#because you never know if they have an invisible illness

[girlcowboy1]

I think gen z ultimately lost the war against mental illness when they decided to adapt the older generations rhetoric of "mentally ill ppl who have noticeable symptoms are bad and evil and must be avoided at all costs, they deserve to be alone and die alone" which... most people are not saying that outright, but that IS what they're saying, whether they realize it or not, when they choose to discuss these issues based on personal concepts of morality and punishment instead of approaching it with a mix of empathy and an understanding of science, and how the brain operates.

"Having a mental illness isn't an excuse" is true to a certain extent, but I think a lot of people don't understand that to an extent, it also IS an excuse. The only reason people like to believe that it isn't in any capacity is because mental illness is an invisible disability, and if there's one thing that people love to dismiss the impact of, it's invisible disabilities. Because we can't see what's going on beneath the surface, we struggle to understand the issue, we struggle to empathize with the affected person, whom we may prefer to instead write off as being lazy or malicious, when in reality they are in pain and/or are missing an important tool that helps them function the way they'd like to.

Before getting on medication, I felt and (still sometimes feel) as though I existed behind an invisible glass that separated me from everyone else. I could not understand the point of a lot of mundane things, I couldn't relate to those around me, I felt like my existence was a mistake that should have never happened and the universe was attempting to expunge me by making my life so hard I would kill myself.

And then I got on medication, and suddenly I was able to see things that I had never seen before but had existed in front of me the whole time. I was able to be kinder to people, to be more patient, to talk myself out of bad thoughts I would previously ruminate about for days and weeks. I was able to communicate more coherently, to express my feelings in a way I couldn't before. I wanted to do things again. I wanted to dress up, look nice. I wanted to BE nice.

Of course, these are all still things I struggle with. Like with most tools for disability, medication is helpful in giving me the ability to function in a way that makes life more enjoyable— but it doesn't completely cure the issue. The point is. I tried so hard, time and time again, to change on my own. I tried taking supplements, I tried mindfulness, I tried changing the way I eat, I tried self-help videos/books. But I was a deeply depressed, deeply agitated person whose brain was not wired the way it should have been. So none of what I tried would stick. I would act out in ways I KNEW was wrong, but when you get into a certain state of mind, it's difficult to speak to yourself, to talk yourself down from doing or saying things you know you probably shouldn't. Especially when you feel so isolated from others, and struggle to see the point in anything.

It was only after medication that I made long-term improvements. It was only after my brain chemistry was physically altered in a positive way that my brain could begin to function better, and that my outward behavior improved.

How the anatomy of the brain effects a person is a crucial part of mental health that gets left out of relating discussions too often, I think, and its where I believe gen z unfortunately tends to overlap with gen x and boomers. The brain is an organ like any other, and if it is damaged, or sick, or lacking somewhere in its anatomy.... it will not function properly. The person whose body it inhabits will not function properly.

[dailymanners]

If there are no seats left, always offer your seat to anyone who's pregnant, disabled, and/or elderly.

If standing is a lot more difficult, tiring, and/or painful for someone else than it is for you then there's no sense in making someone else suffer over what would just be a minor inconvenience for you*

*obvious disclaimer that this does not apply if you yourself are pregnant, disabled , and/or elderly

[faaun]

Jack Marsh (2005), Friendship Otherwise - Toward a Levinasian Description of Personal Friendship

[coweye]

The Worst Logan

Logan Howlett x Reader!Loganverse| smut | 5.8k words

Summary: You are the deceased-anchor-being-Logan's lover, having found yourself with Laura in the void, you navigate meeting the variant of the love of your life. Sweet dick kicking angst with gratuitous smut, cause we all know Logan eats pussy like a CHAMP. 😤

This is self indulgence at its finest, but it had be to done. 7-years ago, the movie Logan broke something within me that has finally been fixed! 🤠💕

Warning: Explicit - smut. canon death, depression, angst, spoilers for Logan / Wolverine and deadpool, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, creampie, all the good stuff. 18+

The first time you see him again, the new him, the other him you mean. It’s in the cave accompanied by a man who talks far too much.

You recognise his voice in an instant when the mouth finally allows him to get a word in edgeways. His voice. 

You’ve heard it nearly every night for the past seven years. It's a few octaves deeper than you remember and filled to the brim with vitriol but it's definitely his. The realisation that your memory has been warped by time is a blow to the gut but you continue towards the sound all the same.

When finally you round the corner Logan stands before you in all his glory. For a moment you are rendered utterly unable to form a single sentence as he leans against the wall, a bottle of bourbon in his palm and adorned in yellow and blue.

Your mind can't reconcile this figure as the man you buried. He has the same sneer, the same broad shoulders, he even has the same stance - but Logan, your Logan, would rather die than wear that garish yellow suit and admit to being the hero he always was. 

His nose flares in what you believe to be recognition as he smells your presence, you allow your powers to retreat and reveal yourself. As your invisibility ebbs away Logan snarls in surprise as the talkative man in red gasps theatrically and begins jumping on the spot. 

Your fears are proven well founded when your eyes connect with his across the room, instead of the love and recognition, you find only open hostility and rage.

Your heart had bulldozed all logic, you were in the fucking void, of course it was a variant.

This Logan looks younger; his hair not so grey, his face unscarred and his eyes not so tired. 

This not-quite-Logan stares right back at you seemingly ill at ease with the stranger who is currently taking an inventory of his face. 

“Logan, that's them. It’s X-23 and Y/N, the one’s I told you about.” You graze your palm along your daughter's back in support as you come to stand beside her. 

“Her name is Laura.” It’s a knee jerk reaction; your correction. Your girl wasn’t the sum total of an experiment, she was her own person with her own thoughts and feelings, not a weapon to be utilised. 

The Wolverine’s gaze darts between the two of you, it’d be comical if you didn’t feel like you were about to regurgitate your lunch. They land on Laura, and linger there for a few moments, before they return to you, it's as if he’s trying to find you in her features. 

You barely hear the man you will later come to know fondly as Wade Wilson, question how you all ended up in the void.

“There was a knock at the door TVA sent me here, saying my world was dying … and I never even got the chance to fight for it.” Blade explains remorsefully. 

“They sent us here because they knew we’d put up a fight.” You utter distractedly, finally breaking your staring contest with Logan as he takes a swig from the bottle he’s currently white knuckling. 

“People like us don’t go quietly, TVA knows that so they took us out.” Elektra attests.

“The answer is yes, I’m in.” Wade declares.

“In what?” Blade questions bemused by the man in red. 

“A team up, you me, me you, all of us together, lets get the fuck outta’ here.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a fucking liar!” Logan growls, furious at the other man. 

“It was an educated wish!”

“HA!” The loathing behind it makes you pause, he was so angry. 

The heat in his voice, the resentment, it burns you. You supposed even your Logan had his fair share of rage.  

When he arrived at the mansion all those years ago, fresh faced and wild, you had adored him even then, though Logan was far too preoccupied with Jean to notice the torch you carried for him back then.

It was ironic that It had taken the utter annihilation of the X-Men to bring you together. Charles’ accident had left the two of you as sole survivors. Over the years in hiding your ability to mould force fields managed to keep the worst of the effects of Charles’ seizures at bay, but Charles Xavier was one of the most powerful telepaths to grace the earth and your powers had limits. 

Those years were some of the darkest and yet the best of your life, you found yourself growing to love the man the world called The Wolverine.

You realise you’ve entirely tuned out Wade’s rousing speech and have spent the time analysing the man wearing your love’s face currently gargling bourbon though your name pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Laura, Y/N? What’s it gonna’ be girlies?” 

“Lets fucking go.” Laura agrees heartily, you simply nod still dazed. 

“YES! LET’S FUCKING GO!” Wade shouts back fist pumping. 

“You’re all fucking dead.”

Much later in the evening when the sun has finally set you seek him out. When you come across the father and daughter duo before the campfire you hold back, your skin slowly begins reflecting light, fading from vision as you call upon your powers to hide in the treeline. 

They both needed this and it wasn’t something you were about to get in the way of. They talk for a little while, before they part ways, both a little teary. Laura nods your way despite being unable to see you as she heads back to the cave, her nose just as keen as her fathers. 

So it shouldn’t surprise you a few moments later when you hear Logan's voice call across the clearing.

“You gonna’ stand there all night, Bub?” The man sounds utterly exhausted. 

You say nothing in response, only dismissing your powers and revealing yourself as you advance. You take Laura’s seat at the fire, not quite having the courage to look at him just yet. 

“You hear all that? Should mind your own damn business.” You remembered this Logan well, the one aching for a fight, desperate to shed his vulnerability and bloody his fists. 

“I didn’t hear a thing, Logan.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, you haven’t had to gentle parent The Wolverine in a while but it’s like riding a bike. “I wanted to let the two of you talk, she needed it and I think maybe you did too.”

“What do you fuckin’ know.” He growls dismissively, swigging from his bottle of what now appears to be scotch. “You can skip the speech and go back up, I’m not looking for company.” 

“I’m not here to tell you what to do, Logan.” Finally, you look away from the fire and find his eyes fixed on you, you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “I just wanted to see you.”

“See me?” He questions incredulously. “Well, keep the change, bub. Good night.”

Despite your smile at his words, you can’t help the tears that begin to cloud your eyes. Your mind and your heart have been locked in a constant battle since setting eyes on him. This man by all rights is Logan. The man you have mourned relentlessly and yet in every way that matters he isn’t.

“It’s like seeing a ghost.” Is the only explanation you can give him, his response is a stoic cheers with his bottle before he takes a deep gulp. 

Finally either his curiosity or the alcohol gets the better of him as he questions. “You her Mother?” 

“Yes and no.” His stare doesn’t leave your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “Her biological mother was a woman from Mexico City that the fuckers in the lab exploited, all we know is that she disappeared after giving birth. After … you … after everything that happened in North Dakota…” You trail off.

Your voice is suddenly thick and your words get stuck in your throat as you try to make them form. It's utterly embarrassing as you feel the traitor tears begin to form. 

A bottle of Johnny Walker enters your field of vision from where you sit staring at your clasped hands in your lap. Startled, you glance up to find the Wolverine standing before you, casting an impossibly large shadow as he holds out the bottle.

You accept the offering from his gloved hand, your fingers grazing his in the transaction as you take a swig or two (or three) before passing it back. He looks thoughtful when he places his lips on the place where your own had just lingered, as he retakes his seat. With amber courage coursing your veins, you continue. 

“She was all I had - if not for her, I-.” You wipe your nose, staring back into the fire. If it was a struggle to meet his eyes before, it was impossible for you now.  “I just couldn’t see the point in being alive anymore if everything just slowly gets stripped away; the X-Men, then Charles and then Lo-” 

You don’t know it, but you’re preaching to the fucking choir with your words. It was rare to find a soul, going through the exact same torture as yourself. Logan found himself softening to you, it was as involuntary as it was unwelcome, but he couldn’t help it as you described a battle so close to the one he fought daily. 

“-she reminded me what I had to live for. Laura she is fierce and so fucking kind; she is everything I loved about him.” You cut your trauma dumping to a swift end as you remember yourself. “So no, to answer your question. I’m not her biological mother, but she’s my daughter in every way that counts.”

Silence reigns for a moment as neither one of you knows what to say to the other. 

“You loved him?” Logan’s voice is deeper than before when he speaks the sentence. You raise your eyes from the fire to find his for the first time since you began monologuing. They’re filled with something you can’t quite name.

“I did.”

Logan seems to contemplate this, mulling it over as he continues drinking. Finally, he seems to reach some sort of conclusion.  “You should get some sleep, big day for you tomorrow.”

“Can I stay here … with you for tonight?” The words slip out before you really even mean them to. Tomorrow you might be going to your death and the ghost of the love of your life is here alive and real, what do you really have to lose?

Logan does a double take, not quite expecting those to be the words that leave your lips. “I’m not him, Darlin’.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” You sigh, “but could you please just hold me whilst I sleep, James?”

A huge part of you expects him to tell you to fuck off back to the cave and leave him to his booze fueled pity party. However, against all odds, he doesn’t do that. 

Logan simply lifts the half full bottle of scotch to his lips and downs every last drop. He’s a little unsteady on his feet when finally he stands up to his full height and turns towards the blankets he’s laid out on the ground. 

“Fuck it.” He growls and drops himself like a sack of potatoes onto the pile with little regard for his own body. You’ve certainly had nicer invitations into his bed but when he waves you over with a lazy gesture, you can’t help but hurry before he changes his mind. 

Before you know it you’re tucked into Logan’s side. His gloved hand doesn’t quite seem to know where to go, more accustomed to brutality than tenderness these days as it hesitates for a moment suspended in the air. After some careful consideration he delicately places it on the dip in your waist securing you to him. 

Logan’s breath is uneven, though he’s doing his best to seem unaffected by your closeness. It has been years since someone has touched him with such easy affection and the way your body curls around his own as if it was created to do just that is driving him crazy. 

You are completely at ease with him, you trust him so entirely it almost breaks his fucking heart. Logan's stomach is heavy with something he can’t name, you fucking terrify him. Yet, he doesn’t move because you feel so fucking good as he holds you. 

It's scary, you realise, how easy it would be to pretend this was your Logan as you melt into his embrace. He smells exactly the same as you bury your face in his neck, the roughness of his beard feels the same pressed against your forehead. 

This Wolverine’s arms are a little fuller and his chest a little firmer, but he still holds you the same. You make a decision to not focus on such difficult philosophical concepts as variants and the morality of switching out your Wolverine. You decide to live in the moment, to just enjoy the furnace of his body keeping you warm and his arm encircling your waist protecting you from the world, it’s so easy to pretend that this was your Logan, so you do. 

And you fall asleep quicker than you have in years.

It is still night when you awaken, it's not quite dawn but the fire has burned out to a low smoulder. You’re not sure what has awoken you from the best sleep you’ve had in a long while, that is until you feel the arms wrapped around you and the sleeping Wolverine holding you in a death grip against his chest, his half hard appendage digging into your hip. 

Everything is still hazy; you’re floating in that sweet spot between waking and dreaming, you forget about North Dakota and, god forgive me, Laura. 

You’re back in your bed at home and Logan is holding you.

There's no my logan, new logan, old logan. 

He’s just Logan. 

You bury yourself deeper in his neck. 

It’s only for a moment though before it all comes flooding back and the agony overwhelms you like a blade to the gut. 

Instantly tears flood your cheeks as you shake from your silent sobs. 

“...Y/N?” Logan's voice is thick with confusion and sleep, his grip has loosened somewhat to allow you to breathe but he doesn’t release his hold on you. “What’s wrong darlin’?” 

That affectionate name is the last nail in the coffin it fucking ends you. 

All teary, and regrettably maybe a teensy bit snotty, you lean forward and kiss him. Kiss isn’t the right word but it’s your intention. Your lips touch one anothers before he’s pulling away and holding you back. 

“Y/n… Darlin’ you don’t want this… I’m not-”

“But you are Logan. You’re him just as much as he’s you.” Your hands rise to his jaw, running your finger along its familiar sharp edge. “You’re Logan.”

“Y/N… I’d be taking advantage…” His voice is firm yet gruff as he tries to inject reason into the conversation. As usual being the good guy he’s constantly telling everyone he’s not. 

“I am so goddamn sick and tired of being sad, please Logan.” This time when you capture his lips, he doesn’t rear back. You’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but his self control seems to snap within him as he begins returning the kiss in earnest.

Logan’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip begging entry, entry you swiftly allow. You’re breathing heavily through your nose as he plunders the depths of your mouth, exploring your mouth with his quick tongue. 

Deciding to make the next move you push yourself up, throwing a leg over him to straddle his lower stomach. He’s lifted the top half of his body to ensure he doesn’t lose your mouth, your teeth clash slightly with the movement and you can’t help a bubble of nervous laughter.  He pays it little mind though as he swallows the noise, his hands coming to rest on your hips. 

Instantly, you grind your hips downward on the growing bulge that lurks below. Logan lets out a deep groan at the friction and his hands on your hips raise to the bottom of your tee in response, his thick hands tugging at it requesting your permission.

Nodding, you pull back causing him to groan at the loss of your hot mouth on his. Though it's only for a moment as the second the tee is over your head, he’s back on you, only it's your bare neck he’s lashing with affection now.

Logan breathes in deep your scent mixing with the heady aroma of your arousal. He’s nipping and licking along the smooth skin, soothing his bites as quickly he makes them. It's the animal instinct within him, telling him to devour you entirely; make you his. 

“Logan…” You gasp, your eyes are clenched shut in pleasure as he bucks his hips upwards into your jean covered centre.  

Logan pulls back to take you in, writhing above him in the moonlight, you’re fucking beautiful, though the flash of familiar metal between your breasts catches his eye, unable to stop himself, he catches it in his fist. 

Dog tags; his old dog tags.

‘LOGAN’ is etched into the aged metal and they’re warm to the touch from living beneath your shirt over your heart. 

The realisation hits him like a freight train, not only was he loved by you, but for his other self to have given you these, he fucking loved you. 

He’s not sure why it didn’t occur to him before, that the other him was as devoted to you as you were to him. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, but he twists his hands, careful not to snap the metal string, but using it to pull you close. 

For the other dead Logan, the hero he’s heard so goddamn much about, he decides he’ll give you the treatment you deserve. 

As if you weigh nothing at all he flips you onto your back, his hands dropping the dog tags and falling to the waistband of your jeans. His dexterous hands undo the button so quickly, that your trousers are peeled from your legs before you know it, leaving you in an unimpressive unmatching set of underwear beneath his roaming eyes. Though Logan couldn’t give a fuck as he groans at the sight of your body exposed to him. 

Logan begins by kissing down your stomach before his hands linger on your black panties, he can't help but grin at the tiny barely there bow in the middle of them; you’re like a gift all wrapped up for him. 

His eyes lift to meet your own as he begins sucking at the fabric that's keeping your pussy from him, it's already damp with your arousal and by the time he finishes, absolutely sodden with his saliva.

“Logan, please…” you whisper desperately as your hands find his ‘tufts’ for a lack of a better word. They were new, but you liked them, plus they now seemed pretty functional. 

He takes only a moment to remove his gloves, before they return eagerly to your body. Those thick hands traverse the planes of your thighs, they’re quick in their passing as they make their way up to the waistband of your panties, he hooks them over his thumb and reveals your soaking core to his hungry eyes and he’s right back to wanting to fucking devour you, and boy, fucking does he. 

Enthusiastic, would be the word, earth-shattering would be another - the word to describe how Logan eats pussy.

Logan without much preamble dives into your centre, his tongue slips into your hot wet heat, lingering for a moment on your clit, circling it reverently before he dips that talented tongue inside of you. His nose knocks against your clit several times, each more delicious than the last as he utterly devours your pussy. He moans, grinding his hips into the dirt and readjusts pulling you closer, his thick muscled arms locking under your thighs as you buck against his mouth. 

You're a complete goner the second he slips a single long thick finger inside of you. 

“Fuck, Lo, I’m gonna-” 

“Come, baby... I got’ya.” He mumbles into your pussy. And fuck me, he does. He carries on lapping at you all the way through your orgasm, drawing it out of you like the pied fucking piper of pussy. It feels like you’ve been falling for hours by the time you finally come down, only Logan doesn’t allow you any reprieve before he’s back to lashing your clit with his quick tongue. Your hands find those faux ear tufts once more and he groans as you pull on them a little more sharply than you intend in your shock, in answer Two fingers bury themselves deep inside of you.

“One more.” He’s negotiating orgasms, but you have no qualms as he rubs his nose side to side with affection against your sensitive bud. His tongue and nose moving in pace with his fingers, currently fucking in and out of you. 

It's when he scissors those thick long fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot within you that makes your back arch. 

Your top half has left the ground, he grunts in annoyance, suspending your hips back to his mouth at the angle he likes. Those deep hazel eyes meet yours from between your thighs, crazed and animalistic, driven wild with arousal as he eats your pussy with gusto.

It's that image that thrusts you over the edge once more, your back hitting the ground as your body seizes, thrusting your hips against his mouth. 

Without any preamble a third finger joins stretching you deliciously. The hand not currently fucking you, leaves your hip to caress your stomach stroking the flesh there, not quite able to reach your breast. 

“Lo… fuck… yes… right… right fucking there.” You cry as he draws your second orgasm of the night out, only when you tug at his tuft due to overstimulation does he acquiesce and pull back, only of course, after cleaning up your gaping desperate hole. 

He sucks his fingers clean as he sits back on his knees, his cock thick and tenting against the yellow bottoms of his suit. Your arousal has soaked through his beard making his chin slick, he wipes it with a single swipe with the back of hand though, it does very little for his sodden chin. 

Tired of not touching him, you sit forward grabbing at his belt. It's a difficult contraption that confounds you, though Logan is far too wound up to find any humour from it. 

 He replaces your hands unbuckling the thing before finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. 

There, finally in all his glory, he is exposed to you and you’ve never been a religious woman, but Mary mother of fucking christ, he is gorgeous. Logan’s chest is fucking… transcendant to behold, it's like he’s been sculpted by god herself, the light isn’t the best out of here, but you hope to god you don’t die tomorrow simply for wanting to take your time and lick each and every single one of those muscles on his stomach. 

