#but also the horror on his face as he reads between the lines on the tape and realizes he hasnt escaped the web of terror just yet

[jennilah]

John is the real throat-goat of the franchise. this guy swallowed a tape whole with no issue. i can barely swallow a pill without choking

[flowerandblood]

The Lost Haven (5/16)

[ modern mafia • Aemond x niece • female ]

[ warnings: uprotected sex, drunk sex (with consent), incest obviously, smut, fingering, the angst, panic attack, violence, bad & morally unacceptable things ]

[ description: The vacation from eight years ago still haunts his memories and doesn't let him forget what happened between him and his niece, the daughter of his sister and Harwin Strong. Their paths separate and he immerses himself in his father's mafia world until the day she calls him for the first time since those events. Sexual tension, dark, dangerous, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: As promised, this is another, this time official modern version of The Fall from the Heavens. In this version, Daemon is not related to the family, but is simply Rhaenyra's husband and the leader of the second gang, Alys and Larys are also not related to each other, but Larys is Harwin's brother. I will partly refer to the original series, hiding some easter eggs, and some will be a completely new, fresh plot. As in every universe, only Aemond calls her Rhaenys and this is not her real name (she is unnamed character and the others also do not know that he calls her that). There will be a lot more brutality and angst in this version, so watch out. You can read this as a standalone story.

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond & Rhaenys Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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When he got up from the pier and moved ahead, he felt like his head was going to explode. He clutched at the left side of his face, his artificial eye, feeling that, as usual when he panicked, his hypersensitive nerves made him feel a stinging discomfort and pain in his eye socket.

"Come. Let's take a walk." He heard a defiant, harsh voice in front of him and raised his gaze, surprised to see Daemon's silhouette heading towards him.

"Fuck off." He hissed, wanting to avoid him, but the man's hand clamped down aggressively on his arm, stopping him in mid-step.

"We need to talk about my daughter." He said, making his heart leap into his throat, cold sweat running down his back.

"What do I have to do with her?" He asked coldly, unable to look him in the face, staring dully ahead.

"Clearly too much. So?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line, his free hand slowly moving to the back pocket of his trousers, to his penknife.

"– don't –" Daemon said.

He swallowed hard when he let go of him, turning away, moving with a lazy, slow step towards the shore. He followed him, looking around, Jace's concerned face watching them from afar.

"Don't worry. I told him to wait until we were done talking." He said, standing between the trees in such a place to be sure no one would overhear them.

"Something happened between you two eight years ago. I want to know what." He said matter-of-factly, resting the weight of his body on his left leg, looking around as if he was annoyed at being forced to converse with him.

He felt the heat of horror in his stomach at his question, as if he had been caught red-handed.

"My left eye happened to me." He growled, wanting to close the subject and get as far away from this man as possible. "Anything else?"

"My daughter put something on her mouth before we left. It must have had some glitter on it, because it sparkled. But when I saw her just now, she no longer had any lip gloss on." He said wearily, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as if to check his reaction, his gaze piercing and sharp, making his breath get stuck in his throat.

Oh God.

Oh my fucking God.

Seeing that he stood with his lips parted, looking at him like an idiot, Daemon chuckled and shook his head in disbelief.

"I knew she was hiding something." He muttered more to himself than to him. "How long has this been going on?"

What?

"What do you mean?" He asked, feeling a rush of adrenaline at the thought that his feelings, his sickening longing and desire might have been reciprocated by her.

Daemon looked at him with reluctance and sighed heavily.

"This thing between you two. What happened eight years ago?" He asked in a voice that indicated he was impatient and was not going to ask a third time.

He hated him with all his heart and despised him, but his directness, the way he saw what was elusive to others made him think, in a fit of desperation, that he had to get it off his chest.

That maybe when he finally told someone about it, he could move on at last.

"She was afraid of the dark and would come to sleep in my room." He muttered finally.

"You used her?" Daemon asked coldly, and he snorted, feeling a cold, unpleasant shiver run down his spine.

"I think you're completely out of your fucking mind." He hissed, not knowing what to do with his terror and his trembling hands, so he reached into the pocket of his jacket again and pulled out a cigarette, putting it in his mouth with an impatient flick of his hand.

Daemon stared at him wordlessly, watching as he lit it with his lighter.

"But something happened." He finally concluded, making him laugh involuntarily, taking a deep drag.

He shook his head, grinning broadly, not believing that he was having this conversation with this bastard, who was just waiting for his father to die to take over their business.

"Maybe." He hummed, letting out a puff of smoke through his nose, looking away into the complete darkness.

"You know she went to a psychiatrist? When she was in high school." Daemon said and he froze, his hand stopped in mid-motion towards his mouth. He swallowed hard, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

This is when she started posting pictures of herself with these boys, he thought, feeling discomfort in his chest.

"How did she get your phone number?" He asked, snapping him out of his reverie, making his heart stop for a moment.

"What?"

"She called you even though you're not on any social media and you haven't seen each other for eight years. How did she get your phone number?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line, taking a drag on his cigarette and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the smoke out through his nose.

"I gave it to her."

"Why?"

"It's none of your fucking business."

"It's my business." He hissed.

Daemon took a step towards him, making him tense all over, ready to reach into the back pocket of his trousers if necessary.

"She's my daughter."

"She's not your daughter." He said coldly making his nostrils quiver in rage.

"You think blood ties are what make people family? Is that what your grandfather taught you? You know I used to work for him?" He asked, taking his cigarette from his hand, to his fury taking a drag on it before his eyes.

He was unable to respond, however, because what he said completely shocked him.

"Bullshit."

"Ask him. He took me in as a young boy, surely for similar tasks as you. Let me guess, you do the dirty work for him? Picking up cash from people who are late with their payment and making sure they will remember your warning well?" He sneered, hitting the cigarette with his finger, the ashes from it flew to the ground.

Daemon looked at him and smirked, seeing that he had turned pale.

Was he bluffing to get him off balance?

