know where to find me.”

Nanami didn’t respond, and Gojo left without another word.

*-*

Later, Nanami found himself in Shoko’s office, though he wasn’t entirely sure how he got there. She glanced up from her paperwork as he entered, raising an eyebrow.

“Kento,” she said, setting down her pen. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you in here. You’re usually too stubborn to admit when something’s wrong.”

“Maybe something is wrong,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

She gestured for him to sit, her expression softening. “Alright. What’s going on?”

Nanami hesitated. How was he supposed to explain this? How did you put words to something you didn’t understand yourself?

“I feel like...” He paused, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. “Like there’s something I’ve forgotten. Or someone.”

Shoko tilted her head, her gaze sharp and analytical. “Forgotten how? Like a memory?”

“No,” Nanami said, shaking his head. “It’s... deeper than that. It’s not just a memory. It’s like... like a piece of me is missing. Like a part of my soul is just... gone.”

The words felt ridiculous coming out of his mouth, but they were the only ones that made sense.

Shoko frowned, her fingers drumming lightly against the desk. “That’s... specific. And unsettling.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Have you felt this way before?”

“No,” Nanami said, the frustration seeping into his voice again. “And that’s the problem. It’s not going away. It’s there every second of the day, this... emptiness. Like I’m mourning something I can’t even name.”

Shoko leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “That’s not exactly a common complaint, you know.”

“I figured as much.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy and uncomfortable.

“I can run some tests,” Shoko finally said. “But... if this is what I think it might be—if it’s something supernatural—I don’t know if I’ll be able to help.”

Nanami nodded, though it did little to ease the weight in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said, standing to leave.

“Kento.”

He paused, turning back to look at her.

“You said it feels like someone’s missing,” she said carefully. “If that’s true... maybe you haven’t forgotten them entirely. Maybe some part of you remembers.”

Her words struck a chord, resonating in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Maybe,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

As he walked out of her office, the ache in his chest remained, a hollow, unrelenting reminder of something—or someone—he couldn’t name. It felt like a wound that would never heal, a ghost haunting the edges of his mind.

And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing the most important part of himself.

*-*

The first thing you realized after your grand sacrifice was this: dying hurts like hell.

The second thing? Waking up hurts worse.

It wasn’t the physical pain—though that wasn’t exactly a picnic, either. No, it was the sharp, bone-deep knowledge that you were alive and he didn’t know you existed. That every shared smile, every subtle glance, every unspoken connection had been wiped from Nanami Kento’s memory, replaced with a hollow nothing.

You hadn’t saved him to be remembered, of course. You weren’t that naive. But knowing he was alive didn’t dull the ache of losing him in every other way.

He’s safe, you reminded yourself bitterly as you sat on the edge of your unfamiliar bed, staring blankly at the floor. Alive and safe and probably eating his bland little breakfast and being unreasonably handsome about it. Mission accomplished, right?

Your fingers dug into your thighs as you leaned forward, elbows on knees, the weight of the whole cursed situation pressing down on your chest.

So why does this feel like the universe took a baseball bat to my heart?

You knew the answer, of course. Because Nanami Kento wasn’t just some guy you decided to save on a whim. He was the man you loved—the man you’d given up everything for. And now? Now he’d never even know your name.

You laughed, but it was hollow, sharp, and bitter enough to leave a metallic taste in your mouth. “Fate’s got a hell of a sense of humor.”

*-*

You didn’t want to see him. You shouldn’t want to see him.

But you did.

Because you were weak, and desperate, and a little masochistic, apparently. So, two days after you’d died to save him, you found yourself lingering outside his apartment building like some sort of creep.

Not your proudest moment.

You leaned against a lamppost across the street, your hood pulled low over your face as you sipped on a lukewarm coffee you didn’t even want. The bitter liquid churned in your stomach, souring with every passing second, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.

It was ridiculous. You’d already confirmed that he was alive, that your little act of self-sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. What more did you need?

Closure?

The word popped into your head uninvited, unwelcome, and far too smug for its own good.

“Shut up,” you muttered to yourself, taking another sip of the coffee just to have something to do with your hands.

And then, there he was.

Nanami Kento, stepping out of his building at precisely the time you knew he would. Because of course he was predictable like that. Reliable. Steady. A creature of habit in a world that refused to make sense.

He looked the same as ever: impeccably dressed, tie perfectly knotted, his expression set in that familiar mask of calm focus. There wasn’t a single hair out of place, not a single crack in his polished exterior.

Except for his eyes.

There was something in them—a flicker of something restless, like he’d spent the night wrestling with shadows he couldn’t see.

He feels it too, you thought, your chest tightening.

It was ridiculous. You knew the rules, knew how this worked. He didn’t remember you. He couldn’t. Whatever lingering sense of unease he felt wasn’t about you. It couldn’t be.

And yet...

You watched as he paused on the sidewalk, his gaze flickering briefly toward the sky. His hand brushed against his chest, just over his heart, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine that he was thinking of you.

Stupid.

Your grip on the coffee cup tightened, the cardboard creaking in protest. What were you even doing here? Stalking the man you loved like some lovesick ghost, hoping for what? A glimpse of the life you’d sacrificed yourself to save?

Pathetic, you thought bitterly, pushing off the lamppost.

He started walking, his steps measured and deliberate, his briefcase swinging lightly at his side. You didn’t follow him—you weren’t that far gone—but you couldn’t quite tear your eyes away from his retreating figure.

You’d saved him. That was supposed to be enough.

So why did it feel like you’d lost everything?

You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, your coffee abandoned in a nearby trash can. The ache in your chest was sharp and unrelenting, a constant reminder that you’d traded your happiness for his life.

“Alive and safe,” you muttered under your breath, the words bitter on your tongue. “Good for him.”

You didn’t cry. Not here, not now. You’d done enough crying already, and it wasn’t going to change anything.

But as you walked away from the man who didn’t even know you existed, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was anything left of you that was worth saving.

It feels like a slow, suffocating kind of emptiness, a vast, hollow pit where your heart used to be, gnawing away at the edges of your soul. There's an unbearable weight in knowing that Nanami is alive, thriving even, and yet you are nothing to him now—just a forgotten ghost, a passing shadow.

The ache is constant, curling around your chest like a vice, tight and unforgiving, until every breath feels like a reminder of your own sacrifice, of how you gave up everything and still ended up with nothing.

It's an endless, gnawing bitterness—part of you yearning for him to remember, to feel something, and another part of you scornfully accepting that he never will.

*-*

Nanami's week continued as if nothing had changed. The world kept turning, the usual grind of missions and meetings pulling him along in its ceaseless flow. But somewhere, beneath the surface of his everyday routine, something felt... off.

He couldn't put his finger on it, not at first. Maybe it was the way his mornings felt slightly more mechanical, like a performance rather than a natural flow. Or how the quiet of his apartment seemed a little more suffocating, a little more... lonely. But he pushed those feelings aside. He was fine.

He was always fine.

But the cracks kept showing, like tiny splinters in a glass that was slowly starting to break.

It started with the mug.

He didn’t know why he even noticed it, but there it was, sitting on his kitchen counter like it belonged to him. Except it didn’t.

It was a chipped, faded thing—nothing fancy, just a simple ceramic mug with a faded print of a cartoon cat wearing glasses. Nothing about it said “Nanami Kento.” He didn’t even like cats. He was sure of it. But here it was, nestled among his other mugs, like it had always been there.

He frowned, his hand hovering over it for a moment before picking it up. It was strangely comforting in its own way, like a forgotten memory trying to claw its way back to the surface.

The feeling was fleeting, and he shoved it down, setting the mug back on the counter and shaking his head.

Just tired. Probably stress from the missions.

*-*

Then there was the stack of birthday cards in his drawer.

Three of them.

Why three?

Well, if he used his common sense, one card for one birthday right? So one for the past three years.

It wasn’t his birthday.

It wasn’t even close to his birthday. So why the hell were there three cards, all with the same, ridiculous design? A cheap, cartoonish glitter pattern with tiny animals dressed up in party hats. He hadn’t even taken the time to read the inside of them—didn't need to. They were empty. All of them.

Who the hell would give him empty birthday cards? Who would keep them?

His fingers tightened around the cards, his mind racing for an explanation that didn’t make him feel like he was losing his grip on reality. But there was nothing. Just these stupid, empty cards.

Maybe... maybe someone thought this was funny? A joke, maybe?

He tossed the cards back into the drawer, but the nagging feeling in his gut wouldn’t go away. They’d been there for... how long? He couldn’t remember. But somehow, they’d never been thrown out.

*-*

The final straw came when he was sitting at his desk, trying to work through a mountain of paperwork, when his gaze drifted to the calendar on the wall.

It was a plain calendar, the kind you could buy anywhere. And yet, there was something strange about it.

A single Saturday was circled in bright red marker.

He blinked, staring at the date, but it didn’t make any sense. The day didn’t mean anything to him. He didn’t have any particular plans for it. He didn’t even remember marking it. So why the hell had he circled it? Why was it so... important?

And written underneath it, in neat handwriting that wasn’t his, were two words:

Confess.

Confess? Confess to who? What was he supposed to confess?

Nanami’s heart stuttered, the sense of confusion deepening into something more unsettling. His fingers hovered over the red circle, almost like he was afraid to touch it. The word confess kept echoing in his mind, but he couldn’t make sense of it.

Why the fuck had he written that??

Confess to who?

And more importantly, what??

His mind reeled. He stood up abruptly, moving to his window, the sunlight streaming in but doing little to ease the tightness in his chest.

What was wrong with him? Why did it feel like there was something he was forgetting? Something that should be right in front of him but wasn’t.

Something was missing.

*-*

By the time he’d gone through his apartment, looking for anything else out of place—anything else that might explain this gnawing sensation—he was more disoriented than ever. His apartment was... normal. Too normal. Too quiet.

And yet, the emptiness was suffocating.

He glanced back at the calendar, his mind racing to make sense of the tiny clues he’d uncovered. His gaze flickered back to the mug again, the stupid birthday cards, and that damn circled date. Something was trying to break through—something about all of it felt familiar, and yet, it also felt like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Why do I feel like I’m... forgetting something?

He slammed his fist against the desk in frustration. It wasn’t just stress. It wasn’t just exhaustion.

There was a woman.

He knew there had been.

It was as if a shadow was stretching just out of reach of his memory, a face he should recognize, a voice that should sound so familiar, but when he reached for it, it slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Who the hell are you?

The question whispered in his mind, though he could never quite bring himself to speak it out loud. He wasn’t sure who he was even asking. The woman in his mind? The empty mug? The cards? Or the damn calendar that was still taunting him with its inscrutable message?

Confess.

His eyes traced the word again, the curve of the letters taunting him like some secret he couldn’t uncover, a truth that was just beyond his grasp.

He had no answers.

Only the feeling that something was horribly, terribly wrong, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

And he hated it. Hated that the only thing that was clear was how much he missed something—or someone—he couldn’t even name.

*-*

The dreams came every night.

At first, they were fleeting—a blur of warmth and shadows, the outline of a person he couldn’t quite see, couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up with the lingering sensation of something—or someone—right there, beside him. A warmth that never quite vanished, like a hand that wasn’t his own, brushing against his skin. But as the nights wore on, the dreams grew clearer.

A face remained hidden, obscured by a blur that twisted like smoke, but the feeling, the presence, was unmistakable. He could feel her there—standing just out of sight, her energy a constant pull in the distance. She was with him in a hundred places. In his quiet apartment, where they’d sit together in silence, the only sound the ticking of a clock on the wall. In darkened streets, their hands brushing as they walked side by side, their pace in sync as if they’d done it a thousand times. And sometimes—too many times to be coincidental—she was with him in the chaos of battle, a fierce, unspoken bond in the way they fought together, backs aligned as if they'd shared this moment in a thousand lifetimes.

But there was no voice. No name.

He reached for her—desperately—his hands closing around air, but every time, she slipped away, like sand running through his fingers.

And every time, he woke up feeling more empty. More incomplete.

*-*

That afternoon, Nanami found himself standing in front of Shoko’s office door, the cool metal of the doorknob cold against his fingertips. His hand hovered there for a moment, indecision clawing at him.

What the hell was he even going to say?

He’d spent the last few days wrestling with the confusing, fragmented thoughts that had been consuming him—the dreams, the feelings of familiarity, the overwhelming sense of loss. He hadn’t told anyone about it. Not even Gojo, whose insufferable antics would only make a joke of it. This... this was different. It was deeper. More personal.

So why did he feel so damn foolish?

He knocked, twice, and waited.

Shoko didn’t even look up when she opened the door, just waved him inside. “What’s up, Nanami?”

“I need your help.” The words came out before he could think better of them. There was no room for hesitation now.

Shoko raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“I... I’ve been having dreams,” he started, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “But they’re not just dreams. They feel like... memories.”

Shoko leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing with professional interest. “Memories of what?”

“I don’t know,” Nanami admitted, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “I keep seeing this... woman. She’s there in my dreams. Sometimes, she’s... with me. Sometimes we’re on missions together. Sometimes we’re just—” He paused, searching for the right words. “—just living. Like we’ve been doing it for years. And I know her. Or at least, I think I do. But I can’t remember her face, her voice, anything. She’s just—” He gestured helplessly with his hands. “Gone. But not. She’s there, and then she’s gone.”