Its your turn to leap forward onto your knees and join his mouth with yours, he tastes distinctly of you and his chin is still sodden, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck, you love the fact your desire is still marking his skin. 

Your hands trace the firm abs at your disposal, before dipping into his now open trousers and underwear to find him rock hard. 

If his physique impressed you, you had a big storm coming, because his cock was a fucking resplendant beauty and it was plain to see from the swelling Logan really liked eating pussy. 

Your fingers barely touched as you pumped him, once twice, spreading the copious amounts of precum along his shaft.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your mouth. You lean down, positioning yourself to take him in your mouth, though he stops you in your tracks grabbing your shoulder. “No sweetheart, I want your pussy.” You clench around nothing at his filthy words, this man will be the fucking death of you. 

You reach behind you and free your tits from their confines, another moan leaves his throat as he pushes you backwards. On his hands and knees he’s deliberate with every move as kicks the bottoms of his suit off as he prowls towards you.

Finally, he’s in between your legs naked as the day he was born. His hands are on your breasts, exploring the new plains exposed to him, playing with your nipples alternating between sucking and twirling them between his fingers. 

So lost in his skilled hands, you barely notice when one disappears to line himself up, it's a shock, the sudden intrusion, but not an unwelcome one as he thrusts himself forward and as deep as he can go. 

You moan his name into his ear, doing your best to keep your volume down.

He has prepared you well, you’re so worked up that he slides home through your tight slit. The sheer size of him means it's a stretch that borders on uncomfortable, but the second his hand finds your clit you’re clenching around him and grinding forward, desperate for more. Unable to control himself, his claws extend, he grunts pulling you close and thrusting them down into the ground. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts into your neck, where he's busy lavishing the flesh once again with bites. Your neck is going to be black and blue tomorrow, but you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck.

The two of you are so fucking close his bare skin so deliciously hot against your own, but you want more, you need more.

Logan pulls his hips backwards, pulling out of you until only the tip remains before slamming home and spearing you wide open his cock. Your moans blend together as you lose yourself in each other's bodies.

Logan is worked up from eating your cunt, so it doesn’t take long for the sensation to hit him.

“Fuck, where do you want it?” He grunts into your neck, as his hand descends to rub quick circles on your clit. He pulls your ass up, making sure to hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

You know he’s teetering on the edge, desperate to make you cum before he does. 

“Inside - come inside me, baby.” You whimper into his neck as he pounds into you reaching your deepest recesses with his thick cock, his hammering, it’s unforgiving with his enhanced strength but it pushes him deeper into spots you couldn’t have imagined. He groans at your words, sounding every bit the wounded animal he is. Your shared groans and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass as he takes you again, and again is all that can be heard in the clearing. 

Finally as he joins your lips in a kiss, you come hard on his cock. Clenching around him as your body writhes uncontrollably. 

Logan adjusts his hold on your thighs, now he uses your body, drawing out your pleasure but ultimately chasing his own. The pace is fast as he grunts and groans erotically into your neck, he fucking growls as his hips stutter against your own, and you know you should be more careful, but the thought of him cumming inside you has you gripping his cock like a vice once more. You give him a tight sheath to come in, and he pumps you fucking full of his cum and its a big fucking load. Logan thrusts a few more times, pushing his seed deep inside of you as he claims your mouth once more.

You run your hands through his hair as he lets his body fall against yours, he’s supporting his own weight, thank god, you don’t think you could handle his muscle, let alone the adamantium skeleton. He’s still sheathed inside you as the two of you revel in the closeness.

The silence stretches on for an amount of time you can’t quite quantify. The two of you take in your surroundings, listening to the quiet of the forest, until your breathing has finally calmed down. 

Logan lifts himself up on one arm, and pushes your hair back from your face. You stare at him in the moonlight for a long moment, unable to help yourself as you trace his familiar features. His strong nose and the curve of his brow, your finger dances along his flesh. 

Logan’s eyes close, so touch starved he basks in your affection. 

“I-” Logan goes to speak, before you drop your finger on his lips.

“It’s okay. Whatever happens tomorrow, happens. I’m okay with it.” You smile at him, there's a chill to the air but you’ve got your Wolverine warming you up. “I just wanted one night to be about something other than death.”

He takes your hand from his lips and kisses along the back of it and up your wrist, though It's a slippery slope as he hardens inside of you again. 

Logan manages to pull two more orgasms out of you before dawn.

When your time has run out, the two of you finally dress, not wanting to be found in a compromising position. Logan curls his body around yours and buries his face in your hair as he spoons you from behind. 

Just when you’re just on the cusp of sleep, he finally speaks into the night. Logan opens up about his world tearfully, instantly you reach your hand down, finding his own thicker one resting on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his. He tells you of the mutant hunting as you draw comforting circles on the back of his hand, it's not much, but it's more than he’s ever had whilst reliving his worst day. When he has finally bared his soul, the two of you fall back into silence. 

After what has been an emotionally, not to mention physically taxing night the two of you finally fall asleep if only for a few more hours, two incredibly damaged souls offering one another comfort.

It’s later in the morning when you finally awake. The sun has risen that much is clear but you're slow to awaken from your comfortable position in Logan's arms, his warm strong body coiled against your back fighting off the worst of the early morning chill, his face still buried in your hair as he snores peacefully.

There’s a sensation niggling at you, you think it's what woke you up in the first place; you can’t shake the sensation of being watched. 

Lazily you open your eyes, only for your heart to drop to your asshole when you find Wade Wilson about 10-inches from your face lying on his side, his head supported by his hand.

“Mornin’ sleepy head, have a good night?” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“AGH!”  Unable to stop both your cry of fear and your fight or flight response in progress, you throw yourself backwards, your powers activating of their own accord, and slamming your body into Logan’s chest. He startles awake, with the telltale ‘snikt’ of his claws extending as he orientates himself, his arm coming out to block you from the threat, despite not being able to see you. 

After your brain catches up, you call your power back, but Logan doesn’t do the same, keeping his claws out seemingly ready to slice up his not-so-best friend. 

“Get the fuck outta’ here, Wade.” Logan growls harshly at the other man, his voice is filled to the brim with hatred.

“Hmph - this is what I get for acting altruistically. I thought a good stress relieving bone in the woods with your cherie amour would really sort out that bee in your bonnet, but you sir are just a very unpleasant man and I’m worried that-”

“WADE.” This time Logan’s voice is a threat as he shouts at the man. You place a hand on his muscled arm to steady him. Though he may have stopped your heart with his antics, Wade isn’t doing anything particularly outrageous.  Logan shakes your hand from his arm and allows his claws to retract as he stands. 

“Thanks for jumping to my defence there, Y/N. Great to meetcha bt-dubs, huge fan.” You’re disoriented from the wakeup call but you shake the hand he offers you.  Honestly, you’re still trying to process the head-fuckery of the past day, so you don’t have a quick response for him, though the mouth doesn’t seem to mind as he continues. “That mean lil’ lady is asking for ya’. Thought I’d come and check you and big yellow weren’t still bumpin’ uglies. Didn’t want her to see you and Papa going to town on each other's fun parts.”

“Uh - Thanks… Wade?” 

“That’s me.” He theatrically begins bestowing multiple kisses on the back of your hand he still had in his grasp, which you retract gently. “Oh, and we’re done.”

Pushing yourself up, you go to stand though Logan offers you his newly gloved palm. You lock your fingers around his and the two of you stand together, inches apart and your fingers still intertwined, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Wade’s ‘awh’ over your shoulder shatters the moment and he drops your hand instantaneously. 

After a beat or two Logan leans forward, placing a single solitary kiss on your forehead. “See ya’ around, bub.”

“Where’s my smooch, Logie-bear?”

“Go fuck yourself, Wade.” He calls as he walks around, Logan doesn’t look back as he heads off into the forest. 

You still had faith he’d turn up for the fight, Logan always turned up when it counted and you knew this time would be no different. 

“Hate to see him leave, but love to watch him go.” Wade sighs linking his arm with yours. 

“Mmh, You can say that again.” You agree with the clown watching Logan’s ass as he walks away, you swear you see his step falter thanks to his impeccable hearing, but he doesn’t turn back. 

The two of you turn and you begin walking back to the cave arm in arm with the strange man to prepare for the assault on Cassandra’s lair when Wade finally asks the question you know he’s been dying to ask since meeting you “So, Y/N just between us girls… how big is it?”

LOGAN TENDER HAIR TUCK SUPREMACY RISE. I'll use it in every fic, don't think I won't.

Thanks for reading xxx

Graphics by my pal - @saradika-graphics 💕

[zevranunderstander]

i wish literally anyone else except for me would in depth care about my pathfinder character and would know like. all the lore and be in the sessions BUT i still wanna do it without the Mortifying Ordeal Of Being Known

[inkskinned]

it's just that there's a few more steps you have to take that other people don't have to take, but they don't see the steps, so they think you should be able to hop from moment to moment, a chickadee.

it isn't getting out of bed. it is the weight, the hook in your chest, the anchor. you have to move the anchor first. you have to silence your alarm, but your phone is in your hand, which means now you have to put the phone down, which is too-hard. you get stuck in there for a while, the white screen, mindlessly scrolling. you don't even like this activity, have tried a few other options but - here you are, and time is passing.

you've googled iron deficiency causes depression and if i drink enough water does it help with mental illness and anxiety but no caffiene within the last two weeks, like how you googled am i gay quiz at 17.

it isn't just calling the doctor back, it's the anxiety, it's these little moths in your lung cavities, furious and fluttering. you need to figure out how to capture your fingers from between their nervous bodies. you are an adult, you can say the words yes hi, i'm calling because i need - but you need to practice first. maybe write it down because what if you misspeak, wouldn't that be embarrassing. write it down, but you need to find a pen first. well, actually, your desk is kind of messy. you should get a new pen. you should get a new organizational system. you should try journaling.

your grades in school were always strange. the way teachers would say things like it feels like you're not trying. you could touch stars in the stuff you cared about. well, sometimes. god be willing. homework average zero. oops! your english teacher's wrinkled brow: i know you know this stuff. what the fuck are you doing?

it isn't the showering, it's the mirror before the shower and the soft horrible pull of your naked physique. you have to avoid eye contact completely or else it'll be 93 minutes later and you'll have picked at your skin until every little pore is bleeding. you have to stand up but standing is tiring and also you should have remembered to buy more soap but you never remember anything. maybe get out of the shower and while it's still running and you're still dripping wet, use your phone to take a note. make a note to get your groceries. let the shower run while you stand half-in half-out and get lost in your phone for a moment. come back out when the water runs cold and now you have to sprint to get ready.

your grandmother's frown. you're just being lazy. protestant work ethics in a house that isn't even protestant. she says she just learned different but she means learned better, doesn't she.

it's not that you can't send the email, it's that your hands have been hurting lately and the desk really is messy and also why the fuck would you even care about this thing? doesn't everyone else feel like they're drowning? hi brendon thanks so much for sending! will review and get back to you shortly. but now you're on the internet, close the tab with tumblr on it. go on, close it. feel the little soft vapor of boredom come up and over your eyeteeth and make everything overwhelming and itchy.

literally all you have to do is put on shoes to go outside. you're literally already dressed, that's the hard part of this whole thing. literally just put the shoes on. just... do it! do it! this shit is easy!

it's literally that easy. just stop taking all those stupid invisible steps. stop following your strange made-up rules. times like this, even you're positive you're faking. you just don't want to bother with the cleaning and the cooking and the being-an-adult.

but then - shouldn't you be able to put these stupid shoes on? nobody's even looking. go on kid. life is out there! just take the leap!

get moving.

[lovelookspretty]

what would you do for love?

exboyfriend!rafe cameron x exgirlfriend!reader

— in which y/n spirals into a possessive obsession over her ex-boyfriend rafe. she quietly pulls the strings from the shadows, creating accidents, bribing others, and doing whatever it takes to maintain control—believing she is the only one truly capable of loving him.

warnings: dark!reader, rafe being the love quinn to readers joe goldberg i fear, or is reader delusional? world may never know !!

authors note: i couldnt help myself in writing this, ill write for waking up to you immediately soon LMAO, but i do have class today so it may be delayed even longer. if u arent part of the tag list, feel free to lmk thru replies, anons, dms, or reblogs !! notifications are always on <3

previous

you flinch when you hear the sharp shatter of glass nearby, some bottle smashing against the wall. a group of guys, mostly drunk and reckless, laughing as the shards scatter. your eyes roll somewhere else, anywhere else, away from the noise, the chaos.

you’ve been lingering around the same group for too long, and you need something new, something to distract you, pull you into a different space.

your shoes scuff against the concrete as you walk, weaving through people like you’re on autopilot, not really paying attention to where you’re headed until you catch sight of something—a fold-out table tennis table being hauled out of the back of someone’s beat-up van.

you almost laugh, but stas, your friend, is already there, pushing some guy off of her and reaching for you when she spots you walking by.

“y/n, you have to play!” she shouts, her voice a little too loud over the music, excitement making her words slur slightly. she pulls at your arm, trying to drag you into whatever drinking game they’re about to start. beer pong, flip cup, it doesn’t really matter. you’ve already had enough.

your head swims as she pulls you closer to the group, and you shake your head, gently pulling away. “i’ll watch,” you mutter, but stas barely hears you, already distracted by the table being set up.

stas keeps talking, about what? you don’t know, because you’re not listening anymore. her words turn into background noise as your eyes trail off somewhere else. across the way, your other friend shaw has set up his makeshift dj booth, some way for everyone to hear something rather than just screams, chants, and talking the whole time.

it’s not much of a dance floor, more of an invisible line where people stand around, swaying and talking, their heads bobbing to the beat. a few are bold enough to move in closer, letting the music take over, but most are just hanging out.

and there, right in the middle of it, you spot her. sofia.

her hips sway as she leads rafe toward the music, her hand wrapped around his, holding it above her head like she’s pulling him into some private little world. she’s got a drink in her other hand, laughing as she moves, carefree in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

rafe is smiling, but not at her. not really. you see the moment he catches sight of shaw behind the dj booth, the way he briefly pulls his attention away from sofia, stepping toward shaw to greet him. sofia, left without rafe’s guiding hand, stumbles for a second—just a second—but it’s enough. it’s like watching a baby take its first steps. cute, if you cared.

you don’t.

instead, your lips curl slightly. you glance over at stas, who’s still chattering about god knows what, oblivious to where your mind’s gone.

“shaw’s been eyeing you lately,” you say casually, tossing the lie out like it’s nothing. stas stops mid-sentence, blinking at you like she’s processing it. she turns her head to look at shaw, her grip on your arm tightening slightly.

you can practically feel her swallow, the way her expression shifts into something unreadable, and she tugs on your arm. “i wanna dance now,” she says, voice flat, but you can feel the pulse of urgency behind it.

perfect.

she pulls you with her, cutting across the skatepark toward the music, dragging you closer to where rafe and sofia are. no questions asked, and you let her lead.

you weave your way behind stas as you move to the rhythm of the music just enough to blend in. your body moves without thought, hips swaying as the heavy bass pounds through the skatepark.

stas releases your hand once she’s right in front of the makeshift booth, standing on her tiptoes and gripping the edge of the table, leaning in to talk to shaw. her voice is high, maybe a little slurred.

you gnaw on your bottom lip, stepping back for a moment, trying to make space for yourself. that’s when you feel it—someone bumping into you. the contact is light, unintentional, but it snaps you out of your daze. you spin around quickly, ready to apologize, but the words freeze in your throat the second you see who it is.

sofia’s standing right in front of you, staring back with a soft, almost shy smile, her lips parted as if she’s about to say something—probably an apology too.

she doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t have a clue.

you take her in, your eyes scanning her from head to toe. “cute dress,” you say, the words slipping out with a smile that never quite reaches your eyes. it’s polite enough, but there’s a sharp edge, a venom she doesn’t seem to catch.

sofia beams at the compliment, completely oblivious. she’s sweet, sure. her niceness, her smile—it’s all so carefully curated, like it’s been drilled into her.

the way she smiles up at you, so clueless, so unaffected. it almost makes you want to laugh.

you stand there for a split second longer, savoring the moment before stas calls your name, tugging on your arm, pulling you back toward the booth. you let yourself be dragged away, but not before stealing one last glance at sofia.

stas pulls you along behind the booth, and shaw greets you with that easy smile of his. without hesitation, you throw your arms around him, squeezing him tight. it makes you laugh the moment you let go. stas is right in the middle of it all, her laughter joining yours. shaw switches the track, a new beat pulsing through the speakers, and the three of you dissolve into your own little bubble, wrapped up in the party.

but sofia—well, she hasn’t moved far.

you can feel her eyes on you, lingering, like she’s trying to piece something together in her head. something about you must not sit right with her, something off. maybe it’s the way you looked at her earlier, or maybe it’s just that gut feeling people get when they sense danger but can’t quite place where it’s coming from.

she keeps watching you for a second longer, her expression faltering. she’s trying to convince herself there’s nothing to worry about, that you’re just some random girl at the party. after all, you complimented her dress, right? you even smiled—so what’s the harm?

but the crowd around her is thick now, people pressing in from all sides, dancing, shouting, moving like they own the night. she’s swallowed by the chaos. you see her hesitate, her movements more uncertain, her eyes darting around like she’s looking for an escape. and that’s when her gaze finally breaks from you—she’s searching for him.

you watch her weave through the crowd, her small frame almost lost in the mass of bodies, that anxious look in her eyes growing. she’s trying to keep calm, to pretend she’s not bothered, but it’s written all over her face.

the smugness spreads through you again, sinking deeper.

and then you see him.

rafe moves through the crowd with ease, his eyes landing on sofia immediately. he slips an arm around her shoulders like it’s second nature, his voice low as he probably asks if she’s alright. sofia nods, but you can see it—she’s unsettled.

and you? you just keep watching, your gaze fixed on them, every part of you relishing the control you hold over the situation without even lifting a finger.

then you hear it—some girl’s laugh from near the skate drop-ins. it pulls your attention away from sofia and rafe for a second, and you spot her almost immediately. you don’t know her, but she’s crouched near the concrete, spraycan in hand, adding some half-assed tag to the wall. her laugh is carefree, like she’s proud of her work, like it means something.

but your eyes trail away from her, settling on something else, something familiar in the mess of graffiti scrawled across the concrete.

blue spray paint. initials. r and s.

it should mean nothing, right? just random letters like all the other tags scattered around this place. but no, you know better. the handwriting—it’s too familiar, too practiced, almost like a signature you’ve memorized without ever really trying.

did you do this, rafe?

the thought sends a wave of bitter amusement through you, twisting your lips into something resembling a smile, but one that’s more cold than kind.

r and s.

simple. stupid, even. but it’s not. you know better. it’s rafe, leaving his mark, tying himself to sofia in a way that’s so casual it makes you sick.

and worse? he did it without you noticing.

it’s not about the letters themselves. it’s about what they mean. this isn’t just some random graffiti. no, this is a declaration—small and hidden enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but not you. never you.

your mind convinces you that he’s playing with you, testing how much you’re paying attention, how closely you’re watching. and of course, you’re always watching.

really, rafe?

the thought burns as it settles in your chest. rafe cameron—practically born with a spotlight above his head—has the nerve to blend in when he wants to, to pull something like this off without you even seeing it happen. it’s impressive, really. he did this when your guard was down. when you weren’t watching.

you imagine him, crouched by the wall, glancing over his shoulder, making sure you weren’t looking. the thought twists something in your chest.

when did he do it?

when you were busy pretending not to care?

when your eyes were somewhere else for once?

he’s smooth, you’ll give him that. it’s a reminder, subtle but sharp, that he can always be a step ahead, always just out of reach when you think you’ve got him cornered.

you stand up straighter, licking your lips as that familiar bitterness floods you. the ownership, the jealousy, it all wraps tight around your gut. yeah, he’s got skills, huh? skills you didn’t give him enough credit for. he might be running around with her, playing his little game, but he’s still yours.

you smile, but it’s empty, more a grimace than anything else. it’s almost funny, really. the whole thing. r and s, like that’s supposed to matter. like it could ever really mean something.

it won’t last, and you’ll be here when it falls apart, picking up the pieces like you always do. because that’s the truth, isn’t it?

no matter where he runs or who he tries to hide behind, he always comes back to you.

he just doesn’t know it yet.

tags: @iissza @lotuslovers @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @yootvi @skyslowalking @ariiwritess @beebeerockknot @hoelesslyt @enchantinglovergirl @katekells @maybankslover @icaqttt @xcinnamonmalfoyx

[ironstrange1991]

His Medicine

Pairing: Doctor!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Stephen has a nightmare and when he wakes up he seeks comfort in your arms.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: SMUT: Possessive sex, oral sex with male and female receiving, deep throat, fingering, unprotected p n v sex, hair pulling, creampie, cum eating, slight male domination. A bit of angst if you dig too much.

A/N: I was missing writing the good and classic smut with og Stephen so here it is. Hope you guys enjoy it and have a good reading. - Any typos or grammar mistakes you see in this, pretend you didn't ;)

You woke up to the movement of Stephen tossing and turning next to you in bed. Your first impression was that he was irritated at not being able to sleep, after all you knew that Stephen had been struggling with insomnia since the accident. Before, he used to sleep really well, according to him.