Perhaps he had been watching him and was now using it against him?

"You're using Jace for your own ends, and you're going to lecture me?" He growled through clenched teeth, feeling his heart pounding like mad in his chest, cold sweat running down his back.

Daemon snorted at his words, finishing off his cigarette, then threw it to the ground and crushed it with his boot.

"I gave him a choice: study and have a regular job, or work with me. He chose to work with me. What choice did Otto give you? Did he mention something about how you were already born in this world and will die in it? It would sound like him." He scoffed, putting his hands behind his back, sighing quietly.

He felt ashamed at the thought of feeling tears of humiliation under his eyelids, of feeling like a little deceived boy, someone's pawn, a dog his grandfather had let off the leash to bite someone who happened to get in his way.

It crossed his mind that he was not a human being to him.

"If you want to keep wallowing in this shit, be my guest, but stay the fuck away from my daughter or I'll kill you with my own hands." He hissed dryly and stepped around him, heading back to the building from which the loud music was coming, leaving him alone.

He drew in a loud breath as if he was suffocating and sat down on the sand, inhaling heavily, feeling that his whole body was shaking with fear.

Inhale and exhale, he repeated to himself, trying to calm down.

Inhale and exhale.

When he got up from the ground he just grunted and went back inside as if nothing had happened. His mother approached him, seeing his pale face and wide eyes.

"It's time for presents now. Did you bring what I asked you for?" She asked, clearly having in mind the books they had bought for his father, which he knew he wouldn't read anyway.

"– yes – yes, I'll bring them right away –" He muttered, noticing that his niece was not in the room.

He swallowed hard, heading for his car, escorted by the watchful gaze of his grandfather, thinking that perhaps she had gone home – he was relieved to see that Daemon's Mercedes was standing in the same place.

They were staying in hotel rooms for the night, he thought with disbelief and excitement, from which he felt ashamed.

He cursed under his breath as he closed the boot of his car and turned to see the figure of his grandfather walking towards him. He swallowed hard, correcting the packed set of books in his hands, turning his head away.

"So far there's been no bloodshed, has there? It's not so bad." He chatted him up with good-natured amusement, as if he wanted to make him laugh.

What choice did Otto give you?

Did he mention something about how you were already born in this world and will die in it?

Otto furrowed his brow, seeing the look on his face, and put his hand on his shoulder.

"I know how you feel at the sight of Luke. You want revenge. It's hard." His grandfather said calmly.

He snorted, shaking his head, realising that for the past hour he hadn't thought once about the boy who'd taken his eye from him.

He didn't give a shit.

He was small, scared, pathethic boy, nothing more.

What kind of opponent could he possibly be for him?

"It just so happened that I haven't had a chance to think about him. My head has been occupied by the people I've left behind with a few scars." He said finally in a manner from which Otto blinked, shifting from foot to foot.

"Are you overwhelmed by it? You can tell me." He said making him burst out in loud, unnatural laughter.

"Are you fucking serious?" He asked, and his grandfather shushed him, looking around.

"Keep your voice down. What's got into you now? We don't know how much time your father has left. We must watch our interests, for his death is coming whether we want it or not, and his passing will weaken us. Aegon would rather focus on running his brothel than real business, and I need you. You will replace me someday." He said, placing his hands on his arms in a way as if he was just giving him his blessing.

He stared at him in disbelief, feeling both horror and emptiness in his mind, convinced that it was Aegon who was about to take over the whole business.

The magnitude of everything that was happening around him so unexpectedly overwhelmed him, making it difficult for him to breathe.

I gave him a choice: study and have a regular job, or work with me.

"I want to study archaeology."

He heard the words leave his mouth, but he was sure it wasn't him who said them: they came out of his throat involuntarily, like the babbling of a small child.

His grandfather's reaction, the way he laughed in disbelief, shaking his head made him simply want to cry.

Otto saw it: saw the tear that ran down his face, saw his tightly clenched lips, saw his nostrils twitching with every breath.

"You're serious." He stated finally and sighed, closing his eyes.

"We'll think about it when things calm down. Maybe we can combine it with some part-time studies or night school. We'll find an understanding." He said, patting him on the shoulder, but he looked at him blankly, not seeing him.

He laughed.

It was his dream, and he laughed at it.

He stepped around him, wiping his cheek, returning to his asylum, his fortress in his mind, one that no one had access to.

His mother took their gift from him, along with a watch from Aegon and a set of fountain pens from Helaena and Otto, standing first in line to give Viserys a gift.

However, instead of focusing on his father, hardly sitting in his chair, his attention was focused on what his sister was saying to her husband behind his back.

"– she went to bed because she was feeling unwell – she said she had a stomach ache –"

"– our rooms are next to each other? –" He heard Daemon's voice.

"– yes – as we agreed – they are all double except hers –"

He swallowed hard at the thought that not only was she staying the night, but she was alone.

He thought, giving his father a gift from himself and his mother, forcing out of himself dry wishes for his health and prosperity, that he needed her like never before, that she would understand him.

She would not laugh at him.

He could still feel her plump, soft lips tasting of strawberries, and even the thought that Daemon knew he had kissed her could not make him give up the idea.

His mother insisted he stay another hour out of courtesy, so he surprised his older brother by demanding he bring them a bottle of whisky.

Aegon did so eagerly, pouring it into their glasses.

"What's the matter, brother? You seem shaken. Has the sight of your nephew roused you so? Or maybe your niece?" He asked, clinking his glass against his, tilting half of it immediately down his throat.

He took a loud sip from his glass, feeling an unpleasant sting in his chest at his words.

He did not answer.

Aegon scratched his chin, seeing the look on his face, the people around them getting drunker and drunker, dancing like it was the best night of their lives.

He couldn't believe how the people shaking this city could look so pathetic from the sidelines.