Shoko didn’t respond immediately, just stared at him with that clinical detachment of hers. Her gaze flickered down to her desk, then back to him, her fingers tapping idly against the wood. “This sounds like... a curse. A complicated one, at that.”

Nanami clenched his jaw, frustration rising in his chest. “I don’t think it’s a curse.”

Shoko looked at him skeptically. “Then what the hell do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight. “But it’s real. These dreams—these moments—I feel them. I feel like I’ve lived them, even though I don’t remember. And every time I wake up, it’s like... like something’s been stolen from me. Something I can’t get back.”

Shoko’s expression softened just a fraction, but she didn’t offer him sympathy. Instead, she stared at him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “You’ve been through a lot, Nanami. You’re tired. Maybe your mind’s just playing tricks on you.”

But Nanami was shaking his head before she even finished speaking.

“No, Shoko. I know. It’s something more. I know it’s something more than just dreams. It’s like...” He paused, trying to put it into words that wouldn’t make him sound like he was losing his mind. “It’s like... part of me is missing. And every night, in those dreams, I feel whole again, for just a moment.” He exhaled sharply. “And I need to know why. I need to know what’s happening.”

Shoko’s silence stretched for a long moment before she finally spoke, her voice low and serious.

“Okay. I’ll help you. But this is going to get messy, Nanami. You’re asking for answers to something that... well, I’m not sure even I can figure out.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, but his resolve hardening in his chest. “I need to know who she is. I need to know what she is.”

Shoko studied him for a moment longer, then finally nodded.

“Fine. We’ll start by looking into it. But don’t get your hopes up. Whatever this is, it’s not going to be easy.”

“Thank you.”

She gave a small, understanding nod. “Don’t thank me yet, Nanami. We’ve got a long way to go.”

But as Nanami left her office, the sinking feeling in his chest didn’t ease.

The dreams were only getting stronger, and with each passing night, the sense that something—someone—was slipping through his fingers became more unbearable.

And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on, chasing the ghost of a woman he couldn’t even remember.

*-*

While Nanami was out there, slowly losing his mind over a woman he couldn’t even remember—ahem, the love of his life, if you wanted to be dramatic about it—you, on the other hand, had begun the process of rebuilding.

And by rebuilding, I mean you’d started a new job at a maternity clinic because, well, why not?

It’s not like you had any better ideas. There was no easy way to wipe your mind clean of the raw emptiness left behind by everything you sacrificed, but you figured that at least keeping yourself busy would keep you from spiraling too far into a pit of self-loathing. Or worse, crawling back to Nanami, hoping for some impossible miracle.

No, that was done. That was over.

You were moving forward.

If you squinted hard enough, you could almost convince yourself that this was an entirely new chapter.

Except for the fact that every night, the same dreams haunted you. The ones where Nanami was there, out of reach, just like he always had been—just like he always would be.

But back to the whole maternity clinic situation.

You’d always liked helping people. It was in you—somewhere deep down there was a part of you that got a strange sense of satisfaction from seeing people thrive, seeing them smile, seeing them take their first steps into the future. And yeah, you could technically say you liked the job. You liked it more than you expected, even if the constant parade of new mothers and babies could get overwhelming.

It was a messy, noisy job, full of too much emotion and far too many bodily fluids, but it paid the bills. And after everything you’d been through, the daily grind was starting to feel normal.

Normal.

Isn’t that just a beautiful word?

“Miss, are you okay?”

You blinked and looked down at the tiny baby you were holding. She was staring up at you with wide, curious eyes, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Great. Now the babies are judging me.

“Yeah,” you muttered, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

Thinking about the fact that I’m alive and that’s probably the worst joke the universe has ever played on me.

The baby cooed, her tiny hands reaching out, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. You were a sucker for these little ones. Maybe that’s why you didn’t mind coming into work every day, despite the broken pieces of yourself you still couldn’t quite piece together.

“Just don’t get too attached,” you whispered to the baby, a wry grin on your lips. “I’ve got a serious problem with losing things.”

The door to the nursery opened with a soft squeak, and one of the nurses came in with a new batch of newborns, as if this was some kind of rotating assembly line.

You rolled your eyes. “Great. More to babysit.”

But the nurse—Olivia, you think—flashed you a quick smile. “Someone’s got to do it. You’re the best we’ve got.”

You gave her a sharp, exaggerated nod, but internally, you felt your chest tighten. She was being nice, of course, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that the world had moved on without you.

You had no one. You had no one to go home to, no one to sit with after a long day. Just you, and the hollow ache of everything you’d lost.

The baby in your arms kept cooing, her tiny hands clenching and unclenching, her innocent gaze following your movements with unspoken trust.

Isn’t it funny?

The world had forgotten you. It had forgotten what you had done, what you had given up.

And yet, here was a tiny, helpless being, relying on you.

At least someone still cared.

You sighed, shifting the baby carefully, and then continued with your work. You didn’t have time to dwell on anything else. Not when there were bills to pay, lives to help, and—honestly—no one else to lean on but yourself.

But late at night, when the clinic was quiet, and you were alone in your small apartment, the ache in your chest came flooding back.

And that’s when you let yourself feel the weight of it all—the unbearable emptiness that gnawed at you, the broken pieces that never quite fit together.

*-*

Nanami was fucking close- no, not in that sense you heathens- close to finding who she was.

Or who she had been.

If she was still alive, that is.

The frustration gnawed at him. The hours, the endless search through obscure texts and records, trying to piece together the impossible, the fragments of a life that had slipped through his fingers. There was no name—at least, not one that made sense to him. No face, no voice, only the echo of her in the pit of his chest. Every night, he was haunted by dreams of a woman, someone he knew, but couldn't remember.

It was maddening.

The days felt longer now. Each one bled into the next, a sea of monotony that only made the absence of her sharper. His soul ached with every breath.

Nanami was fucking close—no, not in that sense, you heathens—close to finding out who she was.

Or who she had been.

If she was still alive, that is.

The frustration gnawed at him. The hours, the endless search through obscure texts and records, trying to piece together the impossible, the fragments of a life that had slipped through his fingers. There was no name—at least, not one that made sense to him. No face, no voice, only the echo of her in the pit of his chest. Every night, he was haunted by dreams of a woman, someone he knew, but couldn't remember. It was maddening.

The days felt longer now. Each one bled into the next, a sea of monotony that only made the absence of her sharper. His soul ached with every breath.

Shoko had been the one to find it.

While Nanami had been lost in his own spiral, pacing endlessly in his apartment like a man on the verge of a breakdown, Shoko had been methodical, the scientist in her determined to pull any thread that might lead them to the truth.

The text had been buried deep in the archives. Something so ancient, it felt like it belonged in a legend. The words were cryptic, written in old, faded ink, but it was the one clue they had. One tiny, fragile thread that might pull them out of the dark.

"To save one life, another must be sacrificed. In the space between life and death, memories are traded. The price is steep: to save the one you love, you will lose the memory of them forever. Their existence will be erased from your mind, as though they were never there. But their life will be spared, and you will never know the weight of their absence. You will carry their love without ever remembering them."

Nanami had stared at the text, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath had caught in his throat.

"Sacrificed."

The word hit him like a truck.

Had she been the one to save him? To save them—to save everyone—in that one moment, that single act that had erased her from his memory and allowed him to carry on, to fight, to live?

It was the only explanation that made sense. The only reason why he couldn’t remember her.

"You need to remember."

Shoko’s voice had broken through his spiraling thoughts, a sharp, firm whisper. "You need to stop pretending that you can live without her."

Nanami’s hands had clenched around the paper, his knuckles white with the force of it. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how badly he had failed her. How every step he had taken without knowing the truth had been a step away from her, from the only person who had mattered.

*-*

The ache had only deepened after that.

It was impossible to shake. The idea that she had chosen this. That she had willingly sacrificed herself—not her life, but her very existence—for him. For them.

Nanami had spent nights unable to sleep, his thoughts swirling around that ancient text.

Every night, he dreamed of her. Those moments of tenderness, of quiet exchanges, of gazes that said everything without a word. The fragments of intimacy—so real, so achingly real—only to wake up to the cold emptiness of the morning, where she no longer existed in his mind. But he felt her. She was there, in his heart, and it was killing him.

He had to find her. He had to remember.

That was how Nanami found himself sitting across from Shoko, the flickering candlelight in the corner doing little to soothe his raw nerves. His chest tightened with every passing second, his fingers tapping against the edge of the table in frustration.

“Shoko,” he said, his voice strained. “What if I can’t find her? What if she’s gone for good?”

Shoko looked at him, her expression unreadable, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of something in her eyes—pity, maybe, or understanding.

“You will find her,” Shoko replied, her voice quiet but firm. “But you have to remember. You can’t just pretend it’s not eating you alive. You need to go to her. To find her, Kento.”

Nanami clenched his jaw, feeling the words settle deep within him like a brand. Find her.

The idea was both comforting and terrifying. He wanted to find her, more than anything. But what if she didn’t want to be found? What if—

“Shoko,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “What if she hates me for not remembering? For not knowing her? For letting her slip away while I lived my life, as though she never mattered?”

Shoko’s gaze softened, and for a moment, Nanami swore he saw a flicker of her own vulnerability. But then, she reached across the table and placed her hand on his.

“She won’t hate you, Nanami. She loved you enough to sacrifice everything. If she’s alive—if you find her—you’ll remember.”

*-*

That night, Nanami stood before the mirror, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The reflection staring back at him was a man who had everything and nothing at the same time.

He felt... hollow.

Like a part of his soul was missing, and no amount of fighting, no amount of missions, no amount of anything could fill the void.

She was gone. And yet, she wasn’t.

Every corner of his mind screamed her name, but when he reached for it, there was only silence.

The ache was unbearable, a constant, gnawing pain that refused to be ignored.

And he knew—he knew—that if he didn’t find her soon, if he didn’t get the chance to say what needed to be said, to apologize for everything he couldn’t remember, that hole in his chest would never heal.

“Please,” he whispered to no one. “I need you. Please. Come back to me.”

*-*

Across the city, in a small, humble maternity clinic, you sat by the window, staring out into the night. Your thoughts drifted—aimless, bitter—pushing away the ache that clung to your ribs, the loneliness that wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

You had tried to move on. You had. But the memory of him... his face... it never left.

And you didn’t know how long you could bear this. The feeling of loving him without him even knowing who you were.

Maybe you weren’t meant to be in his life after all.

Maybe he was better off without you.

But there was a part of you, buried deep within, that refused to believe that.

And so, every night, you waited for the moment when your fate—and his—would finally collide.

But deep down, you couldn’t shake the fear that even then, even when you stood before him, he wouldn’t remember. He wouldn’t know you.

And that was the cruelest thing of all.

*-*

Nanami wasn’t losing his mind.

Or rather, he had been, but not in the way that would’ve required a padded room and a team of specialists. His dreams—those fragmented glimpses of a life he couldn’t remember—had finally given him something tangible.

Her eyes.

Well, yeah, of course she had eyes. Most people had eyes. But hers—they weren’t just a detail anymore. They were vivid now, clear and bright and hers. He could see them in his mind as if they’d been etched into the fabric of his soul.

And with her eyes came the cascade of other memories. Little snippets, pieced together like the most maddening puzzle he’d ever tried to solve.

He remembered why his calendar had that red circle on the Saturday, the word confess written neatly in the corner.

He had been planning something for her.

Not just something—everything.

A date. A bouquet of flowers that he had agonized over choosing because he didn’t know if she liked lilies or tulips more (he’d ended up getting both, just in case). A quiet dinner at a little restaurant he’d scouted out weeks in advance. And then, when the moment was perfect, when the words didn’t threaten to strangle him, he was going to tell her.

Tell her how much she meant to him. Tell her that she had been the only light in his life in far too long. Tell her that maybe—just maybe—she could consider giving a relationship with him a shot.

The memory hit him like a freight train, and he nearly staggered under the weight of it.

Why didn’t I do it?

Because something had happened. Something catastrophic enough to tear her from his life and his mind. The memory was blurry, smeared at the edges, but he knew—he knew—it hadn’t been her choice. Not entirely.

All of it had been taken. Wiped from his mind. Gone.

And now, the universe had dangled this thread in front of him, taunting him with the knowledge of what he’d lost.

“I’ll grovel,” he whispered into the empty room, his voice breaking. “I’ll get on my knees and beg. Just... just let me find her. Let me have this chance, please.”

He didn’t care who he was pleading to—the universe, some higher power, anyone who would listen. He just needed her back.

*-*

The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender, a bizarre combination that Nanami didn’t have the mental bandwidth to process.

The maternity clinic. A quiet place, where life began anew.

The irony of it wasn’t lost on him.

He’d been searching for weeks, going through every shred of information he could find, following every lead, until it had finally brought him here.

To her.

He didn’t know how, but he knew. His chest tightened the moment he stepped through the doors. The air felt heavier, charged, like he was standing at the edge of something monumental.