You closed your eyes again to try to go back to sleep, but he continued tossing and turning in bed so, sighing, you turned on the lamp to finally look at him. It was then that you noticed that he was sleeping, but his body was sweaty under the blanket and he seemed to be struggling against something invisible. You had never seen Stephen have nightmares like that and for a second you wondered if you should wake him up, but before you could make the decision he sat up abruptly on the bed gasping for air and running his hands over his face.

"Stephen..." You sat next to him, touching his shoulder lightly so as not to scare him.

He held your hand tightly and sighed heavily.

"Are you okay? You were having a nightmare."

He nodded. "I haven't had one of these in a long time." He confessed, his voice shaking a bit. "Christ, it was like being there again."

You put your arm around his shoulders and to your surprise, he laid his head on your shoulder seeking comfort. Stephen was extremely affectionate with you, but it was always the other way around, it was always you looking for comfort in him. The change was welcome, but not in that circumstance.

 Automatically your hand searched for his hair and you started stroking it.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

His arms wrapped around your waist and he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck.

"The accident. It's always the accident. I thought I had left it behind me, but it still haunts me in my sleep."

You held him in your arms as if that way you could protect him from all the evil that had affected him or that could still affect him. You just wanted to keep him safe there within your reach.

"It was an extremely traumatic experience and you dealt with it alone. Maybe you should consider seeking help..."

He shook his head "I don't need therapy. I already have everything I need."

He said lifting his head and searching for your lips.

You kissed him softly, but disagreed, "I can't save you from the ghosts of your past, Stephen, as much as I want to help you, I don't know how."

He sighed, running a hand over his face again. "They're just dreams. What harm can they do?"

You shook your head. You had been together for almost two years and you were still surprised by how headstrong and stubborn Stephen was. "Disrupting what little decent sleep you have is already something to worry about." You pointed out. "You've barely been sleeping lately, always worried about everyone except yourself. Someone needs to take care of you while you're taking care of everyone else, don't you think? Being ill you don't help anyone, sweetheart."

Stephen sighed and you took that as a sign that he agreed with you, at least a little.

"You're stealing my pet name." He said, changing the subject in a not-so-subtle way. "I gave it to you."

You smirked running your fingers through his hair absentmindedly. "You gave it to me and I can use it however I want. It's extremely cute if you ask me and it suits you. Especially when you're clinging to me like a koala because you had a bad dream."

Stephen hummed knowing full well that you were teasing him but he didn't give in, he continued cuddling with you, it was as if he couldn't bear the thought of moving away from you for even a second.

"Promise me you'll see a doctor." You pressed and he groaned knowing full well that you wouldn't give up on the subject so easily. "Stephen..."

"I know every neurologist and psychiatrist in New York, I can't see any of them."

"Well then go to Europe, use your amazing ability to open portals for something that benefits you for a change."

He pulled away enough to look at you. "I love you." He muttered.

You cupped his cheek "I love you too, Stephen, but sometimes you're as stubborn as a mule and it makes me really angry."

He chuckled "I'm sorry."

He caressed your face and placed his trembling hand on the back of your neck and pulled you in for a hard kiss. The intensity surprised you, but you let yourself be pushed gently against the mattress as Stephen positioned himself on top of you, his knees making room for him to settle between your legs.

When your head hit the pillow, he took your lips again while with one hand he held yours on the side of your head and the other he slowly moved between your legs. You moaned involuntarily when his fingers touched over your pajama shorts, tracing circles there, teasing you as he grinded himself into your thigh.

"You're the only one who can give me what I need to make me feel better and you know it." He confessed in your ear and then licked your ear making your body shiver. "I love you so much, sweetheart, you are my medicine."

You couldn't help but giggle, but then a loud moan escaped your lips as his fingers pulled your shorts to the side and began to play with your folds.

"We can't fix everything with sex." You tried to rationalize with him, but you could feel reason quickly giving way to desire in your brain.

"No, but I'm not talking about sex, I'm talking about the way you make me feel when I'm in your arms, when you stroke my hair or massage my hands. I'm talking about love. Your love is my medicine and it’s all I need."

You felt your heart flutter in your chest hearing those words, but at the same time your hips started to move against his hand as if it had a life of its own. It was very difficult for you to separate sex from love with Stephen. Before him the line was thick and visible, but with him it simply disappeared. The two things seemed to complement each other so well.

"Stephen...make love to me." You asked, giving in to your desire and abandoning reason once and for all.

He bit your lower lip lightly before taking your mouth in another hungry kiss. "I thought sex didn't solve things..." He teased you with a smirk while grinding his erection into you.

"You just said it's not about sex..." You tried to say, but shook your head, changing your mind when he stuck two fingers inside you. "Fuck...need you."

Stephen buried his face in your neck, stifling his giggle, but his fingers curled inside you with precision to reach your g spot and he moved them quickly. You held his face in your hands making him look at you. "I love you... oh yes... I love your fingers even more."

He kissed you again giggling and knelt between your legs.

"I think there's something you love even more." He teased, "But first..." He snapped his fingers and your pajamas disappeared with a glimpse of orange light. "Open wide for me..." He licked his lips dramatically which made you laugh softly. You loved that about Stephen. You loved how he could make you feel so good and at ease with him. Even though you had been together for so long, it never stopped enchanting you.

"Or maybe a combination of the two." He announced before diving between your legs and entering you again with his fingers. Your hand grabbed the pillow and the other grabbed his hair and you allowed yourself a loud moan, not giving a damn if Wong would hear you or not. In fact, it had been a long time since you stopped caring about Wong's presence at the Sanctum and perhaps because of that he almost never spent the night there.

Stephen hummed contently, delighting between your folds, taking turns licking them with the tip of his tongue and sucking your clit while his fingers moved nimbly to stimulate your g spot.

He was so good, perfect, surgical when it came to giving you pleasure and as much as you knew that that night he was using sex to escape the current problem, you couldn't resist, you always fell into the same trap.

But it wasn't just to distract you from the subject that he used sex, but also to distract himself from all the problems and fears that afflicted him. He wasn't kidding when he said you were his medicine, and you might even feel flattered by that if it weren't worrying. The man never allowed himself to feel. Always trying to be in control of everything, especially his own emotions and there was nothing Stephen controlled better than sex. He had simply mastered that art so well that he was able to make you forget your own name with just a touch of his fingers.

"Steph... gonna make me cum..." You murmured, giving in to the delicious pleasure between your legs, but keeping your eyes wide open to look at him and see him eating you. There was nothing more mesmerizing than Stephen going down on you because you knew he took pleasure in it and he was so lost in his need for you that he started rubbing his erection on the mattress while eating you and that vision, Stephen so lost in his pleasure , that's what made you finally get there, moaning his name loudly and creaming his fingers.

He emerged from between your legs with a proud smile on his lips and you ran your hands over his face to clean him of all his fluids and pulled him to your lips, delighting in the taste of your cunt in his tongue.

"You're not going to be able to change my mind about you needing to see a therapist. Not even after such a wonderful oral." You warned and he smirked.

"I guess we can talk about this later." He said, running his lips on your neck and placing little kisses on your skin and finally nibbling on your earlobe.

"Later when?" You rasped.

He grabbed one of your hands and brought it to his cock, slipping it inside his pants. "After you take care of this."

You grabbed his cock and started pumping him up and down. "But this is a full time occupation. It really seems like you're always like this." You said pulling him to your lips.

He groaned when you tightened your grip on his cock. “Is this a complaint?”

"Never." You said gently pushing him to the side and straddling him. He let himself be moved easily and you ran your lips down his neck, making a point of leaving a clearly visible hickey just below his chin, your nails went down his chest, scratching him lightly as you took one nipple and then the other in your mouth, circling your tongue on the sensitive skin and feeling him pulse beneath you.

"Sweetheart... please..." His voice was so beautiful when he begged.

"Please what?" You teased, running your lips down his belly, giving small bites.

"Fuck me... with your mouth. Please."

You lifted your head to look at him and couldn't keep the cocky smile from your lips. Your hands grabbed both sides of his sweatpants.

"Since you're asking so nicely."

He lifted his hips, letting you take off his pants and you were treated to his beautiful, hard cock. It's no exaggeration to say that your mouth always watered at that sight.

You held him upright by the base and licked him from the base to the tip, finishing with a suck on the tip that made him see stars. His legs shook and he moaned outrageously loud.

"Oh yes... please take it in your mouth sweetheart, give this delicious mouth to me."

You smiled mischievously, taking your hands up to your hair to tie it into a bun tied with your own hair and Stephen grabbed his cock by the base, gesturing with the other hand for you to take it. You let him lead, opening your mouth for him to put his dick in and letting him thrust all the way in.

"Fuck yeah!" He praised taking his cock completely out of your mouth, saliva dripping down your chin. You took the opportunity to swallow some. "Open for me really big" He ordered and you did as he asked letting him go deep again and gagging around him which made him moan even louder. He loved that.

Stephen loved seeing you gagging on him because it inflated his ego, he knew very well that he had a huge cock, but he liked seeing you suffering to take it all in, it made him hard as a rock and when you cried, when he saw tears streaming down your face he loved it even more. You were sure he could cum from just that.

"Gonna let you take me however you want now." He said taking his hand away which was quickly replaced by yours. "Just keep making me feel good" He asked and you took the lead pumping his cock and sucking him in perfect synchronization. The wet noise his dick made moving in and out of your mouth filled the room.

"So good... fuck sweetheart it feels so good."

He grabbed your hair and without holding back he began to push your head so that you took him entirely. Stephen never gave up control completely and he was obsessed with deep throat, he was only satisfied when your nose was against his pelvis and his cock was deep you’re your throat.

"Taking me so good. Always taking me so good, sweet..." He moaned loudly and his cock pulsed hard in your throat making you gag.

"Wanna cum in your throat, please let me cum in your throat..."

You hummed positively and relaxing your head and throat, breathing through your nose and letting go of the control completely, letting him use your head to get off.

He thrusted up a few more times and then held you tight against him and began to cum down your throat. "Oh yeah... fucking take it, love. Oh yeah... fuck... take all of it... take all of my cum."

When he finally let go of your head and you took him out of your mouth you were gasping for air. Your face was soaked with tears and your chin was dripping with saliva, some still clinging to a thread connecting your mouth and the head of his cock that was soft, but not completely flaccid.

"You always take me so good. Always accepting what I give you. Such a sweetheart indeed." He patronized.

You wiped the spit off your chin with your hand and moved to straddle him.

"Yeah? Now you're gonna fuck me with the same harshness that you fucked my mouth and you are going to make me cum again. Hard."

"And isn't it always hard when I make you cum? Always writhing and moaning my name, thanking the gods that is me fucking you so good." He teased grabbing his cock and giving a couple of jerks before entering you.

You moaned loudly, letting yourself sink into his cock and started riding him fast and hard, placing your hands on his chest for balance.

"Yes... oh yes I love to have you inside me. Feels so big... you always fuck me so good... such a good lover, Steph..."

You leaned your head back and placed both hands on his thighs, moving your legs forward and allowing the new position to give him a better view of where you joined.

Stephen placed a hand on your clit, circling it and stimulating it deliciously, increasing your pleasure, which made you moan so loud that anyone in that house could hear it.

"Just like that, sweetheart. Give it to me."

You kept moving fast on top of him, letting your body move instinctively in search of your release, but Stephen had other plans. Quickly, he moved you under him, getting lost between your legs again, sucking your clit and licking your dripping folds before patting your leg and ordering, "Turn around and lift that ass for me."

You did as he ordered, but not satisfied he slapped your ass cheek and ordered again. "Higher." He gave another slap and when he was satisfied with your position he entered you again, fucking you with surprising ferocity. That was one of the things you loved about Stephen, you never knew what sex with him would be like. Sometimes it was soft and other times it was like that. Hard and delicious.

Stephen was so big that his body covered your entire body, his weight made it impossible for you to move and when he fucked you like that you were completely at his mercy and that was fucking hot. You loved being dominated by him, you loved knowing that your man had complete control over you.

"Fuck yes Stephen... take me, use me, I'm yours. Fuck me harder. Show me I am yours and no one else's. Prove to me that you own me… my owner."

Stephen groaned at your words, grabbing the headboard and increasing the strength of his thrusts as the bed creaked beneath you.

"Gonna make me cum, Stephen, uh? Want me to cum? Tell me, wanna hear you saying it."

He grabbed your hair with one hand and started using it as a rein, pulling you against his thrusts, which became increasingly irregular and strong.

"Gonna cum for me, sweetheart. Wanna see you fucking cum in my cock, come on, give it to me, cream my dick."

You moaned loudly feeling the knot threatening to break in your stomach.

"Yes Stephen...please."

"Come on, love. Let go for me. Cum... Cum on my dick."

And so you did. You came hard feeling your whole body shaking with the force of your release and your legs gave way making you fall face first into the pillows.

"There you go. Such a sweetheart doing as you're told." He groaned the words as he continued thrusting.

"Now you're going to let me use this pussy to get off. What do you think, uh? Letting me using you like this. I know you love it."

You groaned positively, but your groans were muffled by the pillow.

"What is that, uh? Can't hear you, love."

"Use me..." You tried to say, but your voice came out hoarse, but it was enough for him to hear.

He kept thrusting hard into you searching his own high.

"Want me to use you, sweetheart? That's what I am doing and you feel so good. So fucking amazing. Pussy feels so warm and wet and delicious, gonna cum so fucking hard inside you, fill you with my milk, it’s that what do you want?"

"Y-yes, please." You begged and he moaned loudly, placing his hand on the headboard to increase the strength of his thrusts.

"Yeah? Want my milk inside this warm little hole? Then tell me, ask for it."

"Please Stephen, cum in me, cum inside me, want your cum so badly, please."

Stephen groaned loudly and gave two more hard thrusts and then began to cum. He kept thrusting, pushing his cum inside you until he was finished.

"Oh fuck, fucking take it." He groaned in your ear and finally rolled onto his side, his breathing ragged and rapid.

You buried your face in the pillow trying to compose yourself, but a fit of laughter invaded you.

Stephen wrapped his arms around you and began tickling your hips giggling with you.

"Okay, okay, please... I can't..." You begged, gasping for air from laughing so hard. He let go of you and you rolled to the side finally looking at him. The worry, the fear that you saw on his face had disappeared and in its place was the most beautiful smile in the world.

"You’re feeling better." It wasn't a question, but an observation.

He nodded confidently "I told you. You're like medicine to me."

You smiled, dragging yourself closer to him and he wrapped you in his arms letting you lay your head on his shoulder. "You get different sometimes when you're horny."

He let out a small laugh.

"I'm serious. You get a bit rough. I like it."

He cupped your cheek making you look at him and kissed you softly. "It must be because I love you so much. You do these things to me."

You smiled feeling your heart flutter in your chest again. "I love you too, more than anything."

"More than chocolate?" He joked and you grimaced.

"Not that much."

He giggled, squeezing you against his chest and the two of you were silent for a minute. It was you who broke the silence first, determined to return to the subject he was avoiding.

"Promise me you'll seek professional help to deal with these nightmares." You insisted.

He sighed heavily. "You know what they say about therapy. You start it for a reason and the next thing you know you're digging up all the dead bodies on your floor."

You knew exactly what he was talking about and what he was afraid of, part of you always knew it was much more than the accident. You just didn't know how to broach the subject with him. It was something so deeply hidden within him that he didn't even want to talk about it, but you knew this was the moment.

"I know you're afraid to deal with your feelings about your sister, Stephen, but these nightmares are your unconscious telling you that you need closure."

"I'm not afraid..." He said, staring at the ceiling. "I just don't think it's beneficial to go over things that happened so many years ago. I'd rather forget."

You rolled your lips. "But you can't forget, that's the truth. No matter how hard you try, it's all in there and you're just trying to distract yourself from the pain. It was like that with medicine and then at Kamar Taj and now with me..."

"Is not the same thing." He interrupted you. "Medicine was a way to prove to myself that I could be more. Kamar Taj was my salvation when I had lost all hope. You... you are the love of my life. I'm not with you to get distract from my problems, I'm with you because you gave meaning to my life, you made me happy."

You nodded, stroking his chest absently.

"But I'll do it if it's what you want."

"It's not for me that you have to do this, but for you, Stephen. You need to think about yourself sometimes."

He chuckled dryly "I've been called a narcissist, you know? Arrogant. Prepotent. It was when I stopped thinking about myself that I became a better person, they say."

"Fuck them. This is not true." You cupped his face making him look at you. "You've always been a good person, you've always done good even when you did it for selfish reasons. Now I'm asking you to dedicate some of your time to yourself. Please."

He smiles reassuringly at you. "Okay. Consider it done."

You allowed yourself a relieved sigh.

"I liked the 'you're my owner' thing. A little possessive, but I liked it." He teased, changing the subject again and again without any subtlety.

You smirked "We talk and do unimaginable things when we're horny."

"Yeah? I like making you horny, I love seeing how you transform at my touch. It's fascinating to me and I never get tired of it."

You pulled him to your lips and kissed him lingerly, pulling a hum from his throat.

"No man has ever made me feel the way you do. I love everything about you, Stephen."

He rested his forehead on yours and smiled proudly.

"And I love everything about you, my sweet… sweet... sweet... sweetheart." He said separating the words with kisses.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing ;)

DOCTOR STRANGE MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

Tag list: @doctorstrangelovemusic-blog @rachelessfreedom-world @a-tong @ppatricia34me @strangesgirls @dreamxonxx @benaddictcumberpatch @iamsherlocked1479 @veryladyqueen @notglucose @wickedscribbles @agathassscribbles @rmoonstoner @fanartka @fanartka @nicoletk @azu21 @captaincarmel416 @harlekin6 @coffedraven @withalittlehoney

@dontmindme262 @dementeddoll @yourmajesty13 @strangeions @bloodyflowerrr @insanelyobsessedwithdilfs @dragonqueen89 @newtsniffles @whiskeyho @sherlux @xourownsidee @kakashibabe02 @hobimysolecito @geeky-politics-46 @lykaonimagines @d0ct0rstrangewife @classickook @iobsessoverfictionalmen @bobateadaydreams @aphroditesdilemma @sassenach-on-the-rocks

@thealleydog @anadlockfan @pinkthick @loverofallbroken @butchers-girl @ironstrangeheart @asgards-princess-of-mischief

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

logan howlett blurb 18+

hi hi im sorry guys this isnt awesome but i love my wolverine and maybe ill make a part two or perhaps something cool like that if ya like it! also just general warning for smut and some kinky age gap stuff! also. reader is fem and a mutant! word count: 1030 edit: you can now read a full version of this blurb here!

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

"Aw, I'll make it up to you," he smirks, "Promise, spitfire."

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 11

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

ღ wc 13.5 k (enjoy your meal lol)

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note hey loves!! thank you so much for your patience, i know it's been a while. buckle up, because we're taking another trip inside satoru's mind, so yeahhh. it's gonna be wild, oh and we're continuing right were we left off in the last chapter. this chapter is again in satoru's pov!! i've also updated the trigger warnings, so please take a look before reading (might be spoiling tho). and lastly, credit to the fanart in the cover, if you know the artist, pls let me know!! can't wait to hear what you all think & thanks for sticking with me!! ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

They say before you can love someone else, you have to love yourself first.

And there lies the damn problem. 

I don't know how. 

Never have.

Why am I thinking this now? 

I knew this was right. 

Right for her. 

But then why does my heart feel like it's being ripped out by the fucking roots?

Suguru will take care of her. He always does. That's the only thing that keeps me from screaming, keeps me from chasing after her.

I trust him, damn it, but it shouldn't be him.

It should be me holding her. Me, who knows how she likes to be held when the panic claws its way up. Me, holding her until the world feels less sharp, less cruel.  

Me, who knows that she doesn't want to talk about it. Me, who knows to give her space. She needs space. My strong girl needs space first. 

I hope he gives her space.

But he wouldn't know any of this. He couldn't comfort her in the ways I instinctively knew how. 

Me, who knows how to soothe the invisible wounds, the ones even she denies exist. Me, who knows the soft words she needs to hear after it passes.

It shouldn't be him. 

Sorry. 

It shouldn't have been him.

Past tense. 

It all might be past tense now.

And the thought is more than I could bear.

Shattered. 

Was that the word?

Was there even a word for what I felt in that moment?

How could I ever convey this suffocating agony that's tearing me apart with mere words?

Words are meaningless in the end.

Meaningless when they couldn't be spoken to her, couldn't reach her, couldn't make her understand, couldn't heal the wound I'd carved into her heart.

So, yeah, maybe shattered is the right word. 

The wrong word.

The sterile air was acid in my lungs. Each ragged breath felt like sandpaper against my throat. I held my breath, a desperate plea for the world to stop spinning, for the clock to rewind, for a chance to undo everything.

But time doesn't care. 

It marched on, relentless, while I stayed trapped in this hell, drowning in the mess I made. 

My lungs burned. My vision blurred. I waited until she disappeared. The world seemed to tilt sideways, losing all color and shape, leaving only the sharp, agonizing realization that I'd made her walk away.

I didn't want to breathe anymore.

Not in a world where every breath ached without her.