"Did you really kiss her? Then, eight years ago." He asked finally, and he froze, staring dully ahead.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, you know. Then, during our holiday. I yelled at you like some idiot, and now I think, after all, we were just little kids. I was a terrible son of a bitch." He hummed, spreading out comfortably in his chair.

"You still are." He said dispassionately, feeling a black, boundless void in his mind, involuntarily taking another deep sip of his whisky.

Aegon looked at him for a moment in thought.

"I was jealous. You left me alone with those idiots, her brothers, while you ran around and played in the sand by yourself. You didn't even ask me if I wanted to come with you." He muttered, already a little drunk himself, turning his glass in his hands, clearly sunk in his memories.

He sighed at his words and raised his gaze to the ceiling, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Stop your bullshit. You humiliated me along with them at every turn. She was the only one who didn't do that and you're surprised it was her I ran away from you with? What fucking choice did I have? What do you all want from me? Hm?" He growled finally feeling that he was on the edge, that he was about to explode and something bad was about to happen.

Aegon swallowed hard, looking at him with big eyes, horrified.

"I'm sorry. For that joke with your boxers." He mumbled, lowering his gaze. "I regretted it later. But it was too late."

"Joke? You know what would be a really good joke? If our mother found out now that the club you so bravely run is just a cover for a brothel. That you fuck your own whores and don't even pay them for it." He said coldly with a broad grin, leaning his elbow against the back of the chair.

"Say, brother, wouldn't that be fun?" He asked, and after a moment stood up quickly, cursing loudly as Aegon vomited on the table.

His mother made him help his brother get to his room and together they walked to the reception desk, meeting his step-sister there.

"Reservation for Rhaenyra Targaryen." She said while his mother talked to the other woman about the room reserved for him and Aegon.

The thought that he was to sleep in the same space with him made him sick.

"Room 301, 302 and 303 – the key for room 301 was already handed out two hours ago." Said the receptionist. Rhaenyra nodded her head.

"Yes, yes, my daughter is already in her room, we just ask for the rest of the keys." She said.

He swallowed hard, feeling that his heart was pounding like mad at the dangerous thought that crossed his mind.

Room 301.

He carried Aegon into their room, which he had opened with a card earlier, and threw him on the bed like a sack of potatoes. He covered him carelessly with the duvet and sighed heavily, looking into the fridge, seeing a full bottle of whisky in it.

He pulled it out without thinking, opening the window wide, feeling that he was hot and cold at the same time. He unscrewed the cap from the glass bottle and took a few deep sips from it, sitting down on his bed.

Should he go to her or not?

She was probably already asleep.

Should he bother her after what he'd done to her?

What was he supposed to say to her?

Apologise?

There were no words, no sentences that could make up for the fact that he had not answered her for eight years.

He wanted to express his condolences to her after her father's death, but he didn't.

He was afraid that she would then want to renew contact, to meet up – he knew he wouldn't survive that, that it would all come back to him like a wave, that he would only ridicule himself.

He had never drank alcohol at such a rapid pace before, angry, sad, bitter, heartbroken, exhausted, always having to be the more considerate, cool, calculating brother when Aegon only lived from party to party.

He knew that his older brother, like him, could not cope with what was going on around them, with how brutal and ruthless the world they lived in was. He had witnessed several shootings in which people with whom he had been drinking shots of vodka the day before had lost their lives.

I want to study archaeology.

What the fuck had occurred to him to say that?

He felt an overwhelming shame that he had humiliated himself in front of his own grandfather, that he had shown that he was weak, that now neither he nor anyone else would respect him.

He took another loud, deep gulp of whisky at the thought, feeling the room around him become more and more blurred, his mind seeming to drift away and relax making his thoughts flow through his head like a river.

She tasted so wonderful: her lips. Her kisses were so sweet, tender, warm, moist. She must have kissed with her tongue before. With which boy for the first time? Probably with that fucking Robb, the hollow handsome guy from her year. He certainly didn't treat her well, otherwise she'd still be with him despite that photo on Facebook. Or maybe they were still together, only he didn't know it? She hadn't posted a picture with him in a year. They certainly weren't together. Fuck, how he hated him.

Had he managed to sleep with her before she realised he was a two-faced bastard? Or was she still a virgin? No, what he did to her didn't scare her, she must have had some experience. Was he tender to her? Had he prepared her well, made her all moist and eager? Did he do it slowly, did he make sure he wasn't causing her pain? Was he telling her how much he loved her, how good she made him feel?

He blinked, feeling that his cheeks were wet, that he was breathing loudly through his mouth, whooping with tears, that there were some high-pitched, squeaky sounds coming from his mouth as if he were a little boy.

I want to go to her, he thought.

I want her to hug me.

It turned out that getting out of his room and walking a small part of the corridor proved to be more difficult than he thought, because everything around him was spinning. He had no idea why he had taken his bottle with him, but he thought he felt safer with it.

Finally, he spotted the door with the number 301 in front of his face and knocked far too loudly, swallowing hard for air.

"− Rhaenys − fuck −" He muttered, feeling himself lose his balance and fall to the floor with a loud thud. He hissed, moving to the wall, leaning his head against it.

"− I want to go to sleep −" He mumbled pleadingly, wanting only to fall asleep next to her, nothing more.

He closed his eyes and hummed when he heard a quiet creak, and then her voice.

"Come."

He woke up, looking at her surprised, at her sweet, innocent face, and picked himself up quickly, too quickly, losing his balance again, falling to his knees, dropping the bottle and its contents on the floor.

"− fuck −" He cursed, trying to reach for it, but her hands tightened on his arm.

"− no − leave it − come inside −"

He was delighted to find that as he collapsed on her bed everything around him smelled of her − his erection pulsed happily at the thought, pleased as he was. He murmured when she felt him pull his shoes off his feet, making him spread out more comfortably, and then reached into his leather jacket.

"− you'll be too hot −" She whispered, and when he opened his eyes he saw her face above him in the darkness, the warm look of her gentle eyes.