But before he could ask the receptionist anything, a heavily pregnant woman standing nearby let out a sharp gasp of discomfort, her hand pressing against her lower back.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” Nanami asked, his instincts kicking in immediately.

She nodded, her face tight with pain. “Yeah, just... give me a second. These Braxton Hicks contractions are no joke.”

“Here.” He offered his arm without hesitation, guiding her to a nearby chair. “Take a seat. I’ll get someone to help.”

As he straightened, his gaze shifted—and froze.

There she was.

Standing just a few feet away, clipboard in hand, her scrubs neatly pressed, looking every bit like she belonged in this chaotic, bustling clinic.

He almost couldn’t breathe.

She was here. She was alive.

The relief hit him like a tidal wave, but it was quickly replaced by something deeper, heavier. An ache that clawed at his chest, screaming at him to close the distance between them, to grab her, to never let her go again.

She hadn’t noticed him yet—too focused on her work, on jotting down notes. But when she finally looked up and saw him, her expression froze.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

You blinked, your lips parting slightly as if to say something, but then your gaze shifted to the woman he’d just helped, and something inside you seemed to harden.

Of course, you jumped to the worst conclusion.

He’s moved on.

Your mind supplied the bitter thought before you could stop it.

Four months.

Four measly months, and here he was, looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine ad, escorting a pregnant woman like some kind of domestic god (and a good looking one at that)

And the worst part? He looked happy.

Your heart twisted painfully, but you shoved the emotion down. You didn’t have the right to feel this way. You'd made your choice.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice clipped as you approached them. “Is there something I can help with?”

Nanami turned to you, and the intensity in his gaze nearly knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“You,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’m looking for you.”

Your heart stopped.

“What?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N” His voice cracked slightly as he said it, the weight of your legal name tumbling from his lips with a reverence that made your chest ache. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your clipboard slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor, but you didn’t even notice.

Because in that moment, as he stood there, staring at you like you were the last thing keeping him tethered to this earth, a part of you wanted to hope.

But hope was dangerous.

Wasn’t it?

A/N: gosh i love angst, but i love a happy ending. I hope this wasn't too meh, and i hope i didn't completely missunderstand your request anon, i didn't know if you wanted a happy ending or not. Yes the last part i was writing in "she" then went to "you", yes it's on purpose.

Masterlist

:)

[ravengards-rogue]

i lose control (when you're not next to me.)

javier escuella x reader

✧ tags : afab + fem!reader (gendered language + wearing dresses etc), established relationship, religious imagery (maybe sacrilege)takes place in ch.4 of rdr2, submissive!reader, soft dom!javier, some spanish petnames (mi amor mi vida, and hermosa i think), pillowing humping, penetration, very lovesick sex lol, veryy established dynamic, praise kink, written like. sooo explicitly for @nanamimizz, 18+

✧ wc : 5.2k (after editing mind you)

✧ a/n : this is fucking nuts LMAOO. i wrote this like. no bullshit in a day. i don't know how that happened. mentioned in the tags that this is for my beloved best friend but i think it's still okay to post. im losing it a little. i have hw due in an hour

✧ synopsis : javier can't help but feel some ways about the way you miss him. so dreadfully obedient. so apparently needy. how could he not adore you?

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

There’s something a little pathetic in the way you pine after Javier that makes him a worse man than he is. 

He’s good to you though. Always. Down to his bones, the core of him. The soul of him. It’s hard to be anything but good to you. 

In all of his life, across lovers, men and women - he doesn’t think he’s met a single soul who simply likes him as much as you do. Who preens so pretty with so little, who doesn’t need much at all. Never met a woman who tucks and folds herself into corners just to be polite. Never thought he’d find it so fascinating, either - but you prove him wrong often. 

It’s testament to Javier’s adoration that he can’t help but notice you anyway. That even when your featherlight footsteps and darling voice fall off and get caught on the wind and blown away - Javier will still manage to find you. Even with all of your attempts to make yourself small and unrecognizable, his sharp brown eyes will still catch on the linen of your skirts and the threaded gold of your cross necklace. Javier’s own body betrays him in his love for you, in his wanting. 

Even though he’s not interested in pretending he doesn’t love you, his eyes and mouth and hands would look and call and search. They’d never give him the opportunity to be anything but in love. 

It’s important that he makes that known. He’s only ever interested in being a good man to you. Holding you and kissing you and worshiping you until you’re melty between his fingers. Javier loves loving the resistance out of you and you always make it so easy for him. 

He’s a good lover by nature and by practice. Passionate and maybe a little conceited, it’s not his first brush with romantics. He can only hope it’ll be his last. 

Even so, he’s never been liked the way you like him. 

You like Javier in a way you seem embarrassed by when you remember. It causes you to act in ways out of character on the surface, emboldened. Maybe just needy. Enough to bask in his praise and affection once a little liquor has touched your mouth. You like Javier in a way that makes you lovesick and puppylike, all honeyed gazes and pouty lips. He’s never met somebody who likes him the way you do, without grandstanding. Just pure, puppy love. Almost innocent if you don’t look too long. 

Almost being what matters most. 

Javier knows the way you were raised, after all. Knows the intimate ways in which you fold yourself and tuck your wants between the pages of your diary and slip your requests under your tongue. It’s hard for you to want for anything too much because you’ve been told your whole life that wanting at all is a sin. Wanting may even get you killed. A good woman should want nothing but salvation. Anything more than that is indulgence and there’s nothing good about that. It translates in the way you carry yourself. You’ll stop and fumble and shy away before even fixing your lips to ask, like you’re planning on being rejected or told no. 

A good girl like you being told no so often, it’s made you all sacrifice and empty prayers. Javier often feels grief about your lives before each other but nothing makes it so evident as that. A good woman, a beautiful and kind and soft one like you should never hear the words no without the best of reasons. That’s what Javier believes for all of his lovers, but you’re special. 

And that makes it worse. 

For you he’d do anything. No price he wouldn’t pay, no place he wouldn’t go, nothing that’s too far out of his reach. He thinks maybe he’s so eager to give it to you because he knows you don’t have it in you to take it yourself. You won’t whine greedily even if Javier tells you too, so Javier’s giving is only a partial virtue. It’s mostly pride, after all. It hurts his ego a little when you refuse to bask in the love he so enthusiastically wants to drown you in. 

Despite his complaints though, it’s a part of you that makes him so weak to you. That you want with such desperation but don’t allow yourself to take - so it makes you pliant and willing and terribly, adorably pathetic. You’re so weak for Javier. Just for him, you always say. Always with a hand in his, or wrapped around his bicep. All yours, Javi. Always his. 

That’s the thing. Javier wants to give everything in the world to you. He wants to be good to you, and he so often is. But you do things sometimes, all collapsed under the weight of your own desire that drive him insane. Make him act in ways he normally wouldn’t dream of doing. Depraved and filthy and unromantic in all senses of the word. 

It’s really not very polite for Javier to stand and watch you at his door - humping his pillow with weeps and huffs. It’s not kind to embarrass you. He’s a good man, and a good man would cover you with his coat and maybe smile about how much you care for him. 

But there’s just something about the look on your face when you do it, something about the tear stains in your lashes and the way your cheek is pressed in his jacket. Something about that needy, incessant little ache in your voice as you call and call and call for him. As if you’re hoping you’ll answer despite him not being there.

Javier is a good man to you. Maybe he could be better. Maybe he’s not good enough.  

He stands in the doorway of your shared bedroom with a soft, gentle grin. There’s no question he’s behaving a worse man than he is. Than he ought to be. 

He’s quiet as he shuts the door, balancing his weight to remain noiseless. 

Javier doesn’t particularly like being all the way out in Saint Denis nor is he fond of intel missions. The city is loud, the people unfriendly - though he likes the music and art. He prefers staying in camp if he can help it, but this big bank heist has everyone busy. He’s at least thankful that it’s given him an excuse to be with you. Your knowledge of herbs and poisons and the like have been helpful to gathering information. Been a lot of slipping things in drinks and making people forget. The sort of dirty work he’s accustomed too, while also getting a chance to be with you in a place with four walls and a bath. A dream for the future, maybe. 

It’s been nice, but he’s been out now for two days - out in the streets gathering information about Bronte’s people. A bunch of lowlifes just like them, but with their hands in the pocket of the city. He’s only been gone for two days, so there’s no reason you should miss him this much. And yet he hears it anyway. And it pleases him, truthfully. 

He takes off his coat as he listens to you at the doorway. Shrugs the middle-weight material of his sheen suit jacket over his shoulders and lays it on a chair, takes off his wingtip-gaiter shoes, undoes the yellow puff tie from around his neck. Nothing but a white linen dress shirt and the dark black slacks he’s been wearing for days now, some parts covered in bloodstains he only barely managed to wash out in the river not long ago. 

He’s thankful he took a bath before getting in now, listening to you moan. His hands being clean feel like a blessing - just his luck. 

He manages to remain quiet as he steps into the main room - a single bed in the center. Javier finds you there in a heap as he rests his body along the wall of the entrance to his right. He crosses his arms over his chest as he takes a minute to take in the scenery, admiring the soft lowlights and the way they cast shadow on your body. 

The wooden bed frame creaks slightly as you rut your hips. You’re out of it, Javier can tell, since you’ve yet to sense the fact he’s come in. The paintings along the back wall click against soft red walls themselves, over and over in an arrhythmic tic. Javier tries not to laugh. Gives himself a minute to admire the moment for what it is, the vulnerable desperation of your lust. He has to get over the disbelief, too. Over the fact your face is buried in the open part of his bluecoat and that you’ve got a hotel pillow(his hotel pillow) between your legs. One that you’re humping so frantically he can’t help but feel sorry for you. 

You’re making a mess.

You are a mess. The way the white chemise falls over your back and hips, and the lack of finesse in your gestures. If Javier had to bet money on it - he’d bet money on the fact you probably didn’t start this way. He figures you nested with his coat and pillow to go to sleep and then worked yourself into something senseless and desperate. And he’d figure if he didn’t show up, you wouldn’t cum at all. You’d go to bed all frustrated and tired and just wait for him like always. 

Any man would be pleased by it, he thinks. And a good one would never embarrass you about it. Javier tries his best. Weighs his options, but the words slip from his mouth before he can think to stop them. 

Pure elation in his words wrapped up in a smug delight. “Aye, hermosa - you’re gonna ruin my things you know?” 

Your reaction is what he expects. You jump out of your skin first, sitting straight up. Javier bites back a laugh as you do, big wide eyes like a deer caught in the scope of a rifle. You look around the room, worried you’re imagining him. Once you’ve come back to reality enough to realize he’s real and tangible - all the neediness washes right back into your expression. 

“Javier,” You sniffle and god. Javier hopes the heavens are more merciful to him than he is to you. “Javi,” 

“I’m home,” He voices in a partial tease, walking towards you. He can tell you want to run to him. To crawl into his arms and lap and collapse there forever, but the dull throbbing between your legs is stopping you. “I would ask if you missed me but, somehow I get the feeling you did.” 

You let out a soft, sniffly whine as Javier sits in the bed next to you. He turns his body to face you a little better but keeps distance. You turn your face towards him. Javier cups your cheek in his palm, eyes tracing your features. Your lips are bruised like you’ve been biting on them to keep the noise down and your eyes are wet with tears, red stained in the waterline. His thumb brushes along the thin skin of your lower lip, clicking his teeth at you. 

“Look at you,” He reprimands, his voice tender as he leans in to give you a little relief. You kiss Javier too eagerly, impatient and lacking your usual timidness. It’s how he knows how far you’ve fallen. How simple and easy your reactions are. “You’re going to hurt yourself pushing so desperately,” He laughs again, a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Does it feel good, at least?” 

“It’s better when you do it,” You admit, falling forward. Javier doesn’t let you drop, but he doesn’t comfort you right away either. He laughs and lets a hand rest on your lower back, relishing in your reaction. You shiver, sensitive and overstimulated with so little at all. 

“I know,” He coos with as much faux-sympathy as he can manage. “Couldn’t wait for me a little longer? I’m hurt.”

“Nooo,” You draw the words out, pitiful and upset “I’m sorry. I missed you,” 

“It’s okay,” Javier says, knowing he wasn’t mad in the first place. Not even a little. “Ahh, what should I do with you now, do you think?” 

It’s hard not to laugh at the immediate noise of disapproval. He’s sure you’d be able to ask him for what you want if he coaxed you into it. One whispered word of tell me what you want, and you’d be begging for his cock with ease. Filthy words from such a pretty mouth, he likes the idea. 

But he’s feeling… something. Something on the border of sadistic and loving that has him instead thinking. 

Pretending to think. 

“Maybe you should keep going, hm? You’ll think clearer once you’ve let it out, don’t you think?” 

“I can’t,” You bemoan, pleading with him. “I’m trying but it’s—it’s not enough, Javier, please.” 

He shakes his head. “Oh, man. What am I gonna do with you? Should I help you, mi amor?” 

You nod your head rapidly. As if he’d ever leave you out to dry when you look all pretty helpless. He doesn’t mention it to you. “Please,” 

“Yeah? I’ll help you then.” He offers, taking your hand and guiding you to his lap with his legs stretched out. He sits you over his thighs, glancing back at his jacket and pillow, brows raised when he sees how sticky they both are. Your habit of drooling and your cunt soaking his pillow case, he laughs just a little seeing the state of them. You must notice because you hit his shoulders weakly. “So needy,” 

“Javier.” 