"Dr. Gojo?" A voice, distant, muffled. 

Irrelevant.

My gaze flickered to Sukuna. He watched, a predator savoring the kill. 

His twisted smile fueled rage within me. But there would be no fighting this. No grand defense. Not when her life was the bargaining chip.

So, I lied. 

Each word a nail in the coffin of the connection I craved more than life itself.

Each word a drop of poison forced down my throat. A self-inflicted wound, a desperate mutilation of the only thing that had ever felt real.

Her eyes, those beautiful eyes I loved so fiercely, wide with confusion and horror. The strangled gasp, the way her body went limp in Geto's arms — a haunting image that would forever be etched on my heart.

Muscles screamed, a silent protest against my own pathetic stillness. But I remained frozen. 

This was my punishment. 

I had to watch her leave, had to sear the pain into my very being, an endless penance for the choices I'd made.

The door clicked shut behind them.

That simple sound, final, absolute.

My lungs filled with air, a betrayal. Oxygen I didn't deserve, didn't want. 

My own body, this treacherous thing kept going, kept me alive against my will, kept me tethered to this cruel reality.

The room swam back into focus, the judges' accusing faces nothing but a blurry backdrop. The sounds of their inquest washed over me like meaningless noise.

"Dr. Gojo? Can we continue?"

I nodded.

They pressed on. More questions about the research, her involvement, their accusations of favoritism.

How stupid.

Of course, I favored her. 

How could I not? 

She is everything.

Oh, sorry. Forgot. Past tense.

She was everything.

Did I regret it? 

Did I wish I could go back and treat her with the same damn indifference I afforded everyone else?

Yeah, maybe.

A familiar craving stirred my senses, the desperate need for the numbing escape that would mean failing her even more. My fingers clawed at my forearm, trying to replace the hollowness with physical pain. It wasn't enough.

My responses were rote, mechanical.

Yeah, I favored her. 

Yeah, I let her into the OR because of it.

Yeah, and she outshone every damn surgeon twice her age. 

No, she didn't know I'd set it up. 

No, she never asked for special treatment. She just worked until her eyes were bloodshot, pushing harder than anyone else.

And hell no, she didn't do a single thing wrong.

Except maybe — maybe loving me. 

After what felt like an eternity, the judges seemed satisfied, or perhaps just exhausted by my robotic replies. 

They painted me the arrogant professor with a weakness for a young student, who abused his power, who played favorites.

Whatever they wanted to believe, fine.

Didn't even have the energy to care anymore.

Let them drag my name through the mud, tarnish the reputation I'd worked so hard to build. 

Because the title, the position, the facade of success meant nothing when all I wanted was to rewind time, to undo the damage I'd done to the one person who truly mattered.

I didn't feel anymore.

I was done.

─── ·✧· ───

I burst out of the courtroom.

I needed escape, not just from this sterile prison of a room, but from my own traitorous flesh.

That itch.

It was a wildfire beneath my skin, a thousand insects gnawing their way to the surface. My fingers twitched, claws desperate to tear, to bleed out the poison of this relentless craving.

My legs moved without conscious thought, pushing me towards my office. Somewhere. Anywhere I would be able to breathe again. The guilt was a serrated blade twisting in my gut, each movement slicing me open anew.

Her terror-stricken eyes seared into my very soul.

The walls of my office closed in, the familiar space suddenly too small, too suffocating. 

My fist slammed into the desk. Papers scattered to the floor, a meaningless sea of white against the dark wood.

They didn't matter. None of it mattered.

A half-finished coffee mug followed. Porcelain shattered. Dark liquid splashed against the wall. 

My blood roared in my ears. 

Across the room, my framed diploma. I ripped it off the wall. Glass smashed. Sharp edges bit into my palm, drawing blood. But it wasn't enough. I hurled the frame against the wall.

Blood, hot and slick, coated my hands, the pain nothing.

In the shattered frame, I caught a glimpse of myself — wild eyes in a sweat-slicked face, a man on the verge of collapse.

It was a stranger.

I was across the room before I even registered the decision.

The drawer.

My fingers ripped it open. 

There, like a coiled viper, the amber vial gleamed, a venomous promise of oblivion.

Don't —

Don't come at me now. 

Did you really think I wouldn't keep a backup?

My hand reached, then hesitated.

The world lurched to a sharp halt as a knock pierced the chaos. My breath hitched, the vial a burning brand in my bloodied hand.

The door creaked open.

And there he was. Sukuna. 

He leaned against the doorframe, that sickening smirk plastered on his face. It was like a lit fuse to a powder keg. The rage that had been gnawing at my insides, tearing me apart, finally found its target.

Before a single rational thought could form, I was on him. Fist to jaw, heard the crack, felt it in my knuckles. He stumbled back, the smirk finally wiping off his face.

I pinned him against the door. Forearm across his throat, crushing his windpipe. His eyes widened, but even then, there was that damn flicker of amusement.

"Well, well," he choked out, "this is a nice welcome back."

"Funny to you?"

He coughed, a harsh laugh scraping out of him. "C'mon, Satoru, relax. I did you a favor," he sputtered. "Your precious little student, she's better off now. You know I'm right."

Every muscle in my body tensed.

He was right. 

In his twisted way, he was. 

And that's what made it all so much worse.

My grip on his throat tightened. But there was nothing, no satisfactio, no release in the violence.

Sukuna saw it, the hesitation. His mouth twisted into a smirk again. "See, you get it. Sweet thing doesn't belong in this mess, does she? It's not for her, Satoru. It's for us."

His words scraped like nails on a chalkboard. 

Yes, she was safer now, untouched by the rot that festered within me. Some desperate, logical part of me clung to that. But how could I hold on to that when my heart was screaming for her closeness?

"Or maybe," Sukuna drawled, pushing the knife deeper, "maybe you wanted to see where this goes. Stain her a bit, make her just a little bit more like you."

My breath hitched. For a split second, the floor vanished beneath me.

"Hit a nerve, did I?"

"Shut the hell up!" I couldn't face it, couldn't face the ugly truth as it would tear me apart. "You twist everything. Play with lives just for your own sick amusement."

This was his game.

Sukuna thrived on chaos, on exploiting pain. 

He knew my guilt, my fear for her, and wielded it like a scalpel, laying bare the raw nerve of my fragile sanity.

"Perhaps. But ain't I right?  You needed to end it, but you lack the guts for it. Waited a bit longer, it'd be a total disaster."

I hesitated, then my grip on him slackened. I stepped back.

"You know I'm right," Sukuna continued. "You know how this would have ended. Suspension. Scandal. She'll be doomed forever for getting involved with her professor for favors. You wouldn't destroy her like that, would you? You're not that cruel."

"I'm not so sure." I ran a hand through my hair.  It had taken everything in me to push her away. 

But I can't deny that an ugly part of me wanted to keep her close. Drag her down with me. 

See her drown.

"Damn, you hit hard," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Go beat up some students again, not me."

"Stop giving me reasons to punch you."  Exhausted, I slumped into my desk chair, burying my face in my hands. My head pounded, the infuriating itch worsening with each damn moment. "Was this your plan all along?"

"What?" he scoffed.

I lifted a single eyebrow at him.

"You think that low of me? Honestly, Toru, a bit of credit, please. It was your pathetic indecision that made this entertaining. You basically gift-wrapped this mess and handed it to me."

"Besides," he continued, "let's be honest, you were holding her back. Now maybe she'll have a chance to become someone who might surpass you one day. You wouldn't deny her that, would you? No thanks needed."

He was right, and I hated that more than anything.

Sukuna sank into the chair across from me, a picture of smug satisfaction despite the visible bruise. "Damn, that punch still stings."

I opened my desk drawer and wordlessly tossed him the bottle of opioids. His eyes widened in surprise, before he gave the bottle a knowing shake. "Still on the hydromorphone?"

I didn't answer. The sound alone threatened to shatter what fragile control I had left. The itch was unbearable, each nerve ending screaming for relief.

Sukuna observed me, a predator watching its prey struggle. "Withdrawal never suited you," he said, popping a pill. "You always get so—" he paused, savoring the word, "—tense."

"Yeah, real supportive of you."

"Actually, I'm being incredibly supportive. I'm leaving for a little research trip overseas—four months. Ethics committee can't meet without me, so—" He leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. "Gives you time to get your shit together. Isn't that nice of me?"

"Shut the hell up."

"C'mon, I put in a good word for you too. No suspension for now. You can keep teaching, just no surgeries. Yaga really hates my guts, doesn't he? But hey, at least you're not totally screwed."

"You expect a thank you?"

"Relax, Toru, the show's over," he said. "Trust me, they don't want a scandal, let alone lose their star surgeon. When I get back, a slap on the wrist, maybe a semester's suspension, then you're back to the boring old grind."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Last I checked, you were the one pushing for a scandal."

He rolled his eyes. "Someone had to do it. Knew you'd drag this out forever, playing the tragic hero. Needed a villain to get things moving." He gave a mocking bow. "At your service, my friend."

"Also," he continued, leaning forward in his chair, "the focus is off you now. The committee's sniffing around those implant engineers. Funny, isn't it?" 

Sukuna paused, savoring the moment. "Honestly, never thought there was anything wrong with your surgeries. You wouldn't make that kind of mistake. Tech malfunction more likely."

Of course. 

The bastard never doubted the damn research. It had all been a game to him — my career, my sanity, her — just pieces on his chessboard.

It should've made me furious, lash out, pound his face in again — but all I felt was a bone-deep exhaustion, a weariness that seeped into my very soul. I was too tired, too hollowed-out to do anything but swallow the bitter truth.

"That supposed to make me feel better?" 

"A little," he said, tossing the opioid bottle back. "This, though? That'll do the trick even better."

I caught it, my fingers clenching around the plastic.

He rose, stretching with a theatrical sigh. "Well, time to go. Remember, you owe me big time. You should take one," he gestured towards the pills, "you look like shit."

My grip on the bottle tightened. I looked up at him. "When all of this is done, I never want to see your damn face again."

He laughed. "We both know that's a lie. You and me? We need each other."

"The only thing you need is some damn therapy."

"Ah, Toru," he dismissed me with a smirk, "you'll come crawling back soon enough. We both know how this works."

With that, he was gone. I was left alone in the echoing silence, the pill bottle a burning weight in my hand. The world seemed to sway around me, my eyelids growing heavy.

The will to fight simply wasn't there anymore.

─── ·✧· ───

Cruel. 

Cruel how one little pill can undo everything. 

Cruel how one little pill can silence everything. 

Cruel how one damn pill can soften the world, make it — bearable, almost.

Unfair. 

It's truly unfair.

The screaming under my skin, that relentless itch — it's still there, but it had dulled to a faint hum, pushed back by the familiar numbness.

Finally.

Oh, finally some fucking silence.

I let out a shaky breath. It wasn't peace, not really. I knew that all too well. Borrowed time, each second ticking closer to the inevitable crash, the return of that relentless screaming in my head.

But for now, it'll have to be enough.

I collapsed on the couch, smoke curling lazily before my eyes.

I knew I shouldn't mix opioids with cannabis. That's something they teach you within the first year of university. What I used to teach students within the first year of university.

What a hypocrite I am really.

Another drag — harsh, burning down my throat. 

The urge to close my eyes, to sink into oblivion, was almost overwhelming. But sleep wouldn't bring respite. Only nightmares. I knew that only too well.

So, I lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

It really came down to me failing again, huh?

What was it now?

Attempt number five? 

Six?

I started losing count.

Maybe this was my fate.

A broken record, stuck on the same damn track.

Deep down, under the chemical haze, guilt gnawed at me. It was a dull ache now, no longer the searing pain of earlier, but a constant, insidious reminder. 

She were out there, her life forever marked by my choices, while I was — here. Hiding in a haze of pills and smoke.

God, I hoped Suguru was looking after her. Making sure she ate, making sure she was safe — that she didn't hate me too much.

I brought the joint to my lips again, the smoke curling up towards the ceiling. It left an acrid taste in my mouth.

I watched my hand for a second.

Bloodied earlier, the wounds had scabbed over, the blood dried. It was perfectly still now, the trembling smoothed out by the chemicals in my blood. 

I clenched it into a fist, then unclenched, watching the movement like it belonged to someone else.

Traitor.

This body was a traitor — betrayed myself, betrayed her, betrayed everything I held dear.

Weak. 

Broken.

A pathetic mess.

Was that it?

Living as a slave to these chemicals to patch up my crumbling sanity one day at a time? 

Chained to pills, each dawn a ticking clock until the next dose, until I could silence the screaming for a few damn hours?

My eyes locked onto the half-empty vial on the table. 

Took too many, didn't I?

I knew that, even through the haze. But a cold certainty twisted in my gut. There'd be more. Always more. Until there was nothing left.

Before I could think, I threw another down my throat. Bad idea, probably, after a few clean days.

Suddenly, the haze warped, twisting into nausea. Bile rose in my throat.

I lurched to my feet, the world tilting precariously with each step. Surfaces rippled, the bathroom light stabbing into my skull.

I barely made it. My stomach heaved. Each retch wracked my body, leaving me gasping, weak.

Too many. 

Way too many.

How the hell did I forget? Forget my body's limits? Somehow, I felt like some reckless student again, stumbling through experiments, blind to the consequences.

Stupid. So damn stupid.

Darkness swam at the edges of my vision.  Another wave of nausea, and I was back, hunched over the toilet. 

I hauled myself up, hands shaking, clinging to the sink. In the mirror, a stranger stared back. Eyes bloodshot, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

This wasn't me anymore.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the acid burn. Didn't help. Drops of water ran down my face, felt like they were melting the damn skin off.

My knees buckled. I slid down the wall, my head heavy against the tile wall. 

The bathroom light, needles in my brain moments ago, seemed impossibly distant now. Each breath was a ragged gasp, each pulse a dull throb in my temples.

I waited for it to pass, the nausea, the haze. But as minutes crawled by, a new, searing pain gnawed at me.

My fingers trembled against my abdomen, pressing into the tender spot. Liver, of course. 

Wrecked it, just like the rest of me. I'd known the risks, had ignored the warnings, and now my body was demanding payment.

How pathetic.

Darkness gnawed at the edges of my vision, pushing back against the stubborn spots of light. My head felt heavy, detached from my body. Arms and legs useless.

Each breath a battle I wasn't sure I'd win.

Time warped. Stretching, then snapping, leaving me floating in nausea and pain. Then I heard something — muffled, distant. Footsteps, getting closer.

My eyes struggled to make sense of the shifting shadows.

Then, a voice. Soft, achingly familiar. I couldn't make out the words, but the warmth of it—

I knew that voice — would always recognize it.

Cold water hit my skin. Hands, gentle, but firm, on my face. I strained to focus, to see her, to soak in the sight I needed, yet feared more than anything.

Oh, how desperately I needed to see her. Needed her to be real.

But my eyes betrayed me.

She must be so beautiful. She always was.

Then, a touch on my outstretched leg, a flash of metal — was that a scalpel?

Agony ripped through me, shattering the haze. I jerked back, my scream ragged against the tiles. My head slammed back with sickening force.

Before I knew it, a needle pierced my skin.

The room spun as whatever she'd injected battled the comfortable blur of the pills. Nausea churned in my stomach, the numbness receding with terrifying speed.

Groaning, I shifted on the floor.

My vision sharpened, my senses returning with brutal clarity. 

The first thing I noticed was the metallic glint of the discarded syringe beside my leg. 

Then the cut, a ragged gash through the fabric of my dress pants where she'd stabbed the needle in — the unnecessarily deep and brutal cut — but in the chaos, I let it slide. Didn't even register the pain as I watched the blood drain from the cut. 

I reached for the syringe and read the label. 

Adrenaline. 

Smart girl. 

But as I turned it over, a frown creased my brow. Two fucking milliliters? Was she trying to give me a damn heart attack?

I lifted my head, the question burning on my tongue. But the words died unspoken as my gaze locked on hers. 

She stood there, just a few feet away, her breath ragged, her eyes — those pretty eyes.

Terror. 

There was raw, unadulterated terror etched in her eyes. But I was right. She looked as beautiful as ever. Even with those terror-stricken eyes she was breathtaking.

She stumbled back, slumping against the wall opposite of me with a choked gasp, pulling her knees up. I didn't move, couldn't move, my gaze locked with hers.

The terror faded slowly, replaced by a weariness that was far worse. 

For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of that familiar defiance, the spark I both loved and feared. But even that felt strangely muted now, as if even the energy to fight had been drained out of her.

She simply watched me. In silence, in that devastating silence.

How I hated her silence.

Because her silence was far worse than anything she could have screamed, any insult she could have hurled my way. Her stillness, her silence, was the most terrifying weapon she'd ever wielded against me.

And for the first time in a very long time, I was truly afraid.

Time stretched, then I choked out, "You're angry."

Her answer was blunt, devoid of emotion. "Oh really? What makes you think that?"

I glanced down. Blood still seeped from the gash in my leg. With a trembling hand, I fumbled for a towel and pressed it against the wound. "Your cut is kinda deep. Was that on purpose?"

She didn't say anything.

It probably was on purpose.

My gaze fell on the syringe. "Where'd you get that?"

"What happened to your hand?"

"I asked first."

"Don't try to play games now, Satoru. You're walking on thin fucking ice," she snapped.

"Shattered some glass," I said after a pause ", and punched Sukuna."

"Stole it from the hospital."

"What?"

"You think I'd date an addict and not have adrenaline on hand?"

My lips twitched into a weary smile. Oh my beautiful, brilliant girl, always prepared.

"But you know, two milliliters is a bit much." I moved my leg slightly to check if she had cut any tendons, which would complicate the healing a bit. "Or are you trying to kill me?"

Her gaze pierced me, colder than any scalpel. "Looks like you're doing a fine job of that yourself."

My smile faded.

Silence.

Oh, that cruel silence again.

She didn't say anything. Maybe I should be thankful for that, because if she said anything now, I'd probably crumble completely — if I haven't already.

Ironic, wasn't it? 

How much power this woman had over me. 

Yet it was me who destroyed her.

She dropped her head, ran a shaking hand through her hair, then looked at me again. "How much did you take?"

Huh?

Why would she ask that?

Didn't she see that it's over?

That I'm too far gone?

It was unbearable.

It was unbearable, how she could still look at me and see someone worth saving. It was unbearable, knowing she believed in me even when I didn't. 

Almost pissed me off, how stubbornly she clung to that stupid hope. Because seeing that hope in her eyes — it made me hate myself even more.

I wouldn't change, couldn't. Not for her, not for anyone.

"Doesn't matter. It's over."

"Satoru, please," she choked out, pain raw in her voice, the pain I caused, "cut the crap and tell me. Now."

"It doesn't matter," I repeated, my voice cold. I couldn't bear the flicker of hope, couldn't bear to fail her yet again.

Then, the first tear rolled down her cheek and my heart shattered, the fragments piercing me from within. 

I'd never wanted to be the reason those beautiful eyes filled with pain, the reason her sweet lips trembled. Every fiber of my being wanted to pull her close, erase the hurt I'd caused.

I would have given anything, sacrificed anything, if only I could make it stop.

But I couldn't.

Because I was the problem. I was the poison.

She buried her face in her hands. "I'm tired, Satoru."

"I know."

"I'm so fucking tired," she whispered through tears.

"I know, love."

My eyes burned as I watched her fragile body shudder. Each sob of her driving a stake deeper into my already bleeding heart. I bit my lip until I tasted blood. 

I hated myself, hated myself, hated myself, hated myself, hated myself because — because I was the reason for all of this. 

She'd never wanted this, never wanted to fall in love with me to begin with, but I dragged her into it anyway.

Because I was selfish. 

Knew how it would end.

And now, I could only watch — only watch in this unbearable silence as the woman I loved wept over the man I hated. 

"It's for the best, believe me—"

"No," she cut me off.  "You're sacrificing me for this—this reputation of mine you think matters. It doesn't. I don't want any of it without you. I don't want a future where you're not in it."

She looked up then, eyes red and filled with unshed tears. "Because I love you, Satoru."

What?

The words turned my blood to ice.

After everything — the lies, the ways I'd hurt her, the desperate attempts to push her away — there it was, the confession I'd craved and feared in equal measure.

My heart was being ripped apart and stitched back together again in that very moment — vulnerable and yet so unbearably full. 

She loved me, she said it.

She loves me.

She loves me.

And I love her.

God, how I loved her. More than I thought possible.

I've never once loved in my entire life. 

Not until her. 

Not until she changed me completely. 

What is that, anyway? Love?

How can I possible describe the type of feeling I feel when I'm with her? How can I ever convey the words when they are not even clear to me? 

How cruel it is. How utterly cruel the type of feeling is, that she makes me feel.

Because how could I ever live without it.

Not when she showed me how to breathe.

How to live.

How could I ever go back to what I was before her — was there even something before her?

Not when she showed me how to breathe.

With her.

For her. 

Because she is the air that fills my lungs.

The pulse that keeps me alive.

And nothing can ever change that. So how could I ever go back to what I was before? 

Oh, how she tortures me, tortures me with feelings I rather not feel, tortures me with her love that I deserve so little. 

Nothing. 

I deserve nothing and yet she gives me everything.