He involuntarily put his arms around her waist and pulled her close making her squeal, his hand running over her wonderfully soft hair and neck.

"− come here − God, you smell so good −"He muttered with delight, in his original intention just wanting to hug her, spreading his legs apart so she could lie between them, pressed against his chest.

However, out of some natural reflex he kissed her, and as their fleshy lips pressed against each other in a loud, dirty, sticky kiss full of their tongues, his cock bumped against her belly, betraying his arousal.

"− tell me to leave −" He mumbled between one kiss and the next, stroking her fragrant hair, her back and buttocks, thinking that he didn't want to hurt her, that he just wanted to feel her, just like he did that night eight years ago when he kissed her for the first time. "− tell me to stop −"

But she didn't say anything, neither when his hands slid under the material of her panties nor when his fingers tentatively sank into her hot, silky womanhood.

She was leaking.

She whimpered into his mouth, quivering all over in his embrace as he began to play with her throbbing entrance, merely teasing it with the tips of his fingers, feeling her hard nipples pressed against his chest, slowly building hot tension in his lower abdomen.

"− shhh − easy now −" He breathed out into her mouth delighted that she was aroused, that she was all wet and thirsty for him and his caresses. His thumb pressed and stroked her bud in circular motions while the rest of his hand roamed over her hot slit, throbbing with longing.

Instead of pushing him away, she kissed him deeper and bolder, making his swollen erection painfully hard, pushing impatiently against her abdomen. He figured he had to prepare her well first for what he wanted put inside her, so he tentatively slid the tip of his middle finger into her.

She moaned loudly into his throat as he began to tease her, sliding his finger in and out, her fleshy walls soaking wet, warm and rough.

God, how he wanted to feel her.

"− uncle − we can't − we can't, we can't, we can't −" She cried out, against her words rolling her hips back and forth, falling and rising on his finger, making her moisture begin to leak onto his palm with a loud click.

"− we can − we will − we need to prepare you properly − shhh −" He gasped, soothing and hushing her like a small child. He stroked her hair with his free hand, hugging her to his chest, with the other fucking her eager cunt with his finger, rubbing his swollen manhood against her belly.

"− please − it's wrong − God, it's so wrong −" She pleaded, clasping her hands over his turtleneck, her blurry, pretty face red with exertion and desire, her sweet lips parted wide in lust while her eyes remained closed in euphoria.

We're going to fuck, he thought, sliding his finger out of her – he put his hand between their bodies, unzipping his trousers, sliding their material together with his boxers, releasing his long, throbbing erection, dripping with impatience.

"− shhh − I know, baby − I will take care of you − I got you −" He whispered, holding the base of his length with one hand, the other directing her weeping cunt at the pink head of it, opening her wide with a low groan of pleasure, throwing his head back.

She was so warm, enveloping his twitching, fat manhood wonderfully on all sides, his beautiful, beautiful niece.

"− please, Aemond, please −" She mewled into his mouth, spreading her thighs wide before him, letting him sink all the way into her flesh with one deep, slow thrust.

"− let me − I need you −" He mumbled, feeling like his cock was about to explode with arousal, imposing a fierce, violent pace on her at once, slamming into her with sure, greedy stabs of his hips, feeling like he'd lost his breath.

He concentrated only on that natural, primal reflex: thrusting, invading deep into her body, stretching her tight walls on the thick part of his erection, helping himself with his hands that held her plump buttocks in place.

His thrusts into her were more violent, deeper and faster than his slips out of her, slower and full of anticipation, and as his hips began their next movement, he sunk from the uncomfortable coldness of the room into the warm wetness of her spasming pussy again.

They both panted and moaned, trying to find a rhythm together, her hips bucking while her hands found a support on his chest, responding to each of his pushes, pounding into her throbbing cunt, clicking from her moisture, again and again.

"− I − ah − mghmmm − G-God −" She mumbled out, bursting out crying, simultaneously terrified and delighted at what they were doing exactly as he did, her buttocks slapping against his thighs, sinking him into her warmth, giving his cock a sure, thirsty squeezes.

"− thaaat's it − that's my girl − fuck, so good −" He breathed out, finding in his mind's eye that fucking her, being deep inside her, making love to her was a kind of breakthrough of sorts, taking at last what he had always wanted without regard for what he would feel tomorrow.

What he felt now was the only thing he wanted to feel for the rest of his life, and the thought of it made him feel a squeeze in his testicles indicating that he was close to reaching his peak.

He clamped his hands on her buttocks, spreading them apart with her moan of exertion, sinking into her as deeply as he could, thinking that he was about to come inside his own niece and it was going to feel so fucking good.

"− just a little more − please, just a little more − let me cum inside, baby −" He whispered tenderly, pressing her face against his neck as she whimpered loudly, calling his name, her body shook with an orgasm so strong that her pussy began to clench hard around his cock, making his warm semen simply spurt inside her.

"− God − oh my fucking God −" He muttered, closing his eyes, tilting his head back as his body shook with convulsions, experiencing the most powerful fulfilment of his entire life.

"− oh, baby −" He mumbled out, for a moment seeing only darkness in front of his eyes, completely besotted with pleasure, thrusting his hips into her for another moment with loud slaps of her moisture, feeling the remnants of his seed fill her womb.

Her womb.

Oh God.

What if she wasn't on the pill?

His drunken mind decided after a moment that it didn't matter in the slightest.

He was going to end it all, go study archaeology like she did, fuck her every day in his flat and have lots of kids with her.

Yes, he thought, feeling as calm as ever, recognising that this plan was perfect.

He hummed, pulling his leather jacket from under his back, covering their bare hips. He put his arms around her again, pressing his face against her temple, his lungs filled with the scent of vanilla, her sweat and her sweet wetness from which his thighs were all sticky.

The smell of what they'd done, how pleasant it was.

How right it was.

"− sleep − don't worry − I want this baby −" He mumbled and she just hugged him tighter, placing a soft, tender kiss on his neck, apparently not caring that his soft manhood was still gently throbbing deep inside her.