“Alright, alright,” He laughs again, kissing your cheek as he brings you to him. You frown but comply with his handling of you, strong hands pulling you over his thigh. He sits you down until your bare cunt is pressed against the clothed muscle. It dawns on you what he’s doing as he’s doing it, a noisy little whimper sounding as Javier pulls you close. Close enough to wrap your arms around his neck. He puts a hand on the back of your head, encouraging you to bury his face into the space of his shoulder. He can feel the relief in you when you do, slumping into him a second time today. “You have to move on your own, you know? I won’t help you.” 

“You’re being awful,” You say with no real malice or bite. 

“I’m a little hurt, that’s all. And I’m helping you aren’t I? Is that not what you want?” 

You groan against the skin of his neck. “I want your…ngh,” 

He hums against you, decides to be merciful since he’s teased you plenty and he’s going to tease you more. 

“Wanna feel me right here, don’t you?” He puts a hand between your bodies, pressing the back of his hand into your stomach. “I know, I know. But I want you to cum like this first.”

“Can’t do it by myself,” You sniffle. Don’t even try to push back, so obedient and willing. Javier hums sympathetically. 

“I’m here right? I’ll help you, mi vida. I’m not that mean, am I?” 

You shake your head no. He most definitely is, but maybe he can keep that a secret from you a little longer. 

“Here,” He says. Javier pulls your chemise up until it’s pooling at your waist. Strong, tan hands hold at your hips, squeezing the soft skin with a warm sigh. You keen immediately. He pushes his thigh up just slightly to give you the right kind of friction. Hiccuping in his lap, he sets a pace for you to grind yourself on him. A slower back and forth. When you get too wet, too needy - you get sloppy. Sometimes he can give it to you hard and fast but you’re sensitive. Sensitive to the point it’s easy to make you hurt, make yourself hurt if you’re too clumsy. 

You’re always chasing pleasure but you don’t know anything about build-up. For a girl who tends to keep to herself and is always so meticulous - there’s something about seeing you get so sloppy that turns Javier on. When you’re wet and can’t think straight “Not too fast, okay? You’re sensitive, need it slow at first to make it feel good if it’s like this. Did you forget?” 

You nod, then moan hotly against his throat. Javier shivers at the way your tune changes. He can feel you breathe in his scent and relax as he guides your hips. He eventually stops touching you. Lets you take control of the pace just like he shows you. You manage to pace yourself despite how much you want to cum. Javier can feel how pent up you are. The fabric of his slacks going sticky, tacky from cum and arousal. 

You smell nice and soft, like baby powder and something floral. 

Javier’s been hard since he got in the door, but it’s starting to fog his mind up. Feeling your tits press against his chest, feeling your skin against his. Soft and pliant and beautiful. He kisses against your shoulders as you slowly start to build your orgasm up again. Not that it’s hard. 

You pull away from him, briefly - and your face makes his dick twitch. You’re always pretty but you’re especially pretty like this. Drool drips from the corners of your mouth, eyes lidded and barely blinking.

“Javi,” Your words are slurred. Javier laughs but doesn’t clean you up. “Kiss me,” 

“Sure,” He replies, though he’s all too happy to do it. Javier kisses you with tongue. He knows it’s what you want. Your hands curl up at his chest as he brings his own to cup your head and pull you to him. His tongue in your mouth is invasive but precise, knowing all the ways you want him to nip and kiss and suck on your mouth. You whine in complete pleasure, drunk from the sensation and he’s hardly touched you at all. 

He thinks of how he’ll fuck you as he kisses you. He’ll touch you more than he is now and you’ll fuck like lovesick rabbits until sunrise. It’s less something Javier decides and more something he knows. Like once he opens the door to pleasing you like this, it’ll be tough on him to close it again. 

“Javi,” You keep calling his name. It might be the only word you remember. Always seems to be when you get like this. “It feels so good. Feels so good when you touch me,” 

Javier kisses against your bare shoulder and neck, teeth scraping soft against your clavicles. “Mm. You’re doing well. A very good girl today,” 

You shudder at the praise, all the hairs on your neck raising from the drop of it. Javier laughs. You whine his name again but he doesn’t reply. He can feel you more than he can see you. Your body is twitching against his thigh and your muscles are tight where you hug against him. Javier calms you. 

“Gonna cum soon, huh?” 

You nod over and over, but can barely keep your head up to do it. And he laughs, full of fondness and affection as he peppers your face with kisses. He doesn’t have it in him suddenly, to tease you about it any more. He encourages you instead, hand on your hips to give you more friction as you start to grow erratic in your breathing. You pant hard against his ear, like you’re chasing something. Little bunny rabbit, he thinks. Your voice is little more than a croak. 

“Oh,” You moan, loud and helpless and needy as you cling to him. Your hands fisted in the back of his shirt as you cry out his name one more time. A prayer, maybe. Or a curse. Something in between. “Javier, oh,” 

“Shhh, that’s it. Just like that. Good girl. You’re so good to me.” 

You weep into his neck as you cum, your whole body tightening before breaking out into aroused shakes. You’ve completely lost it in front of him. On the brink of insanity with nothing but pleasure filling your empty-head. You hump against him thoughtlessly as you ride out your high, then finally lean against him when you’ve managed to reach the end of it. You don’t move. Javier can feel how big the wet patch of his pants has grown and tries not to laugh. 

You’re only barely coherent when you’ve finally pulled away. Your pupils are blown out and your face is flushed, sweat making your hair stick to your skin in the places it’s not tucked away. Javier laughs at the state you’re in, brushing his thumb along your cheek just beneath your eyes. 

“Are you with me still, do you think?” 

You nod, seemingly exhausted. He laughs again and kisses your temple. 

“Want you,” You say, despite your state. His eyes widen again at how soon after you’re asking him. He was planning on taking his time, but that plan might just be out of the race. He’s not above you begging him so sweetly. “Please, Javi. Need you, need you so bad.” 

You sound like you’re about to cry. He speaks in soft murmurs. “I thought you’d be too tired to keep going right away.” 

“No,” You mumble and shake your head. “Please. Please, want you so bad.” 

“You’re exhausted, mi vida.” 

“Please,” 

He chuckles. “Okay. Okay, don’t cry. Whatever you want, remember. Unbutton my shirt for me, mi amor.” 

You sniffle, your hands shaking as you fulfill his request. You’re exceptional at listening. Javier smiles at you, your eyes meeting as you do. You flush and pout, only barely managing to maintain his gaze without looking away. You unbutton his shirt dutifully. He puts a hand on your arm and rubs it soothingly. “You must’ve missed me a lot, huh.” 

You nod. “It’s bad, you know? Two days shouldn’t feel so long. It didn’t use too.” 

“Just means we love each other,” Javier assures, a safe place for you to express your neediness. “That’s nothing bad,” 

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “That’s true,” 

“See? And it’s nice you know. Having someone miss me. Wait for me. Makes me want to come home instead of, I don’t know.” He feels his throat tighten at the sincerity but pushes through anyway “Dying for the cause. Or even just because.” 

It’s the first time you’ve smiled all day and god. Might be the only thing that’s ever mattered. Above all forms of love prior and past. Above revolution. Above god. Just you. You smile, happy and elated and keep unbuttoning his shirt with a coquettish-ness to you. Comfortable and safe. 

You help Javier out of his shirt, and wait for his approval to go after his pants. Undoing the buttons, you free his cock from the confines with a soft gasp. Javier laughs at the reaction, cat-like grin on his features. 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”  

“It’s so big,” You say, your hand wrapping around it briefly. Javier swears, head against the headboard. 

“Careful,” He warns, laughing thickly. “I’m pretty pent up too,” 

“Want it inside me,” You say so easily it startles him. You blink up at him through your lashes, too pretty for your own good. “Please?” 

“Should open you up a little.” 

“Want it to hurt,” You reply instantly. Javier feels his breath hitch. 

“Oh, fuck.” He breathes, trying to keep himself from cumming in your hands. “We’ll go slow.”

You nod quickly, not wanting to wait any longer. Javier curses himself for not being more polite. 

He guides your arms around his neck, his own arm around your waist as he lays you down on your back. You look up at him, surprised by his handling of you but not upset by it all. You mumble something he doesn’t catch, but it sounds pleased. 

Javier finds that he’s fond of missionary. He didn’t think he was the type, but there’s something about seeing you laid on your back that he likes. Likes being able to look at you and be close to you, to whisper sweet nothings in your ear as you curl into him. He lays you down gently on his spine, laughing at the way your legs wrap around his waist the second you’re comfortable. His hands go up under your knees but don’t push you too far. You spread your legs for him naturally, eyes fluttering with exhaustion and leftover stupid want. He looks down at you and smiles. 

“One more, okay? Just the one.” 

“I can’t,” You whine “Too sensitive. Just want you to cum on me,” 

“Are you doubting me?” He challenges, only partially. Your eyes widen and he chuckles. “Of course you can. One more,” 

You whimper, suddenly realizing you had no choice in the first place. But you nod, relenting to him like you so often do. Javier kisses you. It means more things that he’s comfortable telling. Means thank you, and that he’s sorry, that he loves you. He kisses you one more time after that, and smiles at how happy you seem because of it.

Finally, when Javier lays you down on the sheets beneath you - it feels like finding religion all over again. The loose material of your chemise has given up on covering you, exposing the soft mound of your chest and hardened nipples. He can see your neck and shoulders and everything else above and below. You’re so beautiful his cock twitches again, hard. 

He sits back up on his knees and takes a deep breath as he lays his cock against your puffy folds. You breathe soft, an aching sound from the back of your throat as you pull your skirt up to give him better access. He laughs gently at that, examining how nearly seven inches measures up to you and feels a little dizzy in the process of it. He’s done this with you so many times now, practically trained your body to take him without too much trouble. A welcome change from when you could barely fit the tip, too inexperienced to do it but even more determined. 

Even still some part of him worries about it. It’s not enough to stop him though, not nearly. His cock twitches against hard, wanting for you. He looks down at you and sees you stare up, admiring his figure. He laughs. 

“Like the view?” 

You nod. “Mm. Uh-huh.” 

“I’m glad,” He replies, then adds “Deep breath,” 

So you take a deep breath, and Javier pushes the tip of his cock into you with a loud grunt. You’re so soft. Wet, and pliant and soft around the swollen head of his cock, he can’t help but shudder with relief and desire. Can’t help but grit his teeth and grip onto your hips to steady himself. 

You breathe like the air has been punched out of your lungs, saying his name dreamily. “Oh, Javi,” 

He swears under his breath, something incoherent as he pushes the tip push into you evenly. It’s not easy. The resistance is there, but you don’t whine in pain right way - so it means it’s not too hard on you. Perhaps loosened by the previous orgasm, or simply so needy that it doesn’t bug you. Still, Javier makes sure to keep himself tight. He rocks, back and forth, ignoring the agony of that sensation to keep him from thrusting up into your soft, welcoming cunt. If he listened to what he wanted, he can’t be confident it wouldn’t make you ache. He already knows you will with this much. 

It takes a few minutes, and some whimpering from you before he finally manages to bottom out. 

You feel good. God, you feel good. 

He can’t imagine heaven, but he thinks being inside of you might be close enough. There’s certainly all the makings of religion when he makes love to you. You, a soft and loving deity, and him - a man laden with sin who longs to be saved. It makes sense to compare you that way. And it feels just as euphoric as the always described, being wrapped in you. Being part of your completion. What's religion without worshippers, anyway? 

Javier groans as he bottoms out inside of. When he manages to peel his eyes open and look at you, you’re debauched. He’s debased you this completely and he doesn’t know if you can even tell. He laughs, leaning down to kiss your neck and run pecks against your jaw. 

“Feel good?” 

“Feels so good,” You moan, then hold him tighter. “I love you. Love you Javier,” 

“Me too, mi amor. Para siempre. ” He hums, kissing your forehead before looking at you. “Can I move?” 

“Please,” 

“Touch yourself for me,” He tells you patiently. “Make yourself feel good.” 

You nod, dazed - a hand between your bodies as Javier sets a pace to fuck you. He knows you in and out. At least well enough to know exactly the ways to make you feel good. Only a few thrusts for him to find the perfect pace, perfect rhythm, perfect spot. You make a noise like a songbird, deep in the back of your throat and Javier can feel you pulse around him in pleasure. 

You stay like that, with him. Javier fucks you to his hearts content in deep, long thrusts - angled against the softest parts of you and wanting to make you feel good. He whispers sweet nothings as your nails dig into the muscle of his back. You feel good for him. You are good for him, wet and perfect. It takes all of his strength to fuck you consistently, the bed rocking underneath you both as he gives it to you hard. 

“I’m close,” You whimper, not seeming to believe yourself despite. “I’m so close, oh god, Javier.” 

“That’s it,” He whispers, chuckling against your skin “One more. Just one more and I’ll give it to you.” 