Why can't I give it back? What chains me, binds this rotten heart? Why does it fail me so cruelly to love her the way she deserves? 

Because she does. 

She deserves everything. 

She is everything. 

Yet there is only my own failure in loving her. I'm failing her again and again. I hurt her again and again. I hate myself, hate myself for the pain I cause her.

Still—

How can I let her go, when she's the only good thing in my life? 

It is selfish, selfish to say the least, to want to keep her close when all I do is fail her.

Her tears were molten iron searing my insides. But I clench my jaw, refusing to let them break me. If she saw weakness, she might hesitate. Might stay and continue to be broken by me. 

Every fiber of my being wanted nothing more than to reach out, to comfort her, to tell her it would all be okay.

More lies for a heart that deserved nothing but the truth. So I swallowed down the love threatening to spill from my lips. 

I would give her anything, my life, the last shreds of my sanity — except the one thing she asked for, the only thing she ever ask for. 

Because loving her, truly loving her, meant letting her go. Even if it destroys me.

"I spare you," I rasped.

"No." She slowly shook her head. "You're killing me. Can't you see?" There was a cold edge in her voice now. "You're killing me."

"I can't change. Love isn't enough. I can't stop."

"You're the only one who thinks that." Her reply held a flicker of her old, beautiful defiance, a defiance I loved so dearly. "I'd follow you anywhere, Satoru. Even if you can't get clean, then so be it. I don't care. I won't leave you."

The sincerity in her voice was a blow, a beautiful, terrible blow. Complete, unwavering acceptance of who I was, in all my brokenness.

And in that moment, I finally realized. 

It wasn't about saving her. It was about saving myself from the terrifying vulnerability her love demanded. From the weakness that threatened to drown me if I let her in.

Perhaps I'm just a coward after all.

My heart was too damn small, too messed up. Of course I had to push her out, deny her the love she offered so freely — because it terrified me.

Her love terrified me.

"I can't do this to you," I choked out, the words scraping my throat raw. "You deserve—" I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. "You deserve better." 

"Better?" She leaned forward slightly. "You are my better."

Oh, love, that's not true.

You are my better. I'm your worst.

I wanted to say that, should've said that.

But I remained silent, unable to say anything. 

"Say something, Satoru." 

I couldn't, simply couldn't. Because mere words were too hollow, too insignificant against the depth of her pain.

"Say something, damn it!" 

"It will get easier someday," I chocked out. Each word felt like a stone I was forcing down my own throat. Each word empty — we both knew it.

"Is that what you hope for?"

"I have to."

She closed her mouth. Her silence more devastating than any scream. She didn't explode, as I half-expected. Instead, she straightened, her movements slow, weary.

I watched her, unable to move, unable to look away, as a horrifying realization bloomed across her face. It wasn't anger, wasn't sadness — it was a terrible understanding.

She knew. She always knew.

Perhaps that's what I hated about her the most.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's it."

She watched me.  Not in anger, but with chilling detachment. Her eyes, usually so filled with warmth, were now as distant as those of a stranger. 

Still, I burned the image into my soul, knowing it might be the last time.

Then, without another word, she turned. And walked away.

When she finally disappeared from sight, a wave of crushing despair washed over me. It wasn't just the loneliness. It was the terrifying certainty that there was no going back from this. 

I had destroyed the best thing in my life — a sacrifice she didn't even ask for.

But then again, my sacrifice is really only an illusion after all, masking a desperate, terrified selfishness.

Because I'm selfish.

I do love her.  Gods, how I love her. 

But my fear was stronger.

And I was too damn weak to fight it.

─── ·✧· ───

Four weeks.

Was it four weeks?

I can't remember.

Time — it didn't tick or flow anymore. 

It was a shapeless thing. Punctuated only by the empty thump of my heart in this wrecked chest.

Those first days — or weeks, who knows? — they melted together in a haze. After she left, I was — raw. One giant exposed nerve.  

Each damn breath without the pills felt like scraping sandpaper across it, a reminder  of what I'd lost — no, what I'd destroyed.

So I was barely sober.

My body didn't even protest. At first, it was almost — nice? The rush, the way it wiped out not just the pain but any thought at all.

But the crash was always brutal. Mornings, if you could even call it that, I'd wake up shaking, sick to my stomach, and terrified of — what was I even terrified of? Somehow of everything and nothing at all. But I knew the fix for that. 

It was a sick, relentless cycle.

The phone rang, vibrated with messages. Suguru mostly. His messages growing more urgent with each unanswered text. Liver issues. Treatment. Something about irreversible damage.   

It was all white noise compared to the screaming in my head.

Her name, though, cut through the haze.

There were nights — or was it days? — when a desperate, clawing need to hear her voice, to see her face, would rise up in me. I'd reach for the phone, fingers hovering above her name. Then the fear would crush that impulse. 

I knew that reaching out to her would be the final act of cruelty.

So I stumbled on, each day collapsing into the next. 

Until the next semester started and I remembered I had an actual job.

─── ·✧· ───

I stood in the corridor outside the auditorium.

My fingers fumbled with the familiar pill bottle. Just enough to numb the edge, get me through the lecture. With a bitter swallow, I tilted the pill into my palm, chasing it down dry.

Four weeks. Four weeks of barely holding it together, four weeks since I almost OD'd, four weeks since she left, and the weight of it all threatened to crush me at any moment. 

Yet, muscle memory took over.

I limped slightly as I walked into the auditorium. My leg still hurt after she basically cut my muscle in half. 

She definitely did that on purpose. She was too smart not to not know what she was doing.

The usual chatter died down when I walked in.  Old routine. Time for the performance. Pretend I'm the professor, pretend like this whole thing isn't ripping me apart, piece by piece. It should have been comforting. 

Once, perhaps, it was.

Wordlessly, I grabbed a marker, scrawled my name on the board. Like they didn't already know who I was, right? 

Everyone on campus knows, especially after this summer's mess.

With a sigh, I turned towards the class.

And there she was. 

My breath hitched, the marker clattering to the floor. My lips parted, but no words came.

Of course.

Of fucking course. 

Second-year lecture. 

How the hell could I forget that?

She was here, after everything, right in front of me. The pain of the past weeks, that suffocating emptiness — it all melted away, replaced by a pounding headache in that one instant.

My eyes clung to her, unable to look away, drinking in the sight of her. That stubborn tilt of her head, the pain in those beautiful eyes — God, how I'd missed her. 

Yet with every beat of my yearning heart came a fresh wave of guilt. I longed to reach out, to apologize, to tell her how much I'd missed her. 

But I knew it was wrong. 

Then, it hit me. Every eye in the room was on her, following my gaze like a spotlight burning into her. Damn it.

Still, she didn't flinch.

Endured it like she has always endured everything.

Clearing my throat, I managed to speak as I adverted my gaze. "So, uh, let's start the lecture."

My voice echoed in the now tense auditorium, words tumbling out in a forced attempt at normalcy. The lecture blurred. My own words were just noise in my head. I pushed through the lecture. Don't even remember what I lectured about.

It was routine, should have been easy, but — not with her there. Never with her. 

Every damn minute, my eyes flicked towards her, drawn like a magnet. I couldn't help it. Because all I could see was her. But she avoided my gaze.

Should've expected that.

Shouldn't make me angry, right?

Still did.

Finally, thank god, the bell rang. 

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

I remained behind my desk and gathered my notes. Students surged towards the exit, a faceless blur of motion. My traitorous gaze remained locked on her as the auditorium slowly emptied.

She and her friends passed by me. Before I could even think, the words tumbled out, "Wait, not—not you, first-year."

Silence. 

Her friend's chatter halted abruptly. I hadn't meant to say it, hadn't thought before the desperate need to speak to her had short-circuited my brain.

Now, it was done.

Her eyes, those beautiful eyes, met mine. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. 

Her friends exchanged glances. I could feel Zenin glaring daggers at me, didn't even need to look. She'd always been fiercely protective.

"I'll catch up later," she said then to her friends, a strained smile plastered on her face. 

They left, leaving us alone in the vast, suddenly suffocating auditorium.

Silence again.

My heart hammered against my ribs, so loud I feared she could hear it.

Finally, she spoke. "You know I'm not a first-year anymore."

I rounded the desk, the wood rough against my fingertips. "Yeah, right. Sorry." Leaning against it, I crossed my arms.

"Didn't you get suspended?"

"They postponed it."

She watched me for a moment, those beautiful eyes drilling into me. Her eyes held a coldness I've never seen before. For a sickening moment, I thought I might throw up.

"How are you?"

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't ask me that. Don't you dare pretend to care after—" 

She stopped herself, the silence louder than any accusation. After everything you did. After you pushed me away. After you nearly killed yourself.

She didn't need to voice it.

My hands clenched into fists against the edge of my desk, nails digging into my palms in a futile attempt to ground myself. Needed to maintain this thin illusion of control.

I do care. Dammit, I care more than you'll ever know. 

I wanted to scream it, to tear open my chest and show her the bleeding wound she'd left behind. But the words stuck in my throat. 

Pointless now, anyway.

Knuckles turned white, nails digging deeper.

She stepped closer. Her hand darted into her bag, then shot out, palm open. Keys glinted in the harsh light — the keys to my apartment. 

I watched them for a second. Should've expected that. Shouldn't hurt me. Still did.

"You don't have to return them. I want you to keep them."

"Why? I won't need them anymore, will I? Or are you planning on overdosing again?"

Each word was acid on an open wound.

I deserved this, the anger, the contempt, it was all on me. But why the hell did it make me so fucking angry?

"Have you ever thought about how I felt when I found you?" she snapped, her voice rising. "How terrified I was when you wouldn't respond? When you couldn't even recognize me? When I thought you'd die on me?" She took a shaky breath. "Fuck Satoru, I held your face in my hands while you were barely breathing!"

I tried to speak, but she cut me off.  "Don't. You. Dare."

"Four weeks," she went on, her voice sharp, laced with a fury that cut to the bone. "Four weeks of silence. Ever think I might be drowning, haunted by what I saw? Or were you too busy numbing yourself with pills? Hell, I didn't even know if you'd overdosed for good this time!"

Her words hit me cold, but they weren't the storm tearing me apart. It was the image of her, terrified, holding my barely-alive body, that ripped my insides out. 

Those eyes — her eyes filled with a terror that was all because of me. The guilt choked me. Seeing my near-death through her haunted eyes is twisted a knife in my gut.

It was the look of someone who'd had a piece of her soul ripped out. 

It was the look of someone who loved me.

"But then again, you never cared about me, did you?" she added, the raw hurt bleeding beneath the anger.

My stomach twisted. "Don't you dare say that," I rasped, the words ripping from my throat. "I care so much it damn near killed me. You were the only thing keeping me alive, the only reason I fought at all! Don't you dare say I don't—" I choked, the pain unbearable.

The room seemed to tilt, my anger threatening to consume me. 

I took a step towards her, closing the distance in one move. We were so close, I could smell her damn shampoo. "Every damn thing I did, every stupid decision—it was all because I care about you too much."

Her eyes widened. But only for a second. Then, that cold defiance was back, and it cut deep. 

"You're really pathetic, you know that?" she spat. "You talk about caring, but in the end you threw everything away. Because you are too terrified to let yourself love me. Because apparently your own damn peace is worth more than me."

Her words were knives, finding their mark with cruel efficiency. 

"Shut up," I whispered. "You know nothing."

"Oh really?" She glared at me, "then let me paint the picture for you—the minute things got difficult, the second you had to face actual consequences for your actions, you used it as an excuse to back away. Shut yourself down."

She moved closer still. "Convenient, wasn't it? Pushing me away, destroying us—it absolved you from having to confront anything real."

Her accusations hit uncomfortably close to home.

And I didn't want to hear it from her lips.

Not from hers.

"Shut up," I growled.

"Don't you dare tell me to shut up," she snapped back, her voice rising. "You don't get to play the victim here. You did this. You ruined everything."

Fury ignited, not at her, but at myself. 

Blindly, I reached out, my fingers gripping her jaw so tight it bordered on violence. I forced her to look at me, my eyes burning into hers. "Shut up, or I swear to god, I'll make you."

Her chin lifted, eyes narrowing. "I dare you."

The words set me on fire. Every rational thought, every vestige of self-preservation was devoured by a sudden, desperate need. My gaze fell to her lips, slightly parted, a vulnerable target I craved to claim.

Without even thinking, my hand went to her waist, fingers digging in as I pulled her impossibly close. My other hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head back. Our eyes locked, some kind of messed-up challenge.

I could feel her rapid breaths on my skin, smell that damn perfume of hers that I'd always loved, but now was driving me to the edge of control. Her heart pounding against mine.

Everything in me screamed to close the distance, claim those lips that had haunted me, haunted me for weeks. 

I wanted to claim her, to silence her, to lose myself in her, but my last shred of sanity held me back.

Because pushing her further into my nightmare was the ultimate act of cruelty. 

"Uncomfortable, isn't it? Getting confronted with the ugly truth?" she whispered against my lips.

My grip on her tightened. She really didn't know when to stop, or maybe she simply wanted to watch me burn. Perhaps both.

"Don't push me."

"Why? Scared of what you'll find if you let yourself be honest for once?" Her head tilted. Her gaze was fire, and I was already ash. "You run, Satoru. From everything, but most of all, from yourself."

"And that," she leaned closer, almost brushing my lips, "is what makes you the most pathetic person I know."

Oh, she could be so viciously cruel when she wanted to. So disgustingly cruel. It was one of the things I'd fallen hopelessly in love with. Even now, as it tore me apart, I still loved it. 

But I also wanted nothing more than to fuck that attitude out of her right then and there.

"You're right. You're always right. Maybe that's what's terrifies me about you so much."

"You're not terrified of me," she whispered. "You're terrified of yourself."

The air between us crackled. Every rational thought in my brain begged me to stop. Still, I couldn't resist. I inched closer, helpless against the force that binds and burns us both.

My hands tightened their hold as I took a sharp inhale. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. 

Our lips hovered, almost touching, two aching souls suspended in that impossible space. So much unspoken words, so much hurt, and the destructive pull between us that had always tethered us together.

Then, the auditorium door creaked open. 

Her head snapped towards the sound. But I couldn't look away, wouldn't miss a second of her. Because this, right here, was all I had left.

Had to be Suguru anyway — anyone else would be screaming their heads off by now.

After a pause, she turned back at me. "You know, I'm still waiting."

"For what, love?"

"For it to get easier."

I looked at her, the woman I loved, and guilt clawed at my insides. That hurt, that anger on her face — I deserved it all. Because it was the consequence of the pain I'd caused.

"You said it would get easier," she added.

It was a lie. Nothing about this was easy. Nothing ever would be again. Suddenly, the room felt too small, the air thick and unbreathable.

"I don't know if it ever will."

Perhaps I was only meant to love her in silence.

In distance.

Because at least then I couldn't hurt her anymore.

Suguru cleared his throat. He stepped into the room, breaking the moment.

Reluctantly, I let go of her. She stepped back, eyes holding mine for a second, something flickering there that I didn't dare try to read. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

I watched her go.

Suguru approached me, stopping close by. He didn't say anything.

I leaned against the desk, running a hand through my hair. The adrenaline from that almost-kiss crashed, leaving behind a hollow ache.

The sound of the door slamming behind her echoed in the empty auditorium, way too loud.

Suguru's hand landed on my shoulder. 

"You really have a thing for bad timing," I muttered.

"Bad timing," he echoed, "or good timing to stop you from doing something stupid?"

I didn't answer. The memory of her, so close, choked every thought out of my mind.

"You know it was the right thing to do. With everything going on, letting her go was the right decision."

"I know," I said, pushing off the desk and rounding it to gather my things. I couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm trying to remember that."

Suguru then started placing pill bottles on the desk with a serious expression. The first clink of plastic on wood cut through the silence. 

"Prednisone for the liver inflammation." Another bottle. "Lactulose for the hepatic encephalopathy." Then another. "Vitamin B and K for the nutritional deficiencies."

"But you know the first step would be to—" he paused for a second then placed another two bottles in from of me. "Methadone, to manage the withdrawal and craving. And Naltrexone, to block the euphoric effects of your opioids."

Hesitantly, another bottle appeared. "Clonidine, in case you feel like you're dying."

"Suguru—" I began, but he cut me off.

"Satoru, you have to get clean. The pills won't do a damn thing if you keep wrecking your liver."

"Yeah, it's a little late for that, don't you think? It's the only thing keeping me sane right now."

He sighed.  "You're the absolute worst patient ever."

"Aw, come on, I thought you liked a bit of challenge. You're the best doctor, you'll figure something out."  I rummaged through my bag, pulling out a folder.

"Even the best doctor on earth can't help if you don't—"

I shoved the folder across the desk, cutting him off. "What's this?"

"It's a patient. An anyeurism. I'm still not allowed to do surgery, not until this thing with the ethics committee is over."

Suguru opened the folder, flipping through the pages.  "You want me to do it?  Is there something special about this patient?"

"I want you to take her with you," I said quietly. "She likes aneurysm clippings."

Suguru looked up, that familiar crease between his brows.  "She'll figure it out. Sooner or later. Latest when you're in the hospital waiting for a liver transplant, not lecturing anymore."

Silence stretched. My eyes fell on the pill bottles lined up on the desk. 

I sighed, then gathered them and crammed them into my bag.  "Let's go. I need fresh fair," I said as I brushed past him, putting the withdrawal meds back into his hands.

Without another word, I left the auditorium.

─── ·✧· ───

My eyes snapped open.

I sat upright, a strangled gasp tearing from my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat threatening to burst right out of my chest. 

For a disorienting second, the world was a blur. Sweat drenched my skin. My lungs screamed for air.

Damn nightmares. 

Another night of that shit. 

I clutched at my chest, trying to quell the frantic pounding. Cold sweat made my shirt cling to my skin. The room spun. My pulse thundered in my ears.

I fumbled for the lamp, the sudden brightness stinging my eyes. But it didn't chase away the image seared into my brain. Her face, cruel, beautiful, cruelly beautiful, twisted in absolute terror. My stomach twisted.

My fault. 

Always my fault.

I couldn't breathe right.

Sleep was a lost cause now. First decent rest in a week, and my brain decided to torment me again. Exhaustion was its own kind of hell, but it was nothing compared to this. That, more than anything, was the real torture.

I slumped forward, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I'd hurt her. 

I'd hurt her, the one person who meant something.

Every day, it felt more like I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. Letting her go, pushing her away, I—

I hated myself. 

Hated the way I ruined everything.

Hated the way I ruined every chance at something good. 

It was like a damn curse.

Nothing good ever lasted for me. I should've known that by now.

Damn it, I knew it was wrong. But how the hell could it be wrong when it'd felt so damn right? When she was the only thing, the only person, that cut through the crap, made this whole mess seem like it might have some sort of meaning?

How could that possibly be wrong?

Guilt ate at my insides. Had I been a damn coward? Too scared to fight for something that made me feel, really feel?

Perhaps.

Easier to push her away, sabotage the whole damn thing, than risk actually letting her in. Letting anyone in. Losing control. But it didn't matter now, did it? 

It was over. 

I needed out. Out of my head, out of this apartment, out of my own damn skin. 

The silence was unbearable.

I pushed off the bed, muscles screaming in protest. I slipped into running clothes, the routine automatic. As I laced up my shoes, a sharp sting shot through my leg from the still-healing cut on my leg.

That bitch. 

The more I thought about it, the more sure I was she'd done it on purpose.

Good thing I was addicted to painkillers, huh?

I drowned a pill — no two, for good measure — before stepping outside into the pre-dawn chill. 

Cold autumn air bit at my skin. Each step echoed on the empty street. The pills kicked in, dulling the sharp pain in my leg. Good. Long as the cut didn't split open, I didn't damn care.

I pushed myself, needing the burn in my muscles, the ache in my lungs, to drown out the constant echo of her voice, her name, in my head.

The world blurred. Streetlights, shadows, it all melded together. The only reality was the ache in my body, the cold air forcing its way into my lungs. My mind, for once, was mercifully blank. 

No nightmares, no guilt, no memories of her haunted eyes — just the simple focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I didn't set a goal, didn't choose a destination. 

Just moving, pushing, escaping.

Sweat dripped, but I barely registered. With each mile, the crushing weight eased. Not gone, hell, not even close to forgotten, but  — manageable. 

I ran until the city was a smear of lights, until my legs burned and my lungs screamed. 

Finally, gasping for breath, legs threatening to give out, I stumbled to a halt. The neon lights of a Seven Eleven cut through the pre-dawn darkness. My throat was sandpaper. I pushed through the door.

Inside, the harsh lights stung my eyes. I grabbed a water, my body on autopilot as I shuffled toward the register. The bored-looking teenager behind the counter gave me a sidelong look as I fumbled for my wallet.

"Rough night?"

"Something like that." I glanced down at my leg, the still-healing cut a visible red line. Wincing, I shifted my weight, favoring the uninjured side. 

I pulled out my card to pay, but then a flash of color caught my eye. Beside the cashier's register, stacked in a gaudy pyramid, was a display of energy drinks. I starred at them for a second, the name oddly familiar.

I knew why the name was so familiar.

I reached for a can and placed it on the counter. "And this."