He sighed in relief, recognising that this was her answer, that she wanted to be his girlfriend again and have children with him in the future.

He closed his eyes and after a few minutes fell into a stony sleep, fulfilled and happy for the first time in eight years.

Throughout the night he could still feel the closeness of her body, her scent, her little hands embracing his waist. He pressed her face against his neck with one hand entwined in her hair, the other having slipped under her panties to feel her soft buttocks beneath his fingers, their legs entwined together on her cramped single bed.

It was so peaceful.

He woke up sensing that it was only dawn, not knowing for a moment where he was or what had happened.

The first thing he felt was her scent − he opened his eyes and then he saw it: his hand that was slipped under the material of her underwear, placed on her buttock, his unzipped trousers, her calm face pressed against his chest, sunk into a deep sleep, her hand lying on his heart.

They fucked.

He came inside her.

He had the best orgasm of his life with his own niece.

He swallowed hard, feeling that the remnants of the alcohol were still humming in his head, giving him a terrible migraine. He sighed, closing his eyes, resting his cheek against her hair, recognising that the fact that he felt no remorse after what had happened between them was evidence that he was completely out of his fucking mind.

He heard her murmur as she twisted in his embrace, snuggling her face into his neck. The knuckles of his free hand stroked her plump cheek as his lips kissed the top of her head, causing her to lift the gaze of her bright eyes to him.

They stared at each other for a moment in complete silence − her small fingers rose to his face, her thumb stroked his jaw, responding to his tender caress as he pressed his forehead against hers.

There was nothing they could say, he thought.

No words could describe what they felt, what they were experiencing deep inside themselves, what they wanted.

As she lifted herself on her arm, moving closer to his face, he reached out to touch her, and they soft mouth met in a warm, sticky, lazy kiss. Her moist lips pulled away from his with a quiet click only to cling to him again, again and again, their caresses slow, tender, full of understanding and a desire to comfort.

Their hands stroked each other's faces, her soft breasts hidden under the material of her Tshirt pressed against his chest, her scent filling his lungs completely.

He felt at peace.

He felt at home.

"I know it's wrong, but I don't regret this." She whispered between one soft kiss and the next, closing his lower lip between her mouth, sucking on it for a moment with his gasp of delight.

"Neither do I." He hummed, reciprocating by running the tip of his slick tongue over her palate, his fingers slipped under the material of her panties, digging into the smooth skin of her buttocks.

"Mmm." She purred into his mouth, enclosing his cheeks in her hands, laying on top of him, letting him use her body again to rub it against his throbbing, half-hard manhood.

"One more time?" He suggested, panting quietly, rolling his hips so that he was brushing against the space between her thighs, his hand from her buttock sliding lower again, checking her condition. He grinned under his breath as he felt her warm wetness under the tips of his fingers, sliding one of them slowly into her hot, throbbing flesh.

"− look at you − all sticky −" He gasped in delight between their one messy, loud kiss and another, their desire-swollen lips beginning to devour each other in the chaos of their tongues and teeth, her moans sweet and vulnerable, doomed to give him what he wanted.

"− you − you on top −" She mumbled, and he sighed, immediately turning her onto her back, slipping her panties off her hips in a nimble, quick motion.

He didn't want to take away her sense of security or expose her completely, so he decided not to undress her or himself, for now, just wanting to feel her again.

"− come here − just like that, spread 'em wide −" He praised her, releasing his swollen erection from his trousers, seeing how her thighs instantly opened out to the sides in front of him, showing him her glistening pink folds, from which his pearly semen leaked.

"− what a sight − I will make sure I've filled you properly −" He gasped, and she nodded, her hands clenched on the pillow on either side of her head, her mouth parted wide in a heavy, excited breath.

They both groaned pathetically as, with the help of his free hand, using the other to support his balance, he directed the fat, dripping head of his cock against her throbbing slit, pushing between her hot opening with a soft, slow thrust.

Her walls, hot and leaking with her moisture, made an involuntary resistance to the thickest part of his manhood − she whimpered quietly with effort, throwing her head back, spreading her thighs wider to make the task easier for herself and him, wanting to take it inside.

"− it hurts? −" He muttered, and she shook her head, clenching her eyes, struggling to fit what was just tearing into her body.

He leaned over her, as with a deep, lazy thrust of his hips he slid all the way into her with their sigh of exertion, feeling his erection pulsing all over, embarrassingly close to fulfillment now that he was sober.

"− I'm going to start moving now − okay? −" He asked, and she nodded quickly, raising her hands to his cheeks, pulling him close to her making, together with the movement of his hips, their lips join in a hot, tender kiss.

They panted into each other's throats, their foreheads pressed together as he imposed a sharp, slow pace on her, building the path to their fulfilment with each push, making sure he pounded into her at such an angle as to tease each time a little spot deep inside her, just above her entrance.

"− feels good? −" He exhaled, looking down at her, at her pretty, flushed face, at her hair scattered in disarray around her head, at her puffy, sweet lips parted in deep breaths, swollen from his caresses.

He wanted to make sure he wasn't hurting her, that she wasn't doing it out of fear but because she was just as desperate as he was.

"− yes − yes, Aemond, so, so good −" She mumbled sweetly, tilting her head back, letting him press his lips against her long neck, leaving hot, wet marks on her skin while her eager, slick cunt gave him a greedy, tender squeezes, sucking him deep inside her fleshy core. He moaned low feeling it, involuntarily speeding up, thrusting into her faster and faster with loud slaps of their hips.

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, her body rocked to the rhythm of his thrusts, coming out to meet him willingly, his swollen, throbbing cock all soaked in their shared wetness, making her little pussy click every time he opened her on the widest part of his manhood.

"− just like that − just a little more − your uncle is close −" He exhaled in delight, feeling the tension in his lower abdomen reach its zenith, his whole body tense, coming closer with each push of his hips to the fulfilment he so needed, the bed beneath them began to creak loudly.