It’s the promise of his cum that drives you over the edge. You gasp and groan, shuddering as Javier pounds you through your second orgasms. He groans as he feels your pussy spasm and tighten around him, practically begging him to put it inside. He’s nearly lost his sense enough to do it, unhelped by the way your sweet voice begs him for it. He practically has to pry himself away from you, out of you to keep himself from cumming inside as deep as he can possibly go. 

He manages, barely, to stave off his own orgasm. Long enough pull himself out of you with a broken gasp and cum outside of you. Making a mess of your stomach and your soft, swollen cunt with his seed. He paints you in thick ropes of whites as he swears loud in the process, euphoria rumbling through him uninterrupted. 

“Fuck,” He moans, finally getting to the end of it. A little embarrassed by how much of a mess he’s made right along with you. “You do something crazy to me, you know that?” 

You stare at him, bleary eyed and giggly despite your exhaustion. “I know. Me too. I missed you,” 

He laughs, and can’t find the words to say anything but the same back. Of course Javier is a worse man when you’re around. 

Any man loved this much is bound to be a little ruined. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

But I'm not much of anything (but you're everything to me)

let me wrap my teeth around the world - series masterlist here

pairing: sirius black x reader (gender neutral), implied poly marauders x reader

length: 1.8k

genre: fluff, kinda angsty, hurt/comfort

warnings: winter break angst I suppose, you're so young you don't have to be everything you want yet, you have time you learn and you grow and you become blah blah blah lol

a/n: me ?? posting a fic ?? wooow wowow anyway this is in the poly marauders series but it can totally be read stand alone

"I brought you your jacket." Your voice is quiet as it floats through the crisp night air, the sound hushed as Sirius cranes his head around to see you slipping through the back door and shutting it gently behind you. 

"You didn't need to do that."

"It's cold out here," you point out. There's a sort of familiarity that Sirius can't help but find some level of comfort in when he shrugs the heavy jacket on, the dark shine of the leather stark against the pale skin of his neck.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asks a bit sullenly, wincing and brushing a stray hair out of your face as if to make up for his bluntness. But you just wrinkle your nose and lean against the porch railing, looking out toward the rolling white lawn of James's family home.

"Oh," you shrug lightly. "Just needed some fresh air." Sirius fixes you with a stare at your words, though, and you smile a bit sheepishly. "James pulled out the board games," you admit. "I was looking for an escape."

"Oh, so that's all I am to you?" Sirius quips, but the softness in your returning smile catches him a bit too off guard and he feels his heart thump rather painfully in his chest.

"No," you respond sweetly. "If all I was looking for was a quick exit, I would've gone for climbing out the window. I'm out here for you, I'm afraid."

"How awful of me, then," he jokes weakly, and you look at him like it's the funniest thing you've heard all day. Sirius clenches his fists where he leans on the railing, letting the rings that adorn his fingers pinch his skin and press against his palms as he looks out into the night. You're standing close enough that he can feel your arm brushing against his - close enough that he feels something that seems strangely like love rolling off of you in waves.

"What are you doing out here?" He says it again, like a whisper, like a plea that he knows will be unheard. You look at him steadily as he shakes and you smile and he kind of wishes you really had climbed out the window instead of coming after him. Just for a moment. Just for a second, before the guilt sets in and he -

"Remus, uh, he said that you…"

"Had a breakdown?"

"No," you respond easily. "He didn't quite put it like that."

"But you get the idea," Sirius huffs. You lean closer to knock your shoulder against his.

"I do, baby," you offer gently. "I do."

Somewhere inside, James's boisterous laugh can be heard as Remus swears and shouts something about how cheating ruins the game. Sirius's fists clench tight enough that his knuckles whiten and you tap a nail against the wooden railing in thought. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask lightly. Then you watch the muscles in his jaw flex as he clenches his teeth.

"Is there anything to talk about?"

"Mhm," you nod. "Usually a bit more than you think." He sighs at that, a defeated sort of thing as he slumps down just a bit, sinking into the warmth of his jacket as a wicked winter wind blows through. 

"I just really thought, for a little bit - I guess I really believed I'd be someone someday." He whispers it like a prayer, like a confession before some sort of altar. You answer like he's the one who should be prayed to.

"You are someone."

"No - but… you know what I mean, yea?"

"I do," you concede, sighing a bit. "I - I really do." The words come out in a sort of rush as you say them, tumbling out of you and into the frozen air as Sirius shoots you a peculiar look.

"I don't know how you do it, love," he admits in that slow, low timbre of his. You perk up a bit and glance over to him with your brows raised.

"Do what?"

"What… what I never could." You're still looking at him, he's sure, but he's avoiding your gaze in the wake of his confession, tipping his head back to stare up at the endless stars, instead. 

"Oh, Sirius, I -" You cut yourself off with a laugh and it's a hollow, pitchy sort of thing - off and different and wholly unnatural coming from you. It makes him snap his gaze back down to look at you and when he sees the tremble in your face he wonders, not for the first time, how he manages to fuck it all up so often. 

But then you smile at him like the stars shine down on the two of you because he hung them there. You smile and you look up, yourself, into the endless vastness.

"I'm not, uh… well, I'm not really much of anything these days," you admit quietly, the words halting and slow as they leave you.

"That's bullshit, babe," Sirius responds, the words tugged from him as soon as he hears the tremor in your voice. "You're everything."

"Aw, see how easy it is?" you sigh, leaning back and hanging onto the railing as your voice wavers just a touch. 

"What?" Sirius asks quietly - because he knows, he thinks. He's knows what's going on.

"How easy it is to see yourself in someone else," you clarify. It makes him frown, makes his brows bunch together as he stares down at you. More wind blows through, the beginnings of snowy flurries fluttering through the air and makes you shiver, your sweater doing little to protect you from the incoming storm.

"You should've brought your own jacket out here," Sirius huffs, pointedly derailing the conversation as he shrugs off his own dark leather to drape it over your shoulders.

"I only had time to grab one," you murmur in response as you let him manhandle you into his jacket, the weight of it settling heavily on yout shoulders as you curl your hands into the too-long sleeves.

"What's that thing you always say?" Sirius mumbles as he smooths his hands down your arms, his fingers cold against the fabric. "Something about putting your own oxygen mask on first?"

"Aw," you tease, turning to lean against the railing again and bump your shoulder against him. "But then how would I get you to look after me, huh?"

It's a joke, of course - Sirius knows it's a joke, recognizes the quip in your words. But he can't help himself. He grabs onto your shoulders gently and spins you around to face him once more, his face sombre and lips pressed together as he tilts his head down to look you in the eye. 

"I'll always look after you," he says sternly. "You know that, right? Always, I - you deserve that much, you know? You deserve to have someone find you out in the cold and give you a jacket."

There's a strange quality in your returning smile as you listen to him speak and Sirius, somewhere distant and safe, gets the feeling that you know something that he doesn't.

"I know you do," you say sweetly when he's done his rambling, and the words make a frown tug further on his face as he shakes your shoulders ever so gently.

"Not me," he clarifies sternly. "You - you deserve it. We're talking about you." But then there's that smile from you again, sweet and loving and shining up at him like he's the only warmth you need. It makes him stumble, just a bit, makes him lose his footing as he looks down at you in his jacket, the necklace he gave you last year shining against your neck and the hickey that he'd given you yesterday just barely hidden under your hair.

He lets go of you - he can't help it. He lets go of you and takes a step back to cross his arms over his chest, instead, like he's curling into himself somehow.

"What do you think?" you muse quietly. "Do I look like you?" Sirius thinks, for a queasy sort of moment, that you sort of do. 

"No," he says shortly, the irritation in his voice so surface-level and fake that you grin a bit. "You look like you."

"Well," you say easily as you rock back on your heels a bit and your grin widens. "I'll take that, I suppose."

"You should," he quips back, shivering as the wind blows through and a golden warmth filters onto the two of you as someone turns on another light inside. "What a thing to be, hm?"

"Aw," you tease, but you lean up on your toes and grip onto Sirius's shoulders as you tilt your head to look at him. "You love me, huh?"

"Against my better judgement, yes," Sirius murmurs back, smoothing a hand over your lower back as he leans down to press his lips against yours. It's familiar by now, the feeling of you pressed against him. He knows the shape of you and the feel of your warmth radiating into him. He knows the way that your lips move against his and the way you smile into the kiss. He knows the way that this love feels, he realizes, and it makes him tangle a hand into your hair and tug ever so gently as he nips at your lower lip.

"The others will start to feel left out if we stay out here for too long," you murmur quietly, your lips brushing against Sirius's as he chases after you.

"Just a few more minutes."

"You'll also freeze to death," you point out. That makes him laugh, makes him tilt his head back and look up at the stars and feel how close they are between the two of you. You smooth a hand over his chest as he looks up, placing your palm against his shirt to feel the steady thump of his heart under his skin. And how odd, you think, to feel it beat like that for you. 

"Thanks, sweet thing," Sirius says eventually, his voice quiet as he moves slowly to look down at you once more.

"For what?" you ask simply. The kiss that he presses against your nose is so gentle you almost don't feel it. But you always feel Sirius. You always know where he is.

"For coming out into the cold for me," he says quietly, and if his voice wavers and cracks, you take no notice. "For - for bringing me something warm."

"It's a nice jacket," you respond easily, but your fingers thump against his chest as you echo the beating rhythm of his heart. "It deserves to be worn."

"Yea," Sirius sighs, his shoulders, he finds, lifting a bit with a lightness that's so difficult to find in the dark. "It is a nice jacket."

[bettsfic]

I have this thing where what I'm writing is absolutely not what I'm about in real life. I like complexity and depth in what I read. But the things I care about make only vague appearances in my writing, I don't know how to fully explain it. I have a lot of passion in life and I'm ~relatively emotionally intelligent. I'm curious about emotions, anyway, but what comes out in my writing is just cookie cutter.... Bland..... Zero complexity or emotional exploration. It's like I'm on autopilot when I write and I can't shake it.

i'm about to present to you yet another writing spectrum: director-writers and actor-writers.

a director-writer creates stories by writing discrete scenes that they see in their mind. like a film, a scene begins, something happens, a scene ends. we move on to the next scene. i would venture to say a majority of writers today are director-writers, because what's been en vogue in the 21st century is very much influenced by our visual media. we watch visual media. a great many writers like to render their prose such that it feels like a reader is watching the story play out. these director-writers are standing on the outside looking in, manipulating and moving all the pieces of their story to create the desired end result.

director-writing is so common that i meet many, many writers who trap themselves in scenic prose because they assume that's what "good writing" is. these writers are not actually directors. they don't want to be standing behind the camera; they want to be in the mind of the characters. and those people are actor-writers.

an actor-writer's prose doesn't necessarily prioritize scenes one after the next, but develops a compelling narrative voice. actor-writing is about learning to be someone who isn't you. i think the moment you abandon the forced witness of the camera and instead dive into the mind, experiencing the story instead of rendering the story, you unlock the path of that complex emotional exploration you feel is missing in your work. and you will probably never go back.

here's an activity to try:

whatever you're working on right now, open a new doc, take your main character and, in your mind's eye, trap them in an interrogation room. sit them across from you. ask them, "what is your deal?" write down their answer.

in this activity, you're looking for a few things:

what is their story? why does it matter to them? (this is probably the biggest problem i have with the pitfalls of director-writing: nothing matters. everything is just...happening. as a reader, i'm always looking for what i'm being asked to love. maybe that love is awful, toxic, contradictory, ambivalent, whatever. the point is, it matters. a huge percentage of the things i read never ask me to love anything.)

are they trying to convince or persuade you of something, making their testimonial unreliable? or are they confessing to you things they'd never admit to anyone else?

what is at stake for them? what is their deepest desire and their greatest fear? in what way is their deepest desire flawed? how is their greatest fear irrational? how have the events of their story influenced or distorted their perception?

close narration offers us the greatest possible access to the interiority of the narrator. first person is really just a monologue, an explanation, an excuse, a confession, a plea, a prayer. so so so many writers get blocked because they're trying to See the story instead of Listen to it. they force themselves into this elastic third person where the reader remains a distant witness with the occasional thought, insight, or feeling, but that comes second to what i call Bodies in Space. if i never read another "he strode across the room" again it'll be too soon. imagery is wonderful, don't get me wrong, but i would always, always rather get insight into what a character is feeling, thinking, grieving, dreaming than the knowledge that they are sitting in a chair.

i'm not saying switch to first person. you can create the effect of first person with very close third, and you can create the effect of third person with very distant first. pronouns don't really matter. what's important is voice over vision.

i say this a lot, but if i want to watch a story, i'll turn on my tv. prose is the only art form that allows us to fully explore human consciousness. let it do the thing it was invented to do.

my theory of director-writers and actor-writers is adapted from Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction, in which he defines "picture" vs. "drama" writing. however i found that terminology confusing and poorly articulated, so i flipped it into a process-based approach with what i hope is more accessible phrasing. also, prose = consciousness is from 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley.

[o-sachi]

Do a Somersalt ! ‧₊˚ ⋅ Blue Lock Chars. (Request)

ଳ how would the blue lock boys react to a gymnast s/o who is muscular? ଳ characters; isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, reo mikage, chigiri hyoma, michael kaiser, shidou ryusei ଳ tags; floof, afab reader, no y/n

ᯓ Isagi Yoichi

"You're going to the gym? Can I come too?"