Outside, I downed the water in a matter of seconds. Then, I cracked open the energy drink. The first sip hit my tongue. Surprisingly, it didn't taste half-bad without a shot of stale coffee to ruin it. 

But the taste wasn't the problem, wasn't it? 

Memories flooded back. Her, hunched over a massive anatomy textbook in the dim library, those beautiful eyes ringed with exhaustion. Beside her, half-empty, a mug of coffee — spiked with the sickeningly sweet energy drink I currently held.

Just the thought of that awful mixture made my stomach turn.

Still, a smile tugged at my lips.

Dammit, I didn't want to think about her. But to be fair, thinking, not thinking — it was all the same. The dull, constant ache of her absence throbbed beneath it all.

I chugged the rest of the energy drink, crushing the can in my hand.

Ah, fuck it.

Before my sanity could interfere, my legs were in motion.

I knew this was wrong. Knew every step took me closer to more pain. Knew all along this was stupid, reckless — inevitable. 

I couldn't stop.

The pull towards her was too damn strong. I needed to see her, to confirm her existence, to know she was real, to fix — what? What the hell could I fix? What the hell did I even think I was doing?

Finally, gasping for breath, I stumbled to a halt outside her apartment building.

A glance at my watch confirmed the hour — well past 3 am. Insane. I hadn't expected her to be awake. Just needed the pathetic reassurance of her presence. But as I looked up, my breath hitched. 

In a second-floor window, a flicker of warm light spilled into the darkness. And there, etched against that warmth — her silhouette. Unmistakable.

A heavy exhale escaped my lips. 

She was there.

Here.

On this same cursed world with me.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I knew, I had no right to be here. But god, I needed this, needed to see her.

She sat on the windowsill, book in hand. My future wife. Even in the dead of night, she was studying. How I loved her.

My gaze traced the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way the soft lamplight painted her skin with warmth, highlighting the strands of hair escaping her messy bun. 

In that stolen moment, I could almost convince myself that things were different, that my actions hadn't irrevocably shattered something precious.

But then, she moved. Rising from her seat, she stretched, drawing the fabric of her shirt upwards. Before my mind could catch up, she was at the window, pushing it open. I froze.

She was staring down — right at me. 

Shit.

I held my breath. For what felt like an eternity, we simply stared at each other. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Then her gaze dropped, breaking eye contact.

"You're bleeding."

I glanced down. The edge of my shorts was soaked through, a fresh stain of crimson spreading. Damn it. The cut had reopened.

"Yeah," I said, looking back up at her, "I'm a mess."

I braced myself for whatever was coming. The anger, the disgust, the righteous fury — it would all be justified. I deserved it. But she simply watched me. Her gaze was steady, devoid of emotion. 

"You know where the entrance is," she said finally, then leaned back into the soft glow of her room and closed the window shut.

Before my brain could catch up with how wrong this was, I walked toward the apartment building.

─── ·✧· ───

I sat on the edge of her bed, she on a chair in front of me, her hands already on my leg as she pushed the fabric of my shorts up. "How could you not notice that?"

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off, "Wait, forget it." 

Yeah. Now she remembered.

With practiced efficiency, she began cleaning the wound. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, considering how pissed she must be. 

The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of bandages and my occasional  sharp intake of breath when the antiseptic hit a raw spot.

My eyes wandered. Her space, even small and half-finished, felt warm, lived in. Smelled like her. Books spilling everywhere, papers scattered on a desk, a yoga mat forgotten in the corner — the organized chaos was so perfectly her.

Then my gaze landed on the half-unpacked boxes stacked against the wall. She really still didn't fully move in. Occupied with my mess, huh? 

Guilt flooded me. I didn't deserve this, didn't deserve her gentle hands on me, not after everything. 

Yet, a selfish part of me wanted nothing more than to stay exactly like this, wanted nothing more than to keep her hands on me.

With a sigh, I sank back against her pillows. Exhaustion seeped into my bones. Pain returned as the effects of the pills wore off.

Her fingers brushed the reopened cut. I winced, throwing an arm over my eyes. The relentless pounding in my head threatened to split me open, spilling all the ugly thoughts onto her pristine sheets.

"You've had nightmares again, haven't you?"

Huh? 

I lifted my head a fraction, struggling to meet her eyes. She glanced up briefly, her eyes guarded, then focused back on my leg.

"Yeah, something like that." My head thumped back onto the pillow. "Hard to sleep when your head won't shut up."

"What dose?"

"You really don't want to know."

"I asked because I do," she countered. The sharp tug as she tightened the bandage around my leg was enough to make me speak.

"Ten milligrams," I admitted, wincing. "The usual."

She scoffed, then another, even sharper, tug had me gritting my teeth. "Ngh—fuck," I moaned. 

I really needed a pill now.

She stood, gathering the first-aid supplies. "Heals slowly, doesn't it?"

I knew it.

I popped myself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow at her. 

"Don't give me that look. You know damn well you deserved it."

I let out a dry laugh. "You really are a bitch sometimes." I dropped back onto the bed, my hand reaching for my throbbing head. 

I needed two pills now.

"You've got some damn nerve. You show up here in the middle of the night, injured, high—"

"I'm not high—"

"Save it," she spat. "You know what your fucking problem is? You can't stand being alone. Alone with your thoughts, with yourself. So you run. You run to pills, to whatever distraction you can find, anything to fill the void."

Yeah, how the hell am I supposed to want to be alone after feeling what it's like to be with you, stupid.

"You're too damn scared to face your fears," she continued, her voice laced with a bitter edge, "and when someone threatens your artificial peace, someone who might actually force you to look in the damn mirror, you panic. You sabotage it, push them away before it all gets too real, too close."

She stepped closer. "Because it's easier, isn't it? Safer to stick with the misery you know than risk having to face that void."

Every word stung, but I couldn't deny it, couldn't lie anymore.

"You're right. And I'm sorry—"

"Don't." She rose a hand at me. "Don't pretend you care, Satoru. You've made it clear how little I matter."

How little you matter? 

Oh, love, you couldn't be more wrong.

A harsh laugh escaped me. 

"You find this funny?"

"No, love," I said, pushing myself up. My leg throbbed in protest, but I ignored it. Everything narrowed down to her. I moved closer, a strange recklessness fueling me. "Quite the opposite."

Something flickered in her eyes — surprise? wariness? — but the anger remained.

"Keep going," I insisted, moving closer. "Let it out. Yell at me, tell me how pathetic I am. Make me feel something, anything other than this damn emptiness."

She hesitated. Her eyes searched mine, and for a breathless moment, I hoped that her fury, her anger, would burn away the numbness, making me feel something, anything.

Because even her anger was better than her indifference.

I couldn't stand being indifferent to her.

Might as well make her hate me.

"You want me to yell at you?" Her voice rose, the first hint of the storm I craved. "Fine! You wanna be a pathetic mess? Go ahead! Piss away your career, your life, whatever the hell you care about, I don't give a damn anymore!"

Each word hit me, but there was a desperate relief in it. Finally, she wasn't looking at me with that chilling indifference, that cold pity that twisted a knife in my gut. 

Her rage, it was fire — scorching and brutal, but alive. And I loved it.

Because it was prove she still cared, even if it was just to hate me with every fiber of her being. It was better than the void, that terrible chasm that had opened up between us after I'd pushed her away.

I closed the distance, enjoying the anger in her eyes. She flinched, but didn't back down.

"More." I grabbed her waist, lifting her with ease, and hauled her towards the bed.

"You're weak!" she spat, pushing against my chest, her voice rising with each word.

Yeah, so damn weak for you, love.

"You're selfish! So consumed by your own self-pity you can't see how you hurt everyone around you!"

Her words should have hurt. They probably would have, under different circumstances. But right now, I couldn't care less.

"Keep going," I rasped, my pulse pounding in my ears. I forced her onto the bed and hovered over her, my body trapping her between the mattress and my own. "C'mon, love, let it all out."

"You don't deserve me," she continued. "You don't deserve anyone who gives a damn, because you only know how to destroy things."

Each word was a knife. Yet, with each insult, the suffocating hollowness inside me eased a fraction. I wanted her anger, the full force of it, wanted the burn only she could inflict on me.

"More."

Her breath hitched, eyes narrowing. "You keep breaking my heart over and over, then come crawling back when it suits you, like it doesn't matter!"

"You're right." I leaned in, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. The thin fabric of her shirt did little to hide her shivers. "C'mon, love, give it to me. I know you can do better."

In one swift move, I ripped my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. I leaned down again, my breath ghosting over her lips. "Hate me." My hands went for the flimsy waistband of her shorts. "Tell me how much you despise me."

Her breaths came fast, quick gasps against my skin.  I could see it all over her face — the rage, the fear, and maybe — yeah, maybe that darker edge, the same desperation burning in me.

"I fucking hate you, Satoru. Hate that you made me care, made me fall for you, then crushed it."

"Don't stop," I said, my voice a hoarse rasp. "Say it again." Before she could react, her shorts were down, exposing her to the night air. My own pants followed hasty, desperate. "Say you hate me."

"I fucking hate that you treat me like I'm just another damn plaything to fill whatever void your messed-up mom or whatever left you with!"

Okay, now it gets personal.

"I fucking hate that you act like you can control me," she hissed, but her body betrayed her, shivered running down her skin as my hands gazed her collarbone. "Hate that you make my choices for me, decide what's good for me, like you got to have control over something when you obviously can't control yourself!"

Damn, Freud himself is on to something tonight, huh? She really doesn't know when to stop.

"You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?" I leaned closer, my mouth close to her ear. "You hate who I am, but you crave this, don't you? Giving up control, being at my mercy. Admit it."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She lifted a hand, as if to slap me, but I was faster. I caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, pressing them hard into the mattress.

"You know it's true," I pressed, relishing the way she struggled against my hold. "It's hard always being the composed one, isn't it? The responsible one. It's draining. Maybe that's why you're drawn to me. You love the thrill as much as I do, don't you?"

She stared at me, silent, her lips a tight line. 

"Prove me wrong, sweetheart. Call me a liar, and I'll show you just how wrong you are," I leaned in closer, my voice a harsh whisper against her lips. "We're the same, you and me. We feed off each other. Even if you hate to admit it, I fill that emptiness inside you same as you do for me."

"You arrogant piece of shit!" she spat, twisting and bucking against my grip. "You think you know everything, control everything!"

"Don't I?" My grip tightened, feeling her pulse throb against my fingers. "Seems I've got you pinned pretty damn well, wouldn't you say?"

"You know it's true. You love this. Makes you feel something your books, your fancy grades never could."

"Screw you, Satoru," she hissed, venom in her voice. "We're nothing alike."

"You really are a fool, for wanting to fix something so broken it'll cut you to shreds the moment you get close and then you cry afterwards—"

Her spit hit my face. I closed my eyes for a second, then a smile twisted across my lips. 

My future wife just spit in my face — what a good anecdote on our wedding day.

"That's my girl," I rasped, shoving her legs wider. "Tell me how much you hate me. Scream it."

"I fucking hate you Satoru, I hate you—"

Her words died on her tongue as I thrust forward, filling her completely. I closed my eyes, letting my head hang heavy for a second. 

My god, the things this woman's body could do to me. I could feel her body trembling beneath me, her heart racing as she arched her back.

How treacherous a body can be, huh?

"Hate you, Satoru," she managed to say before she closed her eyes, biting down her lip as I thrust deeper still. Her thighs spread further apart, inviting me closer, urging me onward. 

She's so damn beautiful.

I grinned, my hands still holding her wrists in place over her head. "I know you do, love. But you know what?" My lips were only a breath away from hers. "I hate you, too. I hate how you make me feel, how you expose every broken piece of me, how I crave you like I crave another fix."

Hell, I might just be addicted to this woman.

I pulled out fully, before thrusting back into her. Her head fell back, pressing into the mattress as a strangled moan escaping her lips.

She felt incredible.

Pulling back slowly, I watched her body react to the absence, her eyes flickering open to meet mine. Those pupils dilated with need, mirroring my own hunger for her. 

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not our fight. Not our problems. Not our insults that had left our lips moments before. Just us — two halves coming together in a perfect whole. 

I pushed back into her, deeper, harder.

With each thrust, I felt myself sinking deeper into her, losing myself in her. Fuck, if there was anything better than this — well, I hadn't found it yet.

This woman owned me — plain and simple.

It was madness, this pull towards her. 

Insane, perhaps.

But it was also undeniably real. So real that even though dawn threatened to break soon, stealing away whatever remnants of darkness remained, I couldn't help but chase after that high only she could provide.

Even knowing full well that when morning arrived, reality would crash down upon us, forcing us back onto opposite sides of the divide.

"Look what you've done to me, love. You're making a fool of me." I whispered against her lips without touching them.

Weren't together anymore after all.

Kissing would be too much.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath me. Her nails dug into my skin where my hands gripped her wrists. With each deep thrust, I watched her face contort with pleasure and pain, her features illuminated by fleeting streaks of moonlight seeping through the curtains.

I loved that look on her face.

I wondered if I could make that look even more pathetic.

I pulled out, dragging the tip of my length across her clit before pushing back in. She squirmed underneath me, arching her back. But I denied her, keeping my unhurried pace. I wanted to draw out this sweet torture for as long as possible.

Hours passed — or perhaps mere minutes. I couldn't tell anymore. All that mattered was this woman writhing beneath me.

Groaning in frustration, she attempted to break free from my grip. "Dammit, Satoru. If you won't finish what you started, then get off me!"

I smirked. "Why so eager, love. Can't handle the wait?" I leaned in to kiss down the side of her neck. She shivered beneath me, her breath hitching as my teeth grazed her skin. 

With my free hand I reached down, running my fingers down her quivering stomach, relishing in the shivers that coursed through her body. 

She glared up at me, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Stop calling me 'love'. I don't belong to you, not anymore—" 

She gasped into my mouth when I found her clit. Slowly, deliberately, I began to circle it with my thumb, feeling her surrender to me. I plunged deeper, thrusting into her mercilessly.

Let her hate me all she wants. She can't deny the chemistry between us — a spark that refuses to fade, no matter how hard either of us tries.

She must have hated this — hated how she surrendered to me, even with all that anger. Made me wondered if I could rail her up even more.

"You think you're so much better than me?" I rasped. "So strong, so selfless, always putting others first? It's a lie, and you know it. You're just bored."

"You fucker!" Before I knew what was happening, she broke free of my grasp and had flipped us over so that she was now straddling my hips. 

Without warning, she reached forward, gripping my throat with surprising strength as she leaned down, her hair falling like a curtain around our faces. I couldn't help but smile.

"Don't project your bullshit on me," she seethed, her face inches from mine. 

Her words sent a chill down my spine, stirring up a fresh wave of desire within me. Damn, this woman was infuriating — and captivating in the worst way possible.

We glared at each other like enemies preparing for battle. 

"Aren't you a little tired? Pulling up that act all the time?" I choked out, feeling her fingers dig in further. "Deep down, you're just as bored as me, you're just too righteous to admit it."

"Shut up," she hissed, pressing harder, choking the words out of me.

This was madness. Destructive madness. But for this one desperate moment, I didn't care. It was exhilarating, addictive. Because love, our twisted, broken love, wasn't supposed to be pretty.

It was messy, chaotic, and borderline abusive. But sometimes all you need is a firm grip around the throat to remind you that you're alive.

"Harder, love," I gasped, a laugh bubbling up in my constricted throat. "Come on, make me feel your rage."

Slowly, deliberately, she began grinding her hips against mine, setting a maddening pace that left me reeling. Fuck, I think I love it even more when she hates me.

"Ahh, shit," I gasped, clutching at her thighs as she rode me mercilessly. "That's it."

Eyes squeezed shut, my head rolled back. Chills prickled my skin, possibly due to the cool breeze drifting in from the window. Or perhaps it was merely her.

She rode me with increased speed, and I could barely contain the overwhelming sensations coursing through my body. Every fiber of my being screamed for release. 

My knuckles on her thighs turned white from the force. "Oh, shit, you're going to kill me," I moaned between choked sounds that escaped my lips. 

My lips twisted into a smile again. "Admit it. You love the chaos as much as I do. The thrill, the way it makes you feel alive."

"You're wrong," she said, increasing her pace making my cock twitch inside her. "We're nothing alike."

"Keep telling yourself that," I replied, struggling to catch my breath, as she made me lose my mind. "But I know the truth—we're two sides of the same coin."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"Why else would you be here, like this, with me?" I countered. "Face it, we're addicted to each other—the highs, the lows, the constant push and pull. It's exhilarating, isn't it?"

"You're the only addict here."

"Liar," I rasped.

Her muscles clenched around me, drawing me deeper inside her. She was close. Each contraction of her pushing me further towards a peak that I knew would soon shatter me.

But I wasn't ready yet. Not quite.

I shifted our positions, sitting upright before spinning us around so she was now beneath me on the mattress. I positioned myself behind her, forcing her down onto the mattress.

I slowly slid my hand along her spine as I pushed her further down, feeling her tremble beneath my touch, the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips. 

It was intoxicating to watch her submit to me.

"Fuck, you'll be the death of me."

Leaning down, I pressed my lips against the small of her back, feeling her shiver once more. My hand continued its descent, stopping just short of where she needed me.

"Satoru," my name fell from her lips.

Oh, how I loved it when she breathed my name like that. I couldn't resist her — could never resist her. I was at her mercy. Even now.

She arched her back, silently pleading for me to continue. I slid my hand between her legs. "God, you're so fucking wet," I murmured, slipped a finger inside her, then another. She was so tight, so warm. 

I couldn't wait to be inside her again.

She gasped, pushing back against me. "Don't stop."

Curving my fingers, I searched for that spot that I knew would drive her mad. When I found it, she cried out, her hips bucking against my hand. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets, grasping for purchase as I started to move inside her.

"Yes, fuck," she moaned, spreading her legs wider. "Right there."

Oh, love. I know you like that.

I smiled, relishing the fact that I knew her body better than herself. I knew every inch of her, every freckle, every scar, every sensitive spot that made her squirm. 

"More," she begged.

I happily obliged, adding a third finger and thrusting deeper. She was soaking wet, her juices coating my fingers as I fucked her with my hand. Her moans grew louder, more urgent. She was close, so close.

I increased the pace of my fingers, pumping them in and out of her as I used my thumb to apply pressure to her clit. 

However, as her moans reached a fever pitch, I withdrew my fingers, denying her release.

She gasped, glanced over her shoulder at me, her mouth open, but said nothing — probably out of breath. 

I brought my fingers to my mouth, savoring the taste of her. It was so uniquely her. I couldn't get enough.

Leaning in, I pressed my body against hers from behind, my hard length probed at her entrance. 

I leaned down over her, my hand snaking into her hair. I grabbed it tightly, forcing her head up to meet mine. "I love you, first-year," I murmured against her ear.

She trembled, but her defiance remained strong. "I hate you."

I sighed — always so fierce, makes me wonder what it takes to fuck that stubborn attitude out of her. 

"It's alright, I love you enough for both of us."

With that, I pushed her head down into the mattress. Her cry muffled by the sheets beneath her as I thrust into her once more, bottoming out inside her with a groan.

I began to move in and out of her. Faster now, harder until the headboard slammed against the wall. Her muscles clenched around me, drawing me deeper inside her. She clawed at the sheets beneath her, her moans muffled by the fabric.

As her cries grew louder, I quickly pushed her face further into the mattress. "Quiet, first year," I murmured as I angled myself to rub against her G-spot, making it harder for her to keep quiet. "Wouldn't want to disturb anyone in the middle of the night, would we?"

Neither of us spoke a word — not that she could but — perhaps because there was nothing left to say. Instead, we communicated solely through our actions, saying everything that needed to be said without opening our mouths.

I increased both the pace and pressure. Nearly causing her to fall forward hadn't I held her in place with one hand on her waist and one sill in her hair. Her breath hitched, her entire body tensed as she approached her breaking point.

Oh, how I loved feeling her tighten around me.

Bringing her closer to the edge was a thrill like no other. Watching her lose control, hearing her cries and moans, feeling her body tremble beneath me — it was intoxicating.

I could feel myself getting closer to the edge, my balls tightening as I approached my own release. 

Her cries grew louder, more urgent, until finally, she shattered around me, her orgasm triggering my own.

With a final thrust, I emptied myself inside her, filling her completely. Her contractions milked every last drop from me, her body still quivering around me. 

I stayed inside her, savoring the feeling. It might be the last time.

I was panting, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I tried to catch my breath. My cock was still twitching inside her. Reluctantly, I pulled out with a low moan.

I stayed behind her for a moment longer, admiring the curve of her waist, the sheen of sweat on her skin in the sliver of moonlight. 

Don't know when or if I'll ever see that again.

Time seemed to stand still, suspended indefinitely as we tried to find our breath again.

Then she turned her head. "You're a fucking idiot," she finally said.

"Tell me something I don't know."

She shifted to face me, her expression serious.  "Promise me something."

"Anything you want, love."

"Promise me, you won't kill yourself with your pills."

I swallowed hard. That's not what'll get me, I thought, as I felt a sharp pain lancing through my right side.

I moved closer, cupping her face with my hands that trembled slightly. For an insane moment, I wanted to kiss her, but I knew I couldn't — couldn't ever again. "I promise," I rasped.