His hands slid under her buttocks, clamping down on her warm, soft skin, squeezing them towards each other so that they pressed down on his quivering erection, making her almost painfully tight.

"− fuckkk −" He cursed, biting his lower lip to keep from making any loud noise, hearing her moans of pleasure, her body quivering in fulfillment as her wetness ran down from her pulsing folds onto the sheet beneath them.

He had to cover her mouth with his hand, hearing movement in the corridor around them, knowing that everyone was getting up to go to breakfast, but he only wanted one thing: to come deep inside her.

He sighed and groaned quietly, surprised how a strong shudder shook his body, his eyebrows arched in pain and pleasure as he felt his seed fill her again, again, again, again, making her his, only his.

"− you are my ruin −" He gasped, rolling his hips back and forth, sinking into her beloved, soaked cunt for a moment longer, feeling wonderful waves of hot fulfilment surge through his body.

He collapsed on top of her, panting heavily, together with her just lying there, trying to calm his breathing. He thought, cuddling his face into her welted, sweaty cheek, that being deep inside her felt somehow strangely natural.

Strangely right.

"Are you taking pills?" He asked finally, swallowing hard. He felt her body tense up, her fingers involuntarily clenching on the material of his black turtleneck.

"No."

He nodded, his thumb running over her cheek, wanting to let her feel that he had reckoned with that option when he did what he did.

Twice.

"It's your body. But know that I'd like to be the father of your child. Someday. You decide when. If ever." He whispered in her ear, placing a soft, moist kiss on her cheek.

He heard her swallow hard, clearly completely shocked by his words.

"I…I don't know what I'll do yet. I need to think about it." She finally muttered, obviously not knowing how else she could respond to his confession without offending him. He sighed quietly at her words, feeling a cold squeeze in his chest.

"Let me know when you've made your decision about...you know. Please."

"So that you won't answer me?" She asked in a trembling, breaking voice.

He raised himself on his arm, wanting to look at her face, but she turned her head in the opposite direction, her eyes glazed from tears, her quivering lips clenched into a thin line.

"I'll. I swear I'll. Hey. Hey, look at me." He whispered, cupping her cheeks between his fingers, gently turning her face towards him, tear after tear began to run down her cheeks as her eyebrows arched in pain.

She didn't believe him and he didn't blame her.

"I mean it. I swear. I…" He didn't finish as they both flinched when someone started pounding on her door with their fist.

"Open up." He heard Daemon's voice and immediately slid out of her, fastening his trousers in a hurry, terrified, her eyes big as she quickly grabbed the material of her panties and put them on her thighs.

"Wait a minute!" She called out, handing him his jacket and shoes.

"Hide in the toilet." She whispered to him and he nodded, immediately locking himself in the small room, trying not to make a sound.

Fuck.

After a moment, he heard her open the door, Daemon's voice loud and clear.

"Get changed, we're leaving immediately." He said.

"But why so sudden? I'd like to have breakfast. Has something happened?"

"Viserys is dead."

[iwaasfairy]

┌─ “ ! „ MAGNESIUM

tw. noncon, blood, branding/marking, some pretty egregious dirty talk and degradation, threats, mirror sex, horror elements, knife play, manipulation, murder, little bit of gore, there be a dead body in here somewhere wordcount. 6.3k

a/n. ♡ commissioned by a lovely lovely person whomst im so grateful for ♡ i reallyyy liked writing sakusa a lot so i hope you like it and it is what you hAd IN MINDDD!! this was such a fun commission thank yoUU a ton seriously! mwUah ♡♡♡ i hopeee you enjoy!!! kiSsES once again a million million kisses to everyone who helped read through it when i was struggling you're the bestest ilY

sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

It’s almost impossible to believe that everything led up to - this. You’re slumped against the car door in the back, and though you’re not knocked out, you sort of wish you were. Instead you have to feel the hard glare Kiyoomi sends you through the rear view mirror each time his eyes flick up as he reverses out of the street. There’s tension so thick that you can’t just cut it, but it’s troubling the air between you two like polluted water. Silence drags on until you wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to warm up.

“Where are we going?” You whisper. 

The man in front smoothly turns the corner, as an almost impalpable furrow moves his brow. It takes him too long to answer for your liking, as you shuffle in the leather seat, unable to get comfortable. “I don’t like fighting with you, but you always push me.” The dry tone and answer says everything his eyes can’t. “Tonight pissed me off, you know? I’m not ever gonna let you go.”

“All this because Atsumu complimented me?” You try, and when that doesn’t get a reaction - not even a blink, your hands clamp together. “He’s like that to everyone. He was calling Hinata ‘real handsome’ all evening.” Nothing. The Kiyoomi you fell in love with was a bit sarcastic and clumsy in his words, but he wasn’t ever cruel. Wasn’t ever purposefully standoffish. What seems left of him is only the brittle, icy void. You would’ve been better off breaking up days ago.

He also would’ve given the blond the benefit of the doubt.

You can basically feel the smile shine off of your face closing the billowing curtains against the golden light, looking back at the dark-haired beauty splayed out over your bed. You clear your voice. “So what’s the deal with your teammate- that Miya guy?” Kiyoomi’s brow raises a few millimeters. “He’s serious? He’s really like that all the time?”

“The whole flirtatious act?” Your boyfriend yawns into the question, before rolling over so that his muscular shoulders, pecks, and that pretty waist are even more distracting. It’s infuriating how good he looks. But you nod, and place yourself down on the edge - where he trails a lazy hand over the back of your hand. “Oh, yeah. He has this overflowing… charisma that you can’t help but get used to, and learn to appreciate.” He chuckles when you frown. “He drives me up the wall. But he’s a good guy.”

“Hmm?” Your pout is instantly enough to have him reaching around to pull you down onto him. “You’re not worried?”