The man is absolutely mesmerized by you. The way you look alone never fails to amaze him. But when you're in your element? He's definitely somewhere—melting into a puddle after witnessing your moves.

An absolute sucker for your muscles, especially the thighs. He'll poke at 'em, squish 'em, and lay his head on 'em.

He will always always always ask to watch your competitions. It's only fair that he provide moral support for you since you do the same for his football games. Hell—even if it's just practice, he'll try to come and watch you anyway.

He loves the way you look, but a small part of him wants to be more muscular as well because he thinks he'd embarrass you if he wasn't as lean as you :(

"Hey, what would you think if I were more muscular?" / "Hmm, I'd be pretty proud, but you look great as you are." / "Be for real." / "I am being for real though?"

Doesn't really dwell on that thought. It's more of a fleeting one if anything. He's more preoccupied about admiring you anyway.

ᯓ Bachira Meguru

"How the fuck did you flip like that? I wanna do it too."

Expect him to hound you about teaching him all your "cool" moves. He'll ask about the complicated ones even though both of you know that he won't be doing that with just an explanation, a demo, and a prayer.

Bachira's quite flexible though, so you do manage to teach him some stuff. He was SO ecstatic the first time he was able to do a move that you two had been going over for an hour.

"Babe, I think I'm ready to do a double back salto tucked with a triple twist." / "Okay, first of all, even I can't do that... and two, how do you know that?" / "There's this little thing called 'the internet'?"

He's not really one to be too observant of what body type his s/o has, but he'll always compliment your muscles.

The way his face lights up when both of you find out you can lift him up like a baby is priceless. It may or may not be the reason why he loves your muscles so much...

ᯓ Nagi Seishiro

"Ah... can you carry me back? What? I'm not that heavy..."

Nagi loves your muscles. They're firm, but they make good pillows. He says he falls asleep faster when he's in your arms or when his head is resting on your lap.

Another reason is because you can give him piggyback rides. Sure, he's more than 6 feet tall and still weighs more than you, but you suck it up and try to lift him anyway.

He's so in awe of all the moves that you do on the bars or on the floor. If he's watching you compete, he's most likely thinking about how much of a hassle those moves are.

"Don't you get tired of swinging around like that? Looks tough." / "You know that football matches are 90 minutes long, right?" / "...I know and I hate running for that long."

After both of your trainings, he'll invite you to take a long ass nap in the ac and under the comfiest blanket ever. It's impossible to say no to him.

ᯓ Reo Mikage

"Hey, your video got 500 likes already—as expected."

He pretty much has documented your entire career with how many pictures and videos he has taken of you training or performing. He has his own archive for your competitions too.

"Baby, there is no such thing as too much when it comes to you." / "Um... actually—" / "Shhh... shh..."

You two have the same trainer, nutritionist, manager—everything. He'll introduce you to his team that keeps him in tip-top shape for football so that you can be your best self in gymnastics too.

If he's unable to attend a competition of yours, he'll send someone to watch and record it for him.

Of course, he'll make it up by throwing an epic celebration for you regardless if you won or not. Reo will shower you with endless praise.

ᯓ Chigiri Hyoma

"The judges don't know what the fuck they're doing, honestly."

He's like... such a mom when he comes to watch your competitions. He'll be sitting in the audience—both amazed and a bit worried when you do risky moves.

When the judges score lower than what he expects, he'll start muttering under his breath about how stupid they are and that you deserve WAAAY higher.

The biggest hype man ever. It doesn't matter if you won or lost—he'll always express his admiration for you. If you did win, he'll celebrate the heck out of it with you. But if you lost, he'll reassure you and still celebrate for the effort you put in.

He likes choosing your leotard and hairstyle for you. When you give him the liberty to do so, the biggest smile appears on his face.

"Hmm... this purple one looks good, but I like the red one too." / "Hyoma, you know I'm only going to practice, right?" / "I know, I know."

ᯓ Michael Kaiser

"I only got into it because of you, y'know?"

He will shamelessly ogle your muscles. It's one thing that they look great. But it's another to know that you put in tons of hard work and discipline into building that kind of body. And he respects that quite a lot.

His knowledge of gymnastics when you first started dating was little to none. But suddenly he's so into it now. He watches other gymnasts' routines and learns the common moves and rules in competitions.

Mihya acts lowkey about it, but he feels a sense of pride seeing you happy when the two of you get to talk about the thing you love the most. It'll start of with him initiating the topic, then you'll just rant until you're tired. He won't complain though.

He felt like his heart was sucked right out of his chest when he saw your outfit for a certain competition. It was a black and blue leotard with blue roses on it. You swore his eyes watered a bit, but apparently it was just the wind...

"Well... you look great." / "Are you crying?" / "Huh? Crying? Psh. You're literally seeing things." / "Okay, Gaslighter3000."

ᯓ Shidou Ryusei

"Heh, wanna bet who can do more flips in a minute?"

He's actually glad that you're strong and muscular because it means he doesn't have to hold back as much. Also, he's just into the whole muscle mommy thing. Yes, he's that guy.

Shidou knows you can do pretty amazing things which, of course, leads to the most bizarre hypotheticals and bets ever.

"Babe, do you think you could flip off of that ledge?" / "Seriously. Look at it. It's like twice your height and it's all cement." / "Oh so then you're lame? I bet I could do that."

As much as you'd love to bring him to competitions... he just gets too excited (not that kind of excited). He'll start shouting and cheering you to the point that everyone will be looking at him.

His phone's storage is like 70% videos of you performing moves or you training. He finds it adorable when you're putting in work and doing things that can blow people away.

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[howling-goldendemon]

How I'm starting to believe in Greek gods

I just wanted to share my story, including some doubts because I'm not sure about some things. I have never been a really religious person, as growing up in a very religious family, i think even having some connection to Christianity when it comes to a town near where I live.

Anyways, as I was saying, I have never been that much about beliefs, always wondering about what else could be out there waiting for me.

After all, my family said that the most important part of being human is worshipping a greater deity, specially god; I decided to try to take that in mind while searching for a religion where I could feel kind of comfortable.

Despite the taboo that it is, i started with Satanism, my reason behind it being "I'm not comfortable in what surrounds me, maybe if I try the opposite...?".

I moved on to try atheism, it didn't feel right, something was missing.

Then I tried believing in Greek gods, this being the reason because of a famous musical based on The Odyssey.

I don't know why, but this one really felt like it called me, something in Greek gods drew my attention and respect.

I tried then making my first prayer, being it to Poseidon, I still don't know if I did it right or if I chose the wrong god to start, but my ask was for clear skies on the weekend in exchange of being able to make it rain as hard as he wanted on my 18th birthday, the reason for the ask was that there was going to be a camp; in the end, the camp was moved to next week, but it did rain in my birthday and the weekend was clear skies.

I am a little ashamed of this but I ended up asking again 2 times, this time to Zeus too, as the camp was moved to another date 3 times, this time i tried my best to not be disrespectful and I promised I'd try to make something in return.

The day of the camp, I made a quick prayer to Gaea, asking for a safe travel and general safety during said camp.

As soon as I got back to school, I got cherry incense, I am still new to this and today I lit up one of the incenses.

I was going to try Aztec gods, but I ended up feeling more comfortable in Greek mythology.

I am willing to make a tiny altar for Gaea, Poseidon and Zeus, As I feel like I still need to make a proper offering to all of them, I would've thought it was coincidence and I know it's not 100% true or reliable, but the weather forecast for those weekends I asked were written with a high probability of heavy rain.

It may have been coincidence, but I like to think it was a way to receive me with open arms in this religion.

Now for the questions:

Do I need to make separate altars for each god? I don't have much space, and I don't know what my family would thing of it if I made an altar they could see, I could fit one in my closet or a tiny table in my room.

What would I do with offerings? specifically food, I cannot leave it to rot, that feels kind of wrong, but eating or throwing it out feels too disrespectful, what is the common practice when it comes to food offerings?

Am I praying correctly? I tend to pray in this way: Treat the gods like I would treat a Teacher I respect a lot, with a lot of respect and trying to not ask for too much.

Is there a guide on what to pray to which god? I just wanna show respect by believing in every Greek god, regardless of if I ask for something or not, I wanna keep doing this.

Thank you so much for reading until the end.

[4unnyr0se]

Hi love your writing!! I havent touched HQ in 3 years but Im starting to love old characters I use to fall in love with like Asahi, Oikawa, Bokuto etc,,, so as my first req, could you pls write fem! Reader x Bokuto fluff in HS?

Like Bokuto trying to court the reader. How would that go? And how did he finally ask us out?

Feel free to ignore this if you dont like the idea! Ty for ur time 🤍❤️🤍

❥ young love at fukurodani | kotaro bokuto

warnings: none that i can think of. this is pure fluff

MDNI | No 18+ content, I just don't want minors interacting with my blog

word count -> 1.6k

okay so aaaa this didn't rlly follow the ask bc all he does is ask reader to tutor him and then cute stuff happens but i can make a hc of it probably tonight or tomorrow?? also i wrote this when i was having tummy issues so im very sorry if its horrible. i love u!

got a request? my asks are open!

Bokuto wasn’t one to get embarrassed that easily. Sure, he did embarrassing things but didn’t know they were embarrassing. They were part of his boyish charm, which people loved about him…right? Of course, they did. He was Kotaro Bokuto. He was Fukurodani’s ace, and the people loved him for it. So why, if he was so confident, did he get awkward and embarrassed around you, his pretty classmate?

Saying you were gorgeous was an understatement. He couldn’t find the right words to describe you to his friends, mainly Akaashi. “She’s just like, y’know? And I’m like, oh damn! She’s cute as fuck!” Boktuo would make various gestures with his hands as he and Akaashi sat on the steps leading to the gym, sipping cola from the vending machine. “What do I do, Akaashi? She’s so pretty, and I’m pretty too! The only problem is that everyone else in our year thinks so, too…do I even have a shot?”

Akaashi would offer him a pitiful smile, rubbing his back in assurance. “Well, isn’t she one of the smartest in our year?”

“Yeah, smart and pretty. She’s so fucking perfect, I wish you could see her.” he pouted.

“Well, the answer is simple,” Akaashi said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. Ask her for help with homework; god knows you need it.”

“Hey! I got a 41 on my chemistry test!” Bokuto yelled at Akaashi as the setter entered the gym. But he did have a point, like always. Bokuto decided then and there that he would ask you to tutor him tomorrow, no matter how anxious he was. Anxiety was for suckers anyway.

“Hey, wait up!” Bokuto ran after you as you exited your classroom, papers flying out of his messy bookbag that was riddled with stains from only God knows what. “I gotta ask you a question!”

You stopped walking and turned your heel, raising an eyebrow as the Fukurodani captain barreled towards you. “Hey, what’s up, Bokuto? How’s volleyball going? Are we headed to nationals?” you asked, placing a hand on your hip. God, even the way you held yourself was perfect. Were you an actual goddess, or was Bokuto just lovestruck?

Bokuto finally caught up to you, leaning against the hallway walls in an attempt to appear suave and put-together. His messy uniform didn’t help his cause, but he forgot to look neat today. And every day after that. “Uh, I was wondering if you understood what we were assigned in English yesterday? I don’t understand any of it to save my skin, hah,” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. “Did you get what our teacher was saying?”

“Yeah, it was really simple. Just basic grammar and syntax structures. Was it complicated for you?” you tilted your head to the side.

“I don’t really get it. Wanna tutor me at my house today? I can get you snacks!” he offered you a crooked smile, leaning forward so his golden eyes peered into yours. “C’mon, please? The coach will kick my ass if I don’t get my grades up, and I have a game next week! Pretty please?” he folded his hands in prayer, his bottom lip in a childish pout.

You smiled and nodded, grabbing him off the wall. Bokuto blushed at the sudden contact, noticing how neat you kept your fingernails compared to his own. Yours were neatly polished to perfection while he bit his nails almost constantly, and being a wing spiker didn’t come with having good-looking nails. 

“Where’s your house? Is it walking distance?” you let go of his hand, much to Bokuto’s dismay. 

“Yeah, it’s about five minutes from here. Wanna stop at a convenience store on the way? I’m really hungry.” he rubbed his stomach as you two walked out the nearest exit, your messenger bag dangling over your shoulder. 

“Only if you’re paying,” you joked, rubbing his shoulder. Bokuto could have sworn his heart stopped right then and there. Were you actually flirting with him, or were you just really touchy? Either way, it was a win in his book. 

“Sure, I don’t mind. Anything for a pretty girl like yo-” Bokuto stopped his sentence, smacking his hand over his mouth. “I-I mean, why wouldn’t I mind? I’m a captain, after all. It’s my job to provide for my teammates!”

“But I’m not on any sports teams. I’m not your teammate.” you deadpanned, 

“You know what I mean!” Bokuto whined, wiping his forehead of the sweat that was slowly starting to gather. “Damn, it’s a hot one today. Why won’t they let the guys wear shorts? Do they want us to die of heat stroke or something?”