The words heavy with a lie we both knew.

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: wooooaaa, another insane!gojo chapter lol. this chapter really killed me, was crying, screaming, throwing up while writing.

i'm equally scared and excited to hear what you think about todays chapter, ngl. originally i didn't plan a smut scene in this chapter, but you know, somewhere down that line gojo just happened and here we are. 

also like, i think now both their's darkest secrets are now out — in the worst way possible. also because i keep getting messages regarding how much chapters are left of the story, idk i write form chapter to chapter. we're down somewhere the 60—70 % line with the story i guess, but we'll see. still more to uncover of gojo's past and all that.

also sorry for the people asking of for more fluff and happy moments, ehhh, there will be some in the future?? also i'm still sticking to the plan of a happy ending, so don't worry!! gojo fucked up big time and the next chapters will center about him trying to fight his fears and get shit together — let's see if he can do that. curious myself.

so thank you so so much for sicking by with the story. sending kisses to all of you lovely people seeing me messages, leaving likes, comments and reblog stuff. it really makes my heart happy everything i see a notification. love you all sm!! ♡

okay my last note, just so you know, i'm going on vocation soon, so the next chapter will be a bit delayed again, sorraaaayyy!! wishing you a great day or night and an awesome weekend ahead! ♡

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie @billiondollarworth @deluluforcarlos55 @starrynight-777 @vina21 @michelleeveline @boba-is-a-soup @cre8inghavoc @love-jelly @daimiyu @d0nk3y-k0ng @mo0nforme @smolbeanzzz @oneiricals @ynishalee @gojolvrr34 @nanasukii28 @ariiiii0938 @kelppsstuff @tojisdollx @drakenswifeyy @bakarinnie @vina21 @phoenix-eclipses @nanamis-baker @neptnszn (pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future!)

[nagichi-boop]

Gerald’s Journal - Disability representation

I read scans of Gerald’s Journal and I have to talk about it. Not the lore or anything like that, but the disability rep. I didn’t expect to cry reading this.

Please don’t look at this post if you don’t want to be spoiled about what’s in this journal. If you do want to read it, you can find scans here. Credit to this Twitter/X thread for the images I’ll use.

I don’t have much to say about this image, but it is nice to see Maria using a mobility aid. It’s not often we get representation for an ambulatory wheelchair user.

I do wonder about Maria’s relationship with her parents. They weren’t happy with Gerald’s wish to bring her to the ARK so that he could research a cure for her, but they let her go anyways? Maybe Gerald got some sort of order to get her to go or Maria decided she wanted to go with him, but it seems a little odd to me. I’ll expand on this a little later.

Quote from right page: “[Maria] is growing into a lovely young woman. It breaks my heart that someone as bright and energetic as her is diminished by disease. There are no visible effects, and I’ve caught my fellow researchers muttering to each other, doubting her illness. It is infuriating. I find all my reason and restraint vanished when she’s slighted.”

Oh my days, I’ve never felt so seen by a piece of media and it just so happens to be my special interest video game. I am tearing up again thinking about this. Maybe that’s silly but to have a character express his frustrations about people doubting the invisible disability of his grandchild is so touching. I wish people in my life were more like Gerald. People with invisible illnesses get doubted so much because we “look fine”, but it’s so invalidating to have your struggles questioned just because the symptoms aren’t as visibly obvious.

Quote from left page: “[Maria] doesn’t know the full scope of what [Shadow] has been designed for, but she understands he will be under tremendous strain. She’s helped me conceptualize a number of accessories that will help focus his power and aid in his mobility.”

So we now have confirmation that Shadow’s air shoes and inhibitor rings are akin to mobility aids. I headcanoned this but I didn’t know they’d flat out confirm it like that. My favourite character is canonically disabled physically (and I’d argue mentally given his PTSD). I don’t have much to say about this besides being happy that my favourite character is now even more relatable.

It also makes a lot of sense for Maria to help create them because she has experience with her own disability and can offer a perspective that an able bodied person couldn’t. That and it makes Shadow’s connection so much stronger. His mobility aids were designed by Maria. He didn’t just help her with her disability - she helped with his. He wouldn’t be able to function without what she and Gerald created for him.

Quote from the right: “Back on Earth [Maria’s?] parents have been blessed with another little girl. They’re already run tech(?) and she has none of the genetic markers like to [Maria’s] condition. While this was welcomed news, the unspoken commentary was received loud and clear.”

(I am assuming they’re talking about Maria’s sister, but I guess they could also be talking about her cousin.)

So did Maria’s parents see their new daughter as a replacement? If I’m reading that correctly, it’s so sad. Do you think Gerald told Maria about her sister/cousin? If she did know about it, I bet she was excited to meet her. But I get the feeling that her parents back home didn’t really care about her anymore given what Gerald says in his journal. It hurts that much more when you consider how much Maria wanted to go home, perhaps even return to her family.

I feel like all of this makes Maria’s death more tragic for both Gerald and Shadow. For Gerald, he did so much reason and sacrificed so much in order to try and find a cure for Maria. He supported her when no one else did. And from his perspective, despite her illness and the judgement of others, including potentially her own family, she was still positive. And yet she was killed, and he only found out about her death because of a report that had her name on it (I think anyways?).

From Shadow’s perspective, she is the person who gave his name meaning. Despite most being distant and weary of her, she was immediately friendly to him and helped teach him about the world. She helped created the devices used to reduce his pain and control his powers. He quite literally carries part of him with her. She was his sole reason for existing for a long time. And despite being this super supportive, kind, loving person, she was killed. I can imagine him being mad at Gerald for messing with his memories, but I figure there’s a degree of understanding, even if he doesn’t fully agree with what Gerald did. The difference between them both is Shadow’s purpose shifted beyond Maria while Gerald’s did not. Anyways, I digress - this post is about disability rep, not Shadow lore.

I love this and Dark Beginnings for their direct and indirect disability rep. My love for Shadow and Maria has only grown and I have a deeper appreciation for Gerald. I wish more people were as understanding as he is towards people with invisible disabilities.

I don’t really have a conclusion. I just really wanted to yap about the journal entries.

[writing-zelda-brainrots]

More Apothecary!Reader thoughts.

They realise Twilight's 'situation' a lot quicker than anyone would have thought (probably before he even told the others). Our dear apothecary is constantly having to play detective back at the palace, there's no way they don't figure it out.

Twilight: How did you find out I was Wolfie? I haven't told anyone that. [Name]: Well, let's see. You have the same markings, I've never seen you two in the same place at the same time, and neither has anyone else, I've noticed your sharper fangs and senses, as well as your sometimes feral behaviour, and Wolfie is way more intelligent than a wolf should ever be. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.

They're legit the one with the brain cell 97% of the time. The only time they aren't is when they're geeking out over herbs they found/when making medicine.

It's like there's this invisible 'common sense' switch among the group. Before [Name] joined, it would constantly flip between them all depending on the situation. However, after your little accident, the switch is almost always pointing in your direction.

Random villager: I understand the importance of having a healer around, but... Are they really the best you've got? Time: They have extensive knowledge of medicine that is unmatched by anyone else we've ever met. Also, they are our group's common sense. [Name]: *giggling evilly while picking plants from the ground and bushes* Time: They are our most valuable asset.

I've been thinking about this, but the Chain probably doesn't know about CPR. Medicine in Hyrule is all about potions and fairy magic, things like that, even in the games when you faint it cuts to black and the npcs just kinda wait for you to wake up. Imagine how the others freak out when one of them is downed and you preform mouth-to-mouth for the first time.

Human medicine, because it doesn't use any magic, is not instant, but is a lot more thorough. I hc that because potions/fairies are so fast with the healing, the recipient also gets hit with all of the pain at once (thank you, Dungeon Meshi for this). On the other hand, potions and fairies can't really do much in case of things like infections/illnesses/aches/cramps/concussions (pretty much anything that isn't an open wound/broken bone). I mean, they do help, but they're simply not as effective in certain situations. Meanwhile, humans have invented medicines for all those other things and more.

[trashmouth-richie]

⁂ 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 + 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 || a mini series || eddie x you

“soul ties” based but with a spin — part 1

part 2: i’m your dream, make you real

chapter summary: back story on reader and the history of the ‘souls’, the girl sadly wonders why she suddenly can't stop thinking of eddie munson; eddie spends the night nursing a migraine and trying to remember what that girls name was… the same girl who he can’t seem to get out of his head. oddly enough, both eddie and the girl feel terribly ill— a symptom of rejecting the soul tie. also WAYNE! Yay!

 [series summary: reader and her lover are souls bound to one another for eons and eons, they always find their way back to one another no matter how long it takes or what bodies they might be in, but when reader feels the magnetic pull of her other half and wills the girl’s body she is in to find her lover— the body her lover belongs to is a boy— none other than the meanest boy in hawkins, eddie munson] 

trigger warnings: 18+ smut, bisexual! eddie, mean! eddie, shy! girl, smut. etc eddie the girl are both 18 in this story, drug use, talks of addiction, prison etc.

reader (you) are a “soul” in this story, meaning you are only bound to the body you are inhabiting during this lifetime. The girl will have features mentioned— but again— you (the reader) are a soul, which i imagine to be a flame of all colors. 

You had no control over how, when or where you would appear in a new body. It was never the same timeline. one minute you were floating in a sea of stars on a blackened canvas, the next you were viewing their world from the way they envisioned it. 

The body could be brand new, shiny and soft skinned, no marks of life on its petal-like skin. Sometimes the body was weathered, having seen many moons and decades and you arrived when they needed you most. Years before you had come here, the body you lived in was impaired, seeing nothing but marooned eyelids, navigating the earth with the four other senses. 

Shapes and colors could vary from one body to the next, but inside they all remained the same. The only difference were the souls.

Some of the souls you had encountered weren’t pure. They had a darkness rolling through them that made the bodies they live in do unspeakable, horrific things. 

The malum, as they were known were tainted with vile evilness. Instead of being made with licks of pretty sparkled flame, the malum were created with sharp edges, a singular dark hole in the center showing their emptiness. Compassion was lost from them, all they knew was destruction and how to use the body to their own advantage. 

They could change their appearance, tricking others into loving them.  And although it had been awhile since you’d come across one, you were always weary. Hence, the boy with the fast car from last year.

You were even thankful to come to this girl, the sad lonely girl who just wanted to be loved… her heart tie within reach…but then he rejected her!

That stupid boy and his dumb hair was ruining everything! This was wrong— this was all wrong! It never went this badly before. All it took from the others before this girl and this boy was to feel the “special” pull. The tug of that tiny invisible string that was nearly impossible to ignore. 

Different species, different sex, it didn’t matter! The pull always worked. You sat and stewed in the girl's brain, running laps around her mind, showing her images of the boy, the one she was destined to be with. 

It was deeper than love, stickier than the cotton candies of a carefully woven fate, her heart belonged with his! Plain and simple. You hoped your other half was doing the same with that long haired boy, making his head split and pop like a sunflower seed. 

You could bet that he didn’t know how sad she was. He wouldn’t know that she had cut her tutoring lesson short with Max because the concentration for basic algebra just wasn’t there.  

You could do this, you could make them both see how they belonged together, that they fit like a puzzle and complemented each other like the stars do the moon, despite their differences, or walks of life. 

Time was all you needed, and thankfully they both were guaranteed to be in the same building for almost eight hours a day, five days a week. 

“Are you okay?” 

Eddie had been staring at his mac n cheese for nearly ten minutes. Each tick of the clock squeezed his head like a vice. He had been fixated on something he couldn’t quite grasp. As if he were in a fuzzy dream where punches didn’t land and he coincidentally had the winning lottery ticket. 

A name. 

It’s all he was trying to think of, but he couldn’t for the life or death of him remember it. 

Beth? Kay? Maybe… Yeah.. Kay sounds right—nope Kay was that smokin’ hot foreign exchange student last semester. Jesus Christ, who the hell is that girl?

Wayne watched with his bushy eyebrows raised into the sparse bits of hair left on his head as his nephew drug his spoon counter-clockwise then clockwise through the cheesy valley of noodles, not saying a single word other than the occasional grunt or mumbling a series of consonants and vowels through the entirety of supper. 

His head had spun all day. A loose paper boat down a sewer drain to awaiting clown claws had a better success rate in survival than the absolute collegiate level of  nonsense he was trying to get his brian to spark. No matter what he did he couldn’t get that girl out of his head. 

Maybe if he could put a name to her face—he had thought that would settle it. Then he could finally fucking move on. But alas, it was as if his brain left on vacation… or maybe those drug scare ads were right and his brain cells were actually fried.  

“Something wrong with the food, Ed?” Wayne asked around a mouthful, “thought you loved dogs with mac n cheese.” 

Eddie went class by class in his head imagining the seats of every girl who occupied them. In Geography there was Tiffany, Alice, Wheeler, Robin, Barbara, and Chrissy. 

This is fucking stupid, he thinks. She could be a year or two below him in school, but goddamnit what was her name?

He could memorize DnD manuals, a whiz at math especially percentages for his.. hobbies. But a simple name to a girl he’s seen a dozen times falls short. 

Dropping the metal spoon with a loud clunk, he groans, throwing his head in his hands. “I’m fine, Wayne.” 

He wasn’t, along with his head pounding like the hammering tune of a chainsaw, he had felt nauseous all day. Like a hangover that never seemed to end, or that time he had the stomach flu last year and missed a week of school. 

But this wasn’t the flu, and it wasn’t a hangover. It was a nagging feeling in his head and a rip to his gut. 

“You sure?” Wayne tested cautiously, “Y’ know I don’t have many rules here.. and I don’t care that you smoke in the house, but son if you’re doing something… more than that… I…” Wayne shakes his head, his voice growing earnest, “I just don’t want you to end up like your old man ‘s all.” 

“Jesus, Wayne,” Eddie groaned, scrubbing his hands down his face, he hadn’t touched that shit his dad was caught with, and was currently serving a sentence for, ever. 

“I’m not doin’ anything like that, okay? I just… GOD—” he ran thick ringed fingers through his hair and cursed again when the rings got tangled, huffing through his nose like a bull, “I feel like shit!” 

Wayne relaxed a bit in his chair, a chuckle in his throat at his nephew's theatrics, “eat then, you’ll feel better.” 

Eddie shoved his plate away,  synchronizing the metallic dragging scuff from the chair’s legs across the cheap linoleum floor with a grumble of ‘m not hungry. 

His long legs seemed to tangle under themselves as he stood and he caught his shoulder hard on the wall, the drag of soft cotton down a plywood wall muffling his curses as he headed to bed. 

Face first he landed into the worn and spring heavy mattress, the smell of weed and spiced deodorant engulfing him. Leather scuffed boots still on his feet from when he drove to Rick’s for his weekly supply. The pounding against his skull was dull, twisting like a knife and it just wouldn’t quit.

Nose crushed in the misshapen pillow, Eddie throws his hand out hazardly to the nightstand. His fingers skid around the scattered DnD dice, a crusted half eaten sandwich from the night before and the sharp foiled  edge of a ripped corner from a Trojan from when—yeah, whew…that was a great night.

Finally, his fingers wrap around the cool steel of his zippo lighter. 

Without looking up, he flicks the pad of his thumb against the wheel igniting a flame to be sure there’s enough fluid. Groaning again he slides a hand into his jeans and pulls out the little bag he had gotten from Rick.

Movements that were taken for granted were now causing sweat to pool in the middle of his back, his temples dripped as a tickling bead of sweat wove a path down his chin. 

Whatever illness that was currently plaguing him was one like nothing before, and he only hoped his last vice of getting out of his mind with the sweet burn of a joint into his lungs would help. 

Slotting it between his lips he flicked the lighter and inhaled as much as his lungs could take. 

The girl drove home in silence. A salty drip of steady tears stinging her cheeks from the bite of the breeze that seeped through the cracked open car window. She didn’t understand why on this particular day he had burrowed so far under her skin, and even though he was rude, per usual—she couldn’t let it go. 

A horn honked behind her at the stop sign before she realized she had been staring at the steering column, foot pressed on the brake. Tears dripped onto the apples of her cheeks and she wiped at them with the sleeve of her cream colored cardigan, leaving flecks of mascara behind. 

Blowing out a blubbery sigh she eased her car forward and drove along the wet pavement of Hawkins, vision blinded by traitorous tears for the boy who didn’t deserve them. 

She ate her supper in a sad silence— fork balancing green beans gone cold. The girl sighed with a hand resting into her palm, watching the fall leaves plucking themselves free in the front yard. 

Her mind played that scene at Eddie’s trailer over and over. The way he practically bit her head off, how easy it was for him to dismiss her as a nuisance. She could feel the heat blossoming on her cheeks, how it had practically burned like his eyes did when they looked at her. 

Eddie was like that with everyone at school, so it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to her. But it was. And tears started again as she thought of why he was so mean.

“…see Mom! She hates green beans so much she’s crying about them!” 

The girl shook her head and blinked back the tears, “‘m not crying you little turkey,” she bites back, shoving her younger brother with her elbow, “just.. had a long day, ‘m tired.” 

“Well,” her mother protested, pressing a cloth napkin to the corners of her mouth, “why don’t you run a bath and go to bed early?” 

Nodding, she excused herself quietly from the table and walked the plush carpeted path to the upstairs bathroom. 

More tears began to roll down her cheeks as she climbed each step, a tingling in the nape of her neck made her skin feel boiling hot. The further up she went the worst she started to feel. 

I’m probably getting the flu. She thought to herself, Hawkins High had more than fifteen students out with it last week, and it would make sense that she too would fall victim to it. But the flu wouldn’t make her cry for no reason, no— a sickness wouldn’t have her feeling like she was nothing. 

But those dark brown eyes could. 

Thinking of her encounter today just made it worse, but she couldn’t turn it off. She welcomed the warmth from the water to seep through her bones after the tub was filled and she slipped gingerly into the water. 

Hoping the steam would will away the awful empty feeling in her stomach,  she let herself fully submerge, her wet brown hair feeling like the bottom of a silky moss covered lake. 

She laid under the water for what felt like hours, no sound, just her racing thoughts to keep her company.

Maybe I’m getting my period? She thought after taking a few winded deep breaths and sitting up in the water. 

It would explain why she was so irrationally upset about all of this. It was plausible. And maybe the burning flames of hell's butterflies in her stomach was because she had barely eaten anything for supper.

It definitely wasn’t the fact that Eddie seemed to radiate like a neon light in space the second he opened that door, and she was like a moth to his flame. One that was quickly swatted away. 

Eddie Munson. 

Standing and wrapping a towel around herself she hit the drain and stepped from the tub onto a peach colored bath mat. 

His face played like a movie in her head. A montage of him and only him. The cocky gait he strutted down the hallways, hollering at the jocks to get the fuck out of his way. The jingling swish of that chain linked wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, a soft black bandana in the other. 

Eddie. 

Wiping condensation from the mirror she shakes her head. What the hell? Never. Not once in her entire life had she thought about Eddie Munson. Even thinking his name made her stomach lurch like she might be sick. 

Wait. No, she was going to be sick. 

She makes it just in time to lift the seat on the toilet before she vomits violently into the bowl, tears leaking from her eyes with every retching heave her body produced. 

She hears her name buzzing in her ear. Once, twice, three times and she knows her mother is behind those calls on the other side of the door.

“‘m okay, Mom,” she gasps, “just the flu, it’s been going around—” 

And normally where her mother would have come in to rub her back, ask if she needed anything— she doesn’t. 

Flushing the toilet she looks over her shoulder, “Mom?”

No answer.

Rising from her knees she walks to the door and opens it, “Mom?” 

Nothing. 

Maybe she was hearing things, but she swore her name was said loud and clear. 

Smoke billowed around Eddie’s room, hanging like dense clouds from an oven fire. Either his tolerance was higher or the bud from Rick was skunked— because after smoking three joints back-to-back-to-back, he still couldn’t feel anything. 

Not even a tiny little buzz or the hazy droop of his eyelids forming into slits. That sickening pounding kept its beat along his chest and into every vein in his body, unrelenting in its ravage upon him. 

He thought of the times he had seen her. Where was he standing? What section of lockers was she shoving books into? 

Sandra? Beth… no he already said that. Fuck. 

It’s not until he laid flat on his back a few minutes later, the short remnants of paper flickering from the last bit of the joint burning close to his fingers. Eddie closed his eyes in complete solitude, and that’s when it clicked. 

Shuffling on what felt like broken legs to his closet, Eddie wedged the door open on its broken track. Every muscle in his body screamed in agony, he felt as if he had ran a marathon, backwards. 

His tongue was out between his lips as he concentrated on his task at hand. Rifling through heaps of clothes, old shoes, playboys with dog eared pages. He was elbows deep in the depths of his closet, searching for what he had tossed in here at the end of last year. 

The pads of his fingers feel the textured cover under a halloween mask and he yanks it free stumbling backwards and tripping over his amp, landing hard on the floor. 

He doesn’t wait to be in a more comfortable position on his bed or even sitting up straight before he holds the book over his face and flips open the cover of Hawkins High 1985 Go Tigers!, his yearbook. 

Pages and pages he skimmed through. Freshman class, Sophomore class, pictures of every sport from Fall to Spring, Band, Choir, The school newspaper… he was about to give up after he saw his own picture staring at him from Junior year.