You try to blink away tears, and stare out the window instead, at every light that flashes past. More to yourself than to him, you hiccup as you brush away the wobbly lines of heat down your cheeks. “You’ve been acting so— different.” He barely glances before turning too comfortably at the next lights, speeding up enough to make your chest feel tight. “I don’t know what’s happened, but I want you to go back to how you were.” That’s the only way you can put it. It’s like there’s nothing left.

Kiyoomi’s mouth corners drop at your confession, but he doesn’t speak. You’re not sure you want him to anyway. His free hand runs through his brushed back hair, long fingers sitting still against the steering wheel when they land. And they don’t move again as you sit in the quiet cold.

“Worried?” He repeats, calm expression changing into a grin. “Please, Miya fucking wishes.” You laugh when his lips start dragging down your pulse and he softly moans against you. “You’ve got way better taste than that. In neighbors - and,” his kisses get a little more hot and needy when his large hands glide down your body to grab your ass and pull you closer, “in boyfriends- and in perfume— you smell sexy, ‘s that new?”

You giggle harder, can’t help but get flustered when he gets so touchy. “I’ll get an inflated ego if you compliment me so much.” He shrugs, and positions you better onto his broad chest. But still. “How don’t you get jealous? I’m pretty sure I would if the roles were reversed.” His dark hair is splayed out over the pillow when he drops his head back, and those pretty eyes flick over your face for a second, thinking.

“I do,” he eventually breathes, “but not because of you, and definitely not with Miya Atsumu.” When you start giggling again, he frowns. “I mean, truly- genuinely-” You snort, and he stares at you with an affronted look. “If you wanna run into the egotistical, bombastic, borderline- pathetic sunset with that guy, I might have to take a long, hard look at myself. Wonder what horrible traits you’re dating me for.” His eyes fall back to you when you take a deep breath, and he goes a little bit softer as you nuzzle up under his chin. “You wanna leave me for a shitty dye job?”

“I don’t think so,” you whisper back. He looks much too at ease in the comfort of your now shared apartment.

The silence that once felt so comfortable, now squeezes the life out of you with all it’s got. Only after a few minutes, Kiyoomi’s voice reaches out, and the shiver down your neck seems to screw the icy collar down tighter.

“Y’know, I hate how that Miya looks at you. Makes me want to carve his fucking eyes out.”

+

About a week into living in Tokyo, you decide it’s not all that bad. Hauling along the giant box of fresh veggies and two more bags of groceries, you can barely look over enough to watch the elevator open, and hasten your steps. “Hold the door, please! There’s no way I’m doing the stairs today,” you sigh, and watch as the doors ping. You slide in just in time, and a deep chuckle follows when your arms start slowly folding with the weight.

“That’s … some collection you’ve got there,” the deep voice continues, “did I miss the call on doomsday?”

You manage to turn yourself enough to see the pair of warm, obsidian eyes staring down at you - soft curly hair freshly wet from a shower. The eggplants and pumpkins in your box start rolling toward the edge, so you shift the box onto your side with a struggling smile. “No, I- I like to buy in big batches and pre-chop everything to freeze. I don’t really love cooking so… that way I save- some time while still…” You fall quiet when he keeps your gaze without any reaction, and clear your voice. Most of his face is kept behind a black surgical mask, hiding what you imagine to be the rest of a handsome face.

But no one likes being stuck in unwanted small talk, do they. He nods though, right as you arrive on your floor and the doors slide open. “That’s smart. I’ll have to try that sometime.” The box starts slipping further. The noiret’s eyes go from your face to your white-knuckled grip, and then back. “Would you like some help with that?”

“Please,” you can’t say quickly enough, afraid that one wrong move will send the entire box rolling across the floor. It’s not like you to admit defeat so easily, but currently your pride could cost you a hundred on fresh produce, and— he doesn’t seem like the type to ask if he’d mind. Your neighbor doesn’t say anything, but his eyes crinkle a little with a smile. Aside from some very brief passings in the hallway, you haven’t had the chance to meet any of your building’s occupants yet. He doesn’t bat an eye when lifting the very heavy box out of your arms, and you fluster. “Sorry for the hassle.”

“No, it’s alright. I have the afternoon off - ‘s nothing. You’re the new 3B tennant, right?” He frees one hand just to slide his mask down when you nod your face towards your door. He’s probably the prettiest guy you’ve seen to date, strong jawline, full lips and an almost perfectly straight nose; dark curls framing smart, observant eyes. So not only is he tall and charming, he’s also hot. When you mumble a soft acknowledgement, he gives you a little smile, and you can’t help but feel a bit too seen. “I’m Kiyoomi.”

You think you like Kiyoomi.

+

The heat of hands shakes you out of sleep with a slight startle, and the surprise soon makes way for a wave of rolling pleasure mixed under a heavy layer of embarrassment - at the way Kiyoomi’s toying with your body like it’s his own, and the low chuckle he lets out when you let out a pinched whimper. One of his hands is two fingers deep inside your pussy by the time you can even blink the sleep out of your eyes, feeling the warmth flood onto your face. As slick gathers between your thighs, he pushes himself up above you, and squeezes your throat between his free fingers.

“Sorry for waking you up, baby.” There’s a sharp glint in his eyes that you can’t miss even with the low light, deep from within. His hand slides down the curve of your spine to settle around your hip, pressing you further into bed as your back arches when he curls his fingers without any mercy. Though you are leaving wetness all over his hand, the sudden invasion is still a little jarring, definitely when he starts sucking at your tits and bites down. “Omi, ow,” you breathe, and he only grunts as he nudges a thigh between your knees, spreading you apart. “Right now?”

“Shhh, just bear it for a bit,” he mumbles back, as his hand trails down your ribcage and forces your body to adjust to him when he hikes your leg over his shoulder. “Woke up so hard thinking of you, and- you were so cute just sleeping here next to me without a worry in the world.” His fingers are replaced quickly by the hot head of his cock, that is slid a few inches too deep right away, and your whimpering only drives him further. “Ah, fuck, there it is. Good- fucking- girl…” By the time he bottoms out there’s silvery slivers running down your face and you’re shaking your head as the ache has you moaning with pain.