“I honestly have no idea,” you sighed, walking under the shade of the convenience store roof. “Wait a minute,” you instructed, placing your messenger bag on the hot pavement. You shrugged off your school blazer and wrapped it around your waist tightly in an attempt to cool you off. You also rolled up the sleeves of your white blouse, loosening your collar. “Sorry, I’m just really warm. At least we get to wear skirts, right?” you offered him a lopsided smile.

Bokuto’s heart pounded in his chest. “Uh, yeah, you girls are so lucky. Wearing skirts must feel awesome.”

“It’s awesome until you catch someone trying to look it up,” you mumbled in annoyance, hoisting your bag over your shoulders. 

“What the actual fuck? Who was it? I’ll murder them! I'll text Konoha too; he’ll definitely want in on it,” Bokuto clenched his fists together, walking into the store with you. “I’m sorry that happened to you, honestly.

You shrugged your shoulder and rummaged through the ice cream pin, choosing a passionfruit-flavored ice bar. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I barely know you, anyways.”

“That doesn’t mean that I can’t protect you from jerks like that guy,” Bokuto angrily shoved his hands in his pockets, tapping his foot on the tile. He fished about 400 yen out of his pocket and handed it to the cashier, ushering you out of the shop as quickly as possible. 

“What was that for?” you asked, unwrapping the popsicle. 

“I didn’t like how he looked at you, that’s all.” Bokuto huffed. He made grabby motions for your bookbag, which you handed to him with a confused look on your features. “Let me carry that, please. You’re too pretty to carry heavy stuff around like that all day.”

You paused your walk and stared at Bokuto, blushing softly. “You think I’m pretty?” 

Bokuto slowly nodded and gave you a crooked smile, blushing in turn. “Yeah, I really do. I was afraid to tell you before, but now I’m all fired up. I wanna protect you from creeps, y’know?”

You popped the ice treat out of your mouth and stepped forward, smiling softly. “We barely know each other, and you want to keep me safe? We haven’t even hung out once.”

“We’re heading to my house right now, aren’t we?” Bokuto shrugged, his blush not fading. 

You chuckled and took another step forward, the tips of your noses brushing against each other. “Yeah, I guess we are,” you whispered, your lips dangerously close to his own. “You know, I always thought you were kind of cute. In the athletic kind of way, I suppose.”

Bokuto dropped the bags he held onto the hot concrete beneath you, praying they wouldn’t roll down the hill you were standing on. You two were in a remote location, and the tension was thick. “You think I’m cute?” he tilted his head to the side, his eyelids dropping halfway. 

“Mhm,” you purred, your popsicle dripping from the intense heat. “Super cute.”

“Fuck,” Bokuto’s hands hovered above your waist, unsure of what you wanted him to do. “Uh, is it okay if I kiss you? Please, cutie?” he quietly pleaded, your lips basically touching at this point. 

You smiled and nodded, holding your melting popsicle behind your back. “Mhm, it’s okay.”

Bokuto smiled as his lips interlocked with yours for a minute, savoring the sweet passionfruit flavor that coated them. His hands squeezed your waist childishly, never wanting this moment between the two of you to end. This kiss was exactly how he dreamed it would be, soft and perfect. Just like you.

You pulled away after a bit and giggled, your popsicle having since fallen onto the heated pavement. Your sticky hands cupped his face, the pads of your thumbs running over his defined cheekbones. “You’re a good kisser,” you pecked his forehead bravely. “Like, a really good kisser.”

“Same to you, cutie,” his hands left your waist, choosing to instead secure your wrists. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that. So. Fucking. Long.”

 A chuckle escaped your lips as your hands fell to your waist again, intertwining your fingers with Bokuto’s. You had never notified it before, but he was much bigger than you. It made you feel safe and secure. Protected. “We should probably get to your house to study, shouldn’t we?” 

“Aw, I was having so much fun kissing you on the sidewalk!” Bokuto pretended to whine, kicking a loose pebble that was in his way. He easily picked up the bags with his spare hand and tossed them over his broad shoulder. 

“Tell you what,” you squeezed his hand. “For every question you get right, I’ll give you a kiss. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

“Hell yeah, it does!” Bokuto kissed you on the cheek in excitement. He practically skipped to his house with you in tow, excited for what the rest of the day would have in store.

[semperama]

AHHHHHH will you write me buddie for 56 "it brings out your eyes"????????? 😃😃😃

“It brings out your eyes.”

----

"Okay, which one?" Buck asks, holding up two different t-shirts, one sky blue and one salmon-y pink.

Eddie sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. He's been perched on the end of Buck's bed for what feels like an hour, watching him fuss with his hair and then rifle through his closet. "I don't know, Buck." He lets his gaze drift down Buck's body for what feels like the millionth time, trying to ignore the way it gets fractionally harder to breathe each time he does it. "The blue, I guess. It brings out your eyes."

Buck snorts. "I'm going to a club. No one'll be able to see what color my eyes are." He tilts his head to the side and grins. "Not that they'll be looking anyway."

"Oh my God." Eddie looks up at the ceiling and says a silent prayer for mercy. "This is why I told you I wouldn't be much help. What do I know about clubs?" Much less gay clubs.

"Come on, man." Buck tosses the salmon shirt down on the bed and starts peeling the blue one off the hanger. "I'm freaking out, okay? Are you sure you can't come with me?"

Can't? Maybe that was a lie. With Chris gone, he has no good excuse to stay home these days. But the last thing he needs is to watch Buck get hit on by random strangers--especially not if alcohol is going to be involved. He wouldn't even have come over to help Buck get ready if he hadn't begged him. It'll be the first time I've gone out since me and Tommy broke up, Eddie. I could really use a pep talk.

"I don't even understand why you have to go," Eddie says. He watches Buck pull on the shirt, tries not to linger too long on how it stretches around his biceps, over his chest. "Is this really a good way to meet guys? At your age?"

Buck gasps with exaggerated affront. "At my age?"

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. "Last time we went out with Hen and Karen you puked in my front lawn and then complained about your hangover for two days."

"I did a bad job pacing myself that night," Buck says, his mouth twisted into what could almost be a pout. "Karen holds her alcohol better than I do. And anyway, they're older than us, so if they can go out--"

"They go out like twice a year. Together. As a couple. Not to meet people."

Buck's expression darkens. "Yeah, well. I'm not part of a couple, so." Okay. So Eddie fucked up with that one. He sighs, but before he can apologize, Buck spreads his arms out and swivels his torso a little. "Just...how do I look?"

He looks good enough to fucking eat, of course. The shirt hugs him in all the right places. His jeans make his ass look great. He must have found some new product for his hair, because his curls are perfect and soft-looking, begging to be touched. Eddie wants to drag him in by the belt loops and beg him to stay.

"You look great, Buck," he says quietly. Because Buck asked him for a pep talk, and so far he's failed the assignment. The least he can do is try to turn it around. The least he can do is be a good friend, not a selfish, jealous asshole. "Seriously, you're going to have guys falling at your feet."

The smile that creeps its way across Buck's face make it all worth it. He ducks his head, shrugs his shoulders up, and Eddie is stabbed by a longing so intense he's halfway to his feet before he realizes what he's doing and stops himself.

"I'll let you get going then," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets do he doesn't give in to the temptation to touch. "Let me know how it goes?"

"Yeah," Buck says. His gaze is searching Eddie's face. For what, Eddie doesn't know. "Yeah, of course."

Eddie makes it to the door, breath painful and ragged in his chest, before he hears Buck's feet pounding down the stairs behind him. He turns to look, to ask if there was something else, but he barely opens his mouth before Buck is there, one hand on Eddie's neck, the other wrapping around his waist, pulling him in so close it knocks the air out of his lungs.

Then, Buck is kissing him. Desperate press of lips, tongue licking into Eddie's shocked mouth. It's an electric shock, white heat spreading through him, painfully good.

But then as soon as it started, it's over, and Buck is staring at him, wide-eyed. Eddie wants to dive into that blue gaze and drown there.

"I'm sorry," Buck says. "I just--I had to try. I had to know, before I--"

"Buck." His fingers are curled in the back of Buck's shirt, and he curls them tighter, presses Buck closer. "Don't go," he says. "Stay here. With me."

"Okay," Buck says breathlessly. He looks like he has no idea what's happening, and Eddie knows the feeling, but they can talk later, figure it all out later.

"Good," Eddie says, and pushes his fingers into Buck's hair, pulls their mouths together again.

[pjohoo-reclists]

hey I know this ask Is a little specific but are there any fics where Percy likes reveals his like struggling with guilt, and suicidal thoughts to people other than Annabeth? I love Percabeth I just really want to see other characters reacting to Percy's struggles! Thxxx!!!!

Hey Anon!! This wasn't too specific, don't worry. I read it and two fics immediately came to mind. One is a spot on match - Percy goes to therapy and talks about his guilt and suicidal thoughts/attempts. Took a little while to find a few more tho. Enjoy!

Percy Confides in Others Rec List

A list of fics where Percy confides in people other than Annabeth about his guilt and suicidal tendencies. Enjoy!

How you remind me. by youngjusticewriter

T | 700 words | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Suicidal Thoughts, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Grover Underwood

(Look, he didn’t want to be a half-blood.) For a moment Percy felt the urge to ask Grover if he was ever going to be free. But he didn’t so the words stayed in his mouth and there they would rot like fruit left out for days in the summer heat. Percy opened his eyes. He stared at the bathtub. “...Grover, do you think I’ll graduate college?” Percy heard a sharp inhale. “Yeah, Percy. I do.” A noise escaped his throat. His vision grew blurry. “I agreed to go on a quest,” Percy said, finally admitting it to someone.

She’ll Rage For Him by aiden_salva00

T | 900 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Clarisse La Rue, Silena Beauregard & Clarisse La Rue

Survivor Guilt, Percy Jackson is a Mess, Camp Half Blood

Clarisse La Rue knows rage. Percy Jackson knows loyalty. As the boy breaks, she summons rage to protect him like he has always protected them.

A Son's Prayer by AJDoesStuff (ApophisWrites)

T | 1.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon

Post Tartarus, Suicidal Thoughts, Good Parent Poseidon

Percy Jackson had been through hell and back, literally in his case, and he just wants someone to talk to where he won't be a burden. He prays to Poseidon, knowing his dad will most likely not bother listening to him, why would he want to listen to someone like Percy anyway. Poseidon listens anyway.

Similarities by HK44

G | 1.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Carter Kane

Short and Sweet, Carter is a good friend, Angst

“It’s different,” Percy cut in, pulling back, moving away, getting ready to leave. “They wouldn’t get it.” The words were firm, edged in steel, lined with barricades. He was falling back into himself again. Carter cursed everything and grabbed his arm. “Hey. What’s up?”

Dying is easy, living is harder by One_Real_Wrimonkey

T | 1.4k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Clarisse La Rue

Grief/Mourning, Percy Jackson & Clarisse La Rue Friendship, Clarisse La Rue has PTSD

She found him on a rock looking over the ocean, waves crashing below them, lit by a brilliant moon. It felt too pretty, given the state of the world, but he couldn't look away. Percy expected her to try and drag him back to camp, or maybe shove him off the cliff, but she only sat next to him. "Wanna talk about it?" . Three weeks after the war, Percy and Clarisse finally allow themselves to grieve.

and the ships are left to rust by Duck_Life

T | 1.8k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Jason Grace

Survivor Guilt, Bathing/Washing, Grief/Mourning

Jason goes looking for Percy after the final battle.

Rest Me And My Bones by Freddie_77

Not Rated | 1.9k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Clarisse La Rue, Clarisse La Rue & Will Solace, Percy Jackson & Will Solace

Grief/Mourning, Post Gaea & The Second Giant War, Trans Characters

“Hey,” Percy says, and it’s three AM, and Clarisse has finally got Ellis and Sherman to stop fucking fighting and go to bed, so why is he on the cabin doorstep, and really, how did he get around the landmines? Sure, all the counselors got to know cabin protections, but he hasn’t been at camp in… seven months? Eight? (Sure, Clarisse knows the exact date, deep down, a doomsday clock ticking away, your friend has been gone for this long and this long and this long– But she doesn’t need to admit that.) “The fuck do you want?” Her voice is gruffer than she means for it to. She loves him, deep down. (Very, very deep. You may need a gun pressed to her head to make the words come out. Doesn’t make it less true.) “Donuts,” he responds without pause, holding up one of the camp SUV’s keys. “I figured we could go out with Will. He’s waiting in the car already.” Or: post battle, Percy, Will, and Clarisse go out for donuts and talk for a while.

I'm going to make you wish you were dead by nlpiersee

T | 2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Aphrodite & Ares & Hades & Hephaestus & Hera & Persephone & Poseidon & Zeus (Percy Jackson)

Angst and Feels, Near Death Experiences, Family Drama

The council of the gods gathers expecting to smite a demi-god, only to have the tables turned on them. No one expected one hero to have gone through so much.

i'm a young man built to fall by bakedbean15

T | 2.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Paul Blofis & Percy Jackson

PTSD, Post the Second Titan War, Rachel Elizabeth Dare is a good friend

Percy has a flashback at school, Rachel and Paul help.