And he would have missed it if his thumb hadn’t suddenly stung. As if a bee or a strike of lightning went through him and he had to adjust his hold on the book. Where his thumb had been pressed into the page, was the girl. 

Just a few down from his own school portrait, she sat smiling shyly at the camera with closed lips, silken voluminous dark hair, a sparkle in each eye. 

Eddie’s stomach plummeted, his pulse speeding up as each letter of her name danced behind his irises, and his lips tingle when he finally says her name. 

Mickey 

thanks for reading💋

taglist: @cinemabean @findmeincorneliastreet @pleuviors @boltonbritreads @nailbatanddungeon

@what-the-jams @aprisher @bbygh0st18 @lemme-slytherin-that-dick @joejoequinnquinn

[edlucavalden]

Mithrun and non-visible disability

Yk, I've never seen people talk about this, but Mithrun is a very accurate depiction of having a non visible illness

I'd like to interpret mithrun's bastard origin to be an allegory for an invisible disability (I'd argue its neurodivergance, but it could be anything); An aspect of yourself that you are born with (in this case; born from) that is seen as inferior but it is not obvious.

He's even lucky—since that part of him is that of benefit. His infidelity gave him silver eyes and sharp ears after all (if you can catch the metaphor). from the outside, He's just a normal person, a person worth respecting because he's fits the standard.

However, he knows he does not fit the standard. it's just a lie. He hates himself—so, so much bc of that. It causes him to over-compensate through complete perfectionism and a high sense of self pride. He has to keep a big image in order to protect himself. it's the only thing that can get him loved.

However, that superficial ego gives him terrible imposter syndrome. He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he wants to. like everyone, he craves love and safety. So, he looks down at everyone, hyperfocused at their flaws (he can't be inferior if everyone is worse, right?) whatever it takes to prove himself that he deserves love.

He knows he's weak, but he has to show to everyone that he's strong because any slight sight of weakness would be detrimental since he knows that his humanity is conditional.

He knows that if he shows the truth and how he doesn't actually fit the status quo, he will be ostracized and rejected.

He knows—because his brother is proof of that.

Obrin's disability is obviously visible; Shown through his physical characteristics (his frailness and the lack of family traits). However, his discrimination may be due to this visible disability. he isn't nessesarily ostracized for those traits. His features aren't the (main) reason why he's perceived as inferior in the social hierarchy. it's instead because he's rumored to be a bastard child. This is why he hates his brother so much.

Obrins physical characteristics are just "symptoms" that perpetuate their prejudice towards infidelity (if were going by the disability allegory, think; this person is too sensitive, it must be bc of the autism...). By doing so, his brother indirectly taught him to hide that part of himself.

He hates Obrin because he is the physical manifestation of what will happen to him if his infidelity (disability) is revealed. He is the same plane as his brother after all, The only difference is that he's fortunate enough to be able to hide it.

It's very interesting how his hatred to Obrin isn't because he's genuinely bigoted and ignorant towards him, but because of his own personal internalized ablelism just projected. (It's ironic how contrary it is; he hates his brother because he sees him as equal) very much paralleling visible and nonvisible disability in intimate familial relationships.

The fact mithrun is the bastard child, not him. Imagine the burdening guilt and shame that comes with the knowledge that he could (or should) be one in his place.

He's constantly paranoid of thoughts that he's not good enough. That's why he was so upset when he was sent to the canaries or when he saw Obrin and Sultha together.

Because those are signs that Obrin is better than him and he could not forgive that (how can someone like him, completely ostracized from society, and be so content...?). And that sign proves his paranoia of not being good enough are correct.

mithrun's insecurities, fears, and behavior very much parallel that of being a high masking disabled person.

Hes is a flawed disabled character, but one you can also sympathize with.

He isn't a perfect victim. He delves on how a disabiled person who's so intrenched in a heavily ableist and bigoted society can be a victim to its bigotry and be taken advantage of (The demon. I didn't touch on that topic, as much as i would love an essay about how the demon preyed on mithruns vulnerability regarding his own disability but unfortunately, that might be too triggering for me lawl!) while also actively participating in it and perpetuate said beliefs

And that means so much to me

[hoseoksluna]

THE BALL OF LIGHT, i. | myg, jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc (ft. brother!yoongi)

genre: fluff

word count: 2.9k

summary: life of other people never mirrored yours and jeon jeongguk will never be yours, either.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: ao3 / wp

warnings: smoking, suggestive but not described thoughts of nudity, pessimism, orphancy / the members in this series are fictional.

note: everybody, welcome the new series. it is a multiple member-centered fanfic, so the names you see in the title don't necessarily mean the pairing is endgame or anything like that. who the main love interest is will be a surprise that the fic will slowly reveal. trust the process with the first chapter. it's short on purpose and i will reveal the information and quicken the plot along the way. let me know what you think. reblogs and esp comments are mandatory unfortunately in the hoseoksluna house:/ ...... sfjsldfjsldfj ENJOY. i love u guys! should i crosspost it on wattpad? (im scared of wattpad)

… Or was his destiny from the start To be just one moment  Near your heart? 

(Ivan Turgenev)

— an epigraph from the book White Nights by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Your brother Yoongi was always the pair of hands that would tug your legs down whenever you would fly in your books for too long. He did it out of tender care and fatherly kindness, calling your name in order for you to come join him in the kitchen for a meal. To be some semblance of a family after the tragedy had sunk its teeth into your bloodline. And what you had never imagined was that one day, you’d have to leave him behind to step inside a dream of this very reality. 

Throughout the trajectory of your girlhood, you had lived inside the worlds of your books. Classical literature that carried more depth, more leniency, despite its hardships that the characters went through, than this world. The idea of love clung to you like a second skin, one you wouldn’t really receive from the two important roles in your life because you weren’t made out of love, but would find within flowery and difficult words of another time. Digging deep and understanding made you fall in love with it, seek it in school, in the streets and inside your own home, only to look and walk past those people still empty-handed. 

In spite of it all, your palms were, somehow, still heavy. As if they carried something invisible for worldly eyes. 

You would see it come to life whenever you would close yourself up in your room, with your folded legs, your short hair wild and with a book on your lap. Dostoyevsky taught you that love could be found upon a fateful coincidence and it marred you in a beautiful way that was pitifully disastrous. It forced your eyes to look for it everywhere, even through the reappearing pain of disappointment, and it especially forced you to look for it at home. 

The hope remained even after both of your parents went to the other side of this love, beyond this world. They passed away due to an unfair illness. And because they went at the same time, you often found yourself thinking if they loved each other in the realm of eternity, when they very seldom loved each other in this temporary realm. 

Your firm, ingrained dreaminess helped you cope with the sudden silence, the aftermath of your state of orphancy. You no longer had to reread a sentence in your book a thousand times, the once screeching voices beyond the door of your bedroom shunned out, dead, but still pulsing. The walls carried the ghosts of those parental fights and Yoongi… he, in his secret sensitivity to the paranormal, braided for you a bracelet of black thread. To keep you safe from those spirits, to help you heal. 

He didn’t have one of his own, and that fact faultlessly described the new role he clothed himself in within this abrupt change. He would stare at the walls with a cold gaze, threatening them with power if they ever made a sound. He sat more at the kitchen table now than he did at his music station in his room, spine hunched over a myriad of bills that would make him pull on his hair until a bald spot formed. On the left side of his head, just above his ear, where his amygdala bloomed with black flowers. 

You would come home from school, glide your eyes over his bare wrist pressed to his cheek,  and touch the tense muscles over his protruded shoulder blades. You saw, vividly, the way his new role tore him apart and you wanted to help him. Physically and emotionally. But Yoongi rejected your help, rejected the emotions you were so willing to smooth out and caress with the lines of your palm that knew love from the way you caressed the pages of your books. He would get up from the table, tell you to shower, and he would walk to the kitchen to prepare you a meal, a meatless one because meat was expensive. He would wash his hands in the sink, let the cold water hide the strands of hair he plucked out of stress. 

He would pretend that everything was fine when in reality, nothing was fine. 

Your parents didn’t leave you a dime, but they let you keep the house you and Yoongi grew up in. Left an unpaid mortgage in your hands instead of happy memories, instead of love. 

But Yoongi, he showed you love. He would show it to you by the way he would boil the water for you in the beginning of yours and his orphancy because he had no money to pay for the water bill and because all the money he had saved in his boyhood was used for funeral expenses. He would show it to you by the way your plate would have meat and his wouldn’t. And he showed it to you by the way he wouldn’t allow you to find a job and financially help him, but instead told you to focus on your degree. To focus on your dream. No matter how many times you pestered him that you could find a part-time job. 

No, your dreams require your full attention, he had said once, that Yoongi-coded frown shadowing his features. Go study. 

And so you bowed your head and silently left, retreating into your room while contemplating in your heart that Yoongi never knew what your dreams looked like. And neither did you. Not until they showed up right in front of you. 

It is a time perfumed by the upcoming winter, the November time of the present. Frost has been kissing each corner of glass one would stumble across in the city of Seoul, decorating it with its affection using its snowflakes. It’s what you’re looking at, perched with your shivering form on the bus stop with the only friend you ever had in your lifetime. 

Or a so-called friend. You don’t think you would use the term friendship with a guy like Jeongguk. 

He represented the unattainable aspect in the books you’ve read. The goal that hasn’t yet been reached. The agonized yearning that hangs by a thread around the character’s life. He embodied the aspect of pain itself—because if life had been a little kinder to you, he would be yours. 

Life, however, isn’t kind. 

Life is realistic.

You met the boy at a wrong time in his life. Passing by him on the stairway of your high school, you caught him in a tense, yet volatile situation of an emotional kind. Spring, still reminiscent of winter, had wrapped itself around your nineteen years of age, and you, dreaming a strange dream that you couldn’t wake up from, ran late for your class. You hadn’t spoken to him prior this fateful day, though you knew of his existence. He was just a background character that you didn’t pay any attention to until he blazed up with life and the sparks of sensitivity on that empty staircase. And you couldn’t take the other way; you couldn’t turn around and miss the class. You had to walk by him and his girlfriend at the time while they were in the middle of an argument that shook through the echo of the space. 

You walked by them, but the encounter changed your life. It changed your life because Jeongguk’s cheeks were tearstained, glistening in the uncanny white of the staircase. His eyes were fixed on yours, his eyelashes wet and long—prettily, so terribly prettily. You quietly apologized, running up the stairs as rapidly as you could, and his eyes did not leave yours until you were out of his view. And then you heard the shuffling of feet and where there was an absolute turmoil, silence replaced it. 

Jeongguk found you that very day. 

Alarm was eclipsed over those puffy eyes, his eyelashes no longer wet, but still long, so terribly pretty. You were on your way out, exiting the building, when he grabbed a hold of your backpack, stopping you from disappearing. And when you gazed back with absolute horror, your short bob swishing around you, Jeongguk smiled a soft half-smile, which thinned out that negative emotion—as if he did it on purpose, not wanting to scare you. 

What’s your name? he started with a question, his shoulders slouched and drooping, an evident tiredness misting him in a drowsy aura. His voice was strained, bubbling in his throat as if he either screamed his vocal cords raw or didn’t speak for a while, choosing silence. Both options turned your heart upside down, painfully. You felt a greater pity for him than you ever have for someone in your lifetime—and that was the beginning of all your firsts with him. 

When you said your name, Jeongguk averted his gaze and nodded his head. You expected him to ask you which year you were born, but he kept his eyes low as he uttered the words, which made your pity for him grow into a bare tree  with just one twig, a seemingly singular wing, within you. 

I don’t know how much you heard, but Ka-eun didn’t do anything wrong. It was a misunderstanding and I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. 

You had heard a female screaming, seething voice, but due to your sleepy state, you hadn’t made out what those words actually were. But remembering the tears dripping off of his lashes, you realized how hurtful those words thrown at his must had been. And while you thought about this all, Jeongguk took your hand, pried open your fingers and fished out of his pocket a small banana milk. 

Ka-eun, the it-girl of the high school. Jeongguk protected her reputation, in spite of the fact that she didn’t deserve it at all. 

That was the kind of person Jeongguk was. 

It wasn’t the only encounter you had with him. He would smile at you and greet you while passing you in the halls. Would put banana milks sometimes on your desk early in the morning. Would sit beside you at lunch when he wasn’t on speaking terms with her. And he would confide in you while knowing nothing about you. 

That’s the reason why you can’t call your intertwinement with Jeongguk a friendship. Certainly not, after the person he became when uni life spread its roots in yours and his and he chose the one opposite of yours. 

The faculty of medicine stood facing your faculty of philosophy and literature, and Jeongguk, wearing his green scrubs and his oversized hoodie, would meet you during lunch breaks, insisting that you spend it together because he didn’t know anyone else and he was too anxious to meet new people because of what Ka-eun put him through. 

But Jeongguk didn’t eat. Not so much like he used to. 

The trauma and the difficulty of his field forced him to turn to cigarettes. And him blowing out the smoke the other way so you don’t inhale it while eating your lunch made another twig, another wing begin to grow on your tree within your chest for him. 

You didn’t love him, but he was kind to you and he meant something to you. You never loved a man, besides Yoongi and Dostoyevsky. And Jungkook puffing out the smoke like that, he reflected Yoongi and his brotherly love for you in a way that made you dream. Dream about a romantic love that everyone else seems to have so easily, except for you. About that romantic love you read about in your favorite Dostoyevsky book White Nights. 

But perhaps the affinity you had for Jeongguk was some kind of love that the books haven’t written about, at least later on. A kind of non-romantic love that you, yourself, came up with. A love that meant nothing in this world, but everything to you. A love that blazed up like the tip of Jeongguk’s cigarette that he lit up for you at the beginning of autumn of this year, letting you try it out just because he felt like it. 

Another first that has become a habit. 

You didn’t have money of your own to spend it on packs of cigarettes, but Jeongguk did. And he’s never been the kind of person who was stingy. He would give himself if he could, and it completes him—the act of giving and the other person’s response of receiving. 

His eyes burst with light at this very moment, a few months later, just like they did the first time when he lit up a cigarette for you. Though this time, you don’t need his help. You feel their heat, in the middle of this frosty bus stop, as he watches you place the cigarette he pulled up from his pack for you, his own hanging from his lips, unlit. He always waits for you to light up your own first like the gentleman he is, but something about his gaze is different. You sense their intensity, their foreign, foreign intensity that you don’t think is meant for you. And when you take that first puff, you expect it to leave you—like you’ve learned that it always does—but for some reason it doesn’t. 

There’s depth to the eye contact once you reciprocate it. Murkiness descends upon the pair of you, the sun parting ways with the day in a much quicker way that you still haven’t gotten used to. And along with it, a light layer of snow begins to fall. 

Something is meaningful about it—like it should be written down. Jeongguk’s eyes of lingering seriousness, pensive. The snowflakes that settle upon his ebony hair. How silky they must be to the touch. Always so poofy and voluminous. 

Your hands itch to write and Jeongguk doesn’t ask for his pink lighter back. He merely keeps staring, and you start to think that maybe something is weighing his heart heavily. Something personal that he will soon pour out. Like he always does. 

You’re the listener, never the talker, but something inside you urges you, strangely, to make the first move. Get him talking, get him smoking, so he can go home, go to bed and awake with a fresh consciousness, ready to be filled with anatomy, sicknesses and all the other stuff he needs to cram. 

The hand that longs to write lifts, and it feels natural. It feels natural to flick your thumb on the lighter and call fire to life. It feels natural when Jeongguk purses his lips, lifting the cigarette in the process, and holds it up for you while his hands remain warm in the pockets of his oversized black jacket. It feels natural to watch him suck in, the cheeks that carry too many memories of his tears hollowing out. 

And for a second that is too brief, you let your soul imagine what it would be like… to have Jeongguk as your boyfriend. 

To have the full, ceaseless measure of his love. The one that is meant for the better people, but not for you. 

To have his hands touch your skin in a way that would convey what he feels for you— 

“Have you told your brother yet?” 

Too, too brief, that second. Internally, you take your imagination and sew it shut with a pink thread. Pastel pink, like his lighter. 

The question aches as if you pricked your heart with the needle. You haven’t told Yoongi that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy after school. You haven’t even told your journal. All in fear that the only life you ever managed to experience out of the realm of your books would simply disperse, never to be found again. 

In fear that Yoongi would be mad and you’d add another layer of stress on top of his already high pile. In fear that he would yell at you like your father did over meaningless things. 

“No,” you respond, softly, dropping your gaze to the ashy tip of your cigarette, flicking it off. The prickling sensation deepens as the iciness of the weather grows. You shiver, sighing. The tree in you does as well. “I’ll never tell him. Never—”

“Never in a million years,” he finishes for you, and your mouth parts in the overwhelming realization that you were wrong. 

Jeongguk does know something about you. He remembers that this is a sentence that repeats in your vocabulary multiple times a day. And there’s such intimacy to it, him knowing this, him finishing the sentence for you, him being educated in the matter that bears your name. 

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you’re too starved of any male attention, love and touch. 

Your imagination in you fights against the seam. 

“What happens if he sees you?” Jeongguk asks, and you pause before replying. Take a puff of your cigarette, watch as a miniscule star of mischief begins to live within the macadamia chocolate of his eyes—as if the principle of him secretly corrupting you utterly enthralls him. You picture that’s what he smells like underneath all those clothes of his, your imagination poking a finger through the seam. And you let it—you let it grasp you because it’s stronger than you. 

Macadamia, musk, cedarwood. 

The kind of lustful smell that is dark to the sight, but innocent in its core. 

Behind him, the blue murkiness fully evens out, no hint of the sun’s coloring painting its corners with positivity. Pessimism abides, and you feel it burying itself into your literature-woven bones. 

You’ve been waiting twenty minutes for the bus, Jeongguk even longer for his. The roads are long and empty, darkening the longer you stand here. The snow forms a firm layer on the ground, and you already anticipate Yoongi’s anger-infused worry, crawling all over you. 

You turn to look at Jeongguk, your blood flow at full halt. 

“War happens, Jeongguk,” you say, swallowing thickly. “If Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our house.”

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist | BACK to series masterlist

[silvers-not-home]

rewatching double life right now but through jimmys pov and just realized how violently ill rancher duo makes me /aff

like there's no way there's a duo THIS healthy in this series. the whole fucking point of the life series is betrayal and deception and blah blah blah all that jazz but rancher duo never did any of that. they always told eachother their plans, ideas, schemes, where they were going. and even if they didn't cough cough jimmy going into the deep dark cough cough he still came clean and told tango anyways. we have someone who's death is such a staple in the fandom/series that it's become a whole thing and someone who's death you go "oh yeahhh i forgot about that one, how'd he die again?"

they're both so ignored and the fact that they pay so much attention to eachother literally makes me sick to my stomach /hj /aff

like i don't know much about flower husbands but like. i know it probably wasn't.. the healthiest of any of the ships so take my words with a grain of sand here. jimmy was practically invisible to scott no hate love him to death but c!scott IS on my hit list and tango is just so blatantly ignored by the watchers and other members sometimes i literally forget he's there and when i do my autism shoots up like a firework.

jimmy is mocked in a /lh way but we're talking abt their c!versions so that might not be as lighthearted as you think c!jimmy sorry bud so much to the point no one takes him seriously and tango is so forgotten that no one takes him seriously. though they might not be taken seriously when they're together they're still known throughout the server. jimmy has what tango doesn't: patience and less impulsive thinking. and tango has what jimmy doesn't: rage and more tactical thinking.

while tango is going absolutely apeshit over the ranch burning down and everyone is basically taunting him, making him even more upset as if either of them need that jimmy is the one to hold tango back. he doesn't want him rushing in not because they share health and trying to keep himself safe desert duo im looking at you, you toxic bastards /aff but because he genuinely CARES about him. because when they go after scar and grian they want to be prepared and logical about their attacks. he'll still listen and follow through with tangos plan but not when they don't have one, he was so excited to bring the warden to grian and scar because he genuinely believed that they would get revenge the safe way (as safe as you can get anyways)

and when the plan backfired he didn't get mad or upset at tango. he helped him through it with the knowledge they could both die just by one small slip up but damnit if he's gonna take them out he's standing tall next to him.

they never got mad at eachother. not when the plans backfired or when jimmy died and lost all his stuff and had to travel across the whole server just to not get his stuff back or when jimmy went into the deep dark, putting them both in danger or when tango got them both killed in the FIRST EPISODE, activating his curse again (i know it wasn't technically jimmy that died but he still lost a life so i'm counting it anyways shut up)

because grian would've been pissed (talking about character versions still stick with me here) at scar if the roles were swapped, probably would've kept him at their base for the whole damn season actually. but jimmy listened to tango, obviously he was upset but never at tango. he just wanted to know what lead up to that and from that they made a plan.

the difference between team rancher and desert duo is when scars falling grian yells out for him, not because he cares about scars safety but because he cares about his safety.

meanwhile when tangos falling jimmy jumps after him while screaming his name, making sure that if he's going to die it's tangos name staining his tongue and without the selfish intent of keeping himself safe.

because when grain looks into scars eyes he only sees himself. meanwhile when jimmy looks into tangos eyes he sees tango looking back.