Just Because I Left Doesn’t Mean That I’m Not Still There by SiederTreeStudios

G | 2.7k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon

Post Tartarus, Post-Gaea & The Second Giant War, Protective Poseidon

Posideon couldn’t be there for his son when he needed him. But he could be there now. OR Posideon’s perspective on Percy’s adventures (mostly the Lightning Thief) and the aftermath of it all.

life doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints by Thatcrazyfan

T | 2.7k | Complete

Clarisse La Rue/Chris Rodriguez, Percy Jackson/Annabeth

Survivor Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Percy Jackson needs a hug

Chris noticed it before anyone else. He heard the whispers, saw the stares and was vividly reminded of the first few years after he had re-joined camp. The distrust in everyone’s eyes and in their actions and in the voices was something he would never, ever forget. Or, Something's wrong with Percy, and Chris is worried. Percy hasn't been his usual self in a long time.

Call Me by orphan_account

G | 2.8k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Nico di Angelo

Attempted Suicide, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Trans Male Character

Percy and Nico made a promise on the River Styx, if either ever felt really depressed or like they might attempt suicide they have to call the other. Nico receives an Iris Message on a Tuesday.

the ghost of you by beforedaybreaks

G | 3.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Luke Castellan

Canonical Character Death, Survivor Guilt, Minor Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson

"Hello," the ghost of Luke says from its perch atop Percy's bedroom drawer. It tilts its head; grins, baring shiny white teeth. Luminous gold eyes bore deep into Percy's soul. Percy freezes. "You're not real,” he says, accusatory. Luke seems unphased by this development. In which Percy Jackson is haunted by the ghost of Luke Castellan, deals with unresolved feelings of guilt, and learns to say goodbye, all at the same time.

Percy's "Wonderful" Adventures in Therapy by Inlovewithsnow2002

T | 3.4k | Complete

Percy Jackson, Sally Jackson

Past Child Abuse, Percy finally gets Therapy, Suicidal Thoughts

After a series of unfortunate events Percy has landed himself in therapy.

You Can Kid The World, But Not Your Sister by HK44

T | 4.7k | Complete

Sadie Kane, Percy Jackson, Walt Stone

Panic Attacks, Monsters, Mental Health Issues

It was like the world had slowed between the seconds that it’s tongue lifted off of Felix’s hair and it’s entire body convulsing. It went so painfully still, a broken yelp echoing from it’s mouth. She saw the way it’s eyes bulged, Percy stepping in close. As though the parasite alien from Alien was breaking through, she could see the shift of muscle and bone underneath it’s thick mass of fur. And then the room was splattered in blood and yellow sand.

Apricity by TheProfoundSilence

T | 7.5k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Apollo

Kidnapping, BAMF Percy Jackson, Protective Poseidon

Percy gets kidnapped. He thought the pain was easy to deal with, but hell is just that, hell to live through. In the aftermath, a lonely infirmary, sheer willpower, and Percy Jackson attempts to rebuild himself back again with a little help from godly friends.

the light in the darkest depths of the sea (why can't i hold on?) by AchillesComeHome

Not Rated | 8.3k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson

Angst with a Bittersweet Ending, Good Parent Poseidon, Depressed Percy Jackson

He’s sinking down, and down and down. His throat burns from the seawater aggravating the soreness of it. The water carries him down, or maybe that’s him. He doesn’t know. He lets the sea take him. Maybe she’ll give him the peace he’s never truly had. Maybe she’ll let him rest for once. So he drifts, throat choking and burning with tears, eyes focused on the dimming light above him. Maybe this was his fate all along - to be swept away by the sea to a place even his father can’t find him. And maybe, he’s okay with that. Maybe he can sleep now. Or in which Percy Jackson has given up, but Poseidon has not.

Stars on the Water by liketolaugh

T | 116k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood & Annabeth Chase

Percy Jackson has Self Esteen Issues, Percy Jackson Goes to Therapy, Abused Percy Jackson

"I dunno, I just think it would make a lot of things easier for a lot of people," Percy said to Thalia, when she just stared at him. His cheek rested in his hand, a rare pensive look leaving his eyes distant and unfocused. "Mom has Paul now, so it’ll be easier on her if she doesn’t have to worry about me mucking things up. Dad won’t have to keep threatening war every time Zeus gets his toga twisted. The prophecy’s done, so I won’t be bringing it down on Nico. And no one will have to worry about me blowing up another volcano."

Star Light, Star Bright by liketolaugh

T | 192k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Paul Blofis

Therapy 2: Electric Boogaloo, PTSD, Past Child Abuse

Subject: Percy's back Hello, Raine. I know that you're on leave right now, but you asked me to tell you as soon as we got further news on Percy. He's home. He's safe. But can you please get back to me as soon as possible? He's not doing well, and he's been asking for you. I hope that you've been resting well. With love, Sally

[azen13]

Your thoughts about yandere zhongli but in the au where you are the archon are tasty.... unfortunately, I don't think Zhongli will keep your Gnosis because it would be reneging on a contact and he is Contracts. But imagine... what if you sealed Morax away, and he (much like Azhdaha in canon) managed to split off a small part of himself to exist as a human, "Zhongli" the funeral parlour consultant? Your most devout worshipper.... until he frees your old enemy and friend, Morax. ♡

anon ur so real for this. i 100% agree zhongli wouldn't keep ur gnosis bc. god of contracts. the part about splitting off a small part of himself??? u truly ate. anyways here's a little drabble based on that idea! i had to rewrite it bc my laptop died and i lost my progress sobs

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CW: Yandere Themes, Implied Stalking

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Every prayer made in your name is like a melody. They float across Teyvat, weaving together in a resonant unceasing chorus. From a young child wishing for protection for her father, to an old man begging for more time with his wife.

But beneath all the moving lines, beneath all the trills and mordents, is a peculiar prayer. A low, droning hum, one that seems to have gone on for centuries. When you listen to other prayers, you can glean out what it is saying. But while this one speaks in a language you know, it utters words you cannot understand. No matter how many sleepless nights you spend trying to decode its desires, they remain incomprehensible.

All that you know is that the person speaking it is deeply, utterly in love.

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You hear it one day when you walk through the streets of Liyue, masquerading amongst mortals to understand their troubles. The sun has barely risen, its first rays turning the eaves of homes a warm amber color as you walk through Chihu rock.

Then you hear it. That low, rumbling tone, like an earthquake. It's coming from all around you, but you can't see anyone in front of you, so you spin around.

All you see is a man dressed in fine clothing, a slightly confused expression plastered on his face. Harmless. Unassuming. Even still, you cannot help but think that he looks strikingly like Morax.

"My apologies, I thought I heard something." You offer a kind smile, ready to turn away quickly, but the stranger steps forward.

"You are quite alright. It is quite early in the morning, so some exercise must be cautioned," he says, Cor Lapis colored eyes gazing at you intently. He even sounds exactly like Morax. His voice almost brings you to tears, but you sidestep your sorrows. "Perhaps we could walk together if you are concerned about danger?" The stranger asks.

You shake your head. "Thank you, but I would hate to impose on your time," you say. For some reason, the stranger's face tightens, almost imperceptibly so, but you see it in the slight frown of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes.

"I assure you," the man says, taking another step towards you, "I have no plans this morning." His words have an almost godlike authority to them, though you quickly brush aside that thought. You sense no such power from this man.

Taking another step back, you look into his eyes, as beautiful as polished amber, and stand firm. "I insist, I'm alright," you say, faking levity.

There is a moment of silence before the stranger lets out a soft sigh. "So be it," he says, pausing for a moment. "At the very least, may I know your name?"

By this point, you already want to leave. This man, human or not, is simply off-putting by how similar he is to Morax, in appearance, in voice, even in mannerisms. Still, you manage to stay smiling. "I'm Y/N," you say, offering your hand.

The stranger grasps your hand quickly in an almost vice-like grip. "I go by Zhongli," the man responds. He holds onto your hand for just a millisecond too long, but you don't pay it much mind. Letting go, Zhongli gives you a slight, almost unnoticeable smile. "I sincerely hope we meet again, Mx. Y/N," he says, turning around and casually walking away.

Something tells you that you will, in fact, meet him again.

[rainbluealoekitten]

this is definitely not a witchcraft blog but regardless i do participate occasionally with online witchy theatrics and i have an opinion i'd like to share.

there's too much pressure on learning the basics and not enough resources that teach damage-control.

this is in relation to fear-mongering discourse, bc almost every witchy "content creator" (hate that term) and almost every witchy book, podcast, whatever, seems to put a focus on protecting yourself, putting up wards, easy peasy baby beginner witchcraft. which! yes, that is important, but it also means that it perpetuates the idea (and often full out says) that you should never do blood magic. you should never talk to these entities. you should never make bargains, you should never do divination without cleansing, you should never curse, bla bla bla don't go outside at night!! it's spooky!!!

great, now we've got a bunch of witches who are scared shitless and won't actually do anything beyond blow cinnamon through their front door.

there are a lot of people who claim to be teachers, but a good teacher is someone who pushes you. not someone who limits you.

some witches love to tell you to fuck around and find out, but again, only provide resources on warding. we've got witches who ward so much that they can't even get friendly spirits to talk to them. banishment is seen as a basic skill, but if everyone is too scared to practice their craft, they're not going to even end up with an entity to banish!

i'm starting to ramble, but my point is that i want to see more content, more books, more generalised resources that teach you how to unfuck a situation. not prevent it, unfuck it.

you did blood magic? great, it's not always going to work out, here's how to unbind yourself from this entity, now you know to do this slightly differently. you've done a curse and it's backfired? don't panic, these are some ideas on how you can undo your spell, and next time you might want to choose your words/ingredients more carefully. you wandered into the wrong part of the woods and upset some ancient spirits? it's more common than you think! luckily, there are plenty of ways to go about this situation.

etc etc. people do dumb shit. that is part of life. just like with sex ed, teens aren't going to abstinate, they're going to be too scared to go to an adult when they get an sti.

yes, some practitioners will basically stop practicing out of fear of doing things wrong, and many others will do things wrong and end up entirely alone, scared, and with no resource that can guide them out of it, all because you should have known better, you should have warded, you should have stuck your head in a fucking hole.

anyways. this is the end of my rant but i hope it also comes off as encouragement to anyone who is in some way sharing their practice and sharing resources, especially the much wiser witches who have fucked around, please share what you've learnt. <— i'm asking this in a very sincere, very hopeful way, i really wish it was normalised to share spells and prayers and basic actions to help witches through really tough times.

[cicobuffs]

I would die if you wrote about preacher's son!Art before the relationship. Like how he behaved with you, who made the first move, how you two met etcetc

oooo anon i love this one, made it a BIT longer than expected too lol

art and you met at stanford, in one of his classes...probably some random elective lecture class and the two of you sat next to each other. he's one of those people who comes to class like 10-15 minutes early and sits in one of the first few front rows, you strolled in with a huge crowd of students and just happened to sit next to art because it was either that or walking all the way up to the last row of seats.

your relationship was more so made up of sitting down and offering a small smile or a quiet "good morning" for about a month and a half until you whispered a silly, snide remark to art, something along the lines of "did one of the TA's get too rough with him this time?", after your professor came to class 10 minutes late, red in the face and huffing. the two of you laughed a bit and he had a slight pink rush to his cheeks at the comment: i just know art went to semi-cut throat, small catholic schools his whole life and a remark like that would've had you sent to the principal or get a detention.

it all started from there: when the "good morning"s turned into "hey, how are you"s and questions of where you both are from, where you're dorming, what things you're into, the whole spiel. he was always very shy, bashful with generally most people but especially with you, kinda the whole speak when spoken to, stay quiet type thing that he was trained to mentally abide by when he was kid and he, mostly, let go of that mindset when he got older but he kept with the whole quiet bit. when it comes down to it, he's just very sweet on you.

when the two of you were just friends, you can remember calling your friends back home and saying how he's "a really great guy,": he's the type to help with homework, lend an ear whenever you need to rant about a professor or a class, just very polite and very attentive. he invites you to watch him play a tennis match and/or practice on the court from time to time and he always just beams when he spots you strolling in. i think at this point he'd be going to sunday church regularly still and he'd ask you if you'd want to join him and if you agree or even say that you'd think about it, he's more than giddy. he'd tell you that it's different than how mass is back home but he goes anyway because he 'wants to' (ingrained that he has to go, essentially promised his parents that he would).

when it comes to the first move, i feel like it'd be him to make it but it definitely would've taken a lot of contemplation in a way. he kinda has things click into place when he thinks about you: how he likes the way you hold yourself, how you make him laugh, the fact that he's added you in his prayers every night and at every sunday mass, how he looked through the rosaries that he owns and trying to find the one that best suits you so he can give it to you just because he wants to. he turns to god when it comes to something like this, to be granted a form of revelation, and once he gets this revelation, he's called to act upon it: something something...vocational duty...something something.

he outright tells you that he's interested in you, with jumbled words and an almost tomato red face, and ends it with a, "but like don't think that you have to like me back like really no worries because-" and its really just him rambling but its very endearing in his own way. when you cut him off saying to take a breath and that you're interested in him too, he's basically wagging his tail because he's had crushes and girlfriends before but this time feels a little different than the other times.