But the dark haired man above you barely gives you any time to adjust, before he starts rocking himself against your center and rubbing himself deep enough to force your mouth shut. “You trust me, don’t you, angel?” He pants, stroking the inside of your thigh a few times, before starting a punishing rhythm that rocks the bed hard. The question takes you off guard, but it doesn’t seem like Kiyoomi needs an answer to keep going anyway, and you swallow down your whimper to hide your face in the pillow. He’s so big and rough and your body can’t keep up. “Oh, your pussy’s so fucking good. So tight and- warm, agh, fuck.”

Jutting out your lip into a little pout, you let out a little noise. You’re trying not to let the way he’s basically getting himself off inside you ruin your mood. After a moment, you blink up at him with wobbly vision. “Can you kiss me?” He takes a few seconds before the words register, fucking you harder each time he bottoms out— before his dark eyes go from your eyes to your lips like he’s having to debate it. And that hurts. He decides maybe against better judgment to lean in anyway, and presses his lips to yours with a low sigh, an almost moan that you suppose you have to be content with. 

He pushes your knee up to your chest as he gets closer, and the heavy pressure of his body on yours gets even more unbearable when his free hand wraps around your neck and presses until you’re gasping out. Your boyfriend’s eyes glint as they flick all over your face, and a small grin starts to travel up his lips. “Don’t you like me better like this?” You’re too distracted by the pounding in your head to answer, and whine out his name as your back arches off the bed. And Kiyoomi pants as he forces you to take each thrust. “I like you a lot. Wanna keep you.” You throw your head back, and reach around his wide shoulders to pull him even closer, trying to lock your legs around his waist with a sigh.

“Shit, you’re so fucking pretty, baby,” he pants into your mouth as he rocks himself into you, forehead to forehead as your nails dig into his skin. You feel bad, but you can’t help but pull him closer by his shoulders as the shower water trickles between you two and makes the entire room a steamy mix of pants and sweaty touches. “So-” he kisses messily, making you smile as his tongue swipes yours, “-damn pretty. I love your body so much.”

“And me?” You breathe back, letting your body tremble in his strong hands as he rocks himself so deep inside you that it’s making you breathless. Your little whine makes him stare, and nod.

“Of course I love you even more— don’t be silly- agh, fuck.” You move one hand to brush the wet tresses of hair out of his face and let yourself get moved up and down him, thighs wrapped ever so tight around his narrow waist. He breathes your name like the word itself is lovely, and you can’t help but moan a long whimper of his name when he hits the right spot so perfectly. “You feel so good, taking my cock right in there- that tight, little pussy. Drooling all over me, huh.” Another kiss as you swallow your mix of spit and rest your hand on his cheek. “You drive me crazy. I really- ugh- really love you, baby.”

Your tits brush up against his chest. “Promise?”

“Uhuh, mh-ahg. Promise. I can’t get enough of you.”

Sometimes you swear you can hear the house close in around you with heavy breaths.

+

The door to your apartment already hangs open when you notice the noise. The low thumping that is only audible when you slide the headphones off, a vaguely rhythmic noise that makes the hairs on your neck stand. You slide off the bed with a little frown, and smooth the wrinkles in your camisole as you peer into the open apartment area - which is empty. “Babe?” The door wobbles when the wind passes through, and your frown only digs deeper into your face when there’s no answer.

“Kiyoomi?”

The noise is louder when you walk towards the hall, and fist your hands into the bottom of the flimsy dress to pull it down. Only after a few moments of thought, your instinct drives you across the hall to pull open the door of the neighbors’, a young guy who moved in after you two did. Sure enough, your stomach drops as the scene splays out before you. There’s red all over the floor, Kiyoomi’s hands, and most horrifying - all over Ryouta’s nose and mouth as the barrage of fists lands over and over again— and you let out a horrified gasp. The damage has already been done, the brunet lays back with swollen eyes and is no longer fighting back, and you’re basically stunned in place as his knuckles crack on his cheek again.

When you manage the next breath, you force out a call of his name between tears. “Hck- Kiyoomi- w-what are you-,” your voice sounds too tiny to be your own, but any more volume doesn’t make it out of your throat, “please stop.” The last crack that resounds before he stops is even harder than any of the ones before— and he gets up without a word, smoothing his jersey back in place. He only quiets a moment, before turning over his shoulder to look at you. You, wobbling toward him like a baby deer.

Honestly, you don’t want to worry about him. But you can’t help but take his hands in yours to inspect the split knuckles, bloody and bruised— as if this is some bizarre dream. Kiyoomi’s precious about his hands. They’re his dreams, his passions, and his opportunities all in one, something to be cared for, rested gently like they mattered more than anything else. And now they’re bloodied like animals at the slaughter. When you look up at him- there’s no regret, no worry or care or concern. Just a blank sort of faux-understanding of your worry when he reaches out to brush your cheek.

You pull back away to look instead at the young man on the floor, because if you think about it too hard, you might start sobbing. Your hands drop by your thighs and feel so heavy, tears drying on your face. “Why did you-”

“Got back from my run and he said he needed your help.” There’s a cold, detached resolution in his voice. “And I told him to forget it, and then he asked me what ‘the fuck’ my problem was.” You find yourself shrinking into yourself when his dark eyes shift to you, with that unreadable look in his eye once more. His hands are slid into his pant pockets with a soft sigh, but he still raises an eyebrow your way. “Why would another guy need my girl?” Ryouta’s been nothing but nice to you since he moved in. You believed, maybe mistakenly, that that niceness had extended to your boyfriend.

But staring at the poor, battered face of the guy on the floor— something tells you that even if it did, Kiyoomi no longer cares. It feels like really, he’ll take any excuse to lash out. Your eyes flick over his face again, before swallowing. “I don’t know. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.” For the first time since you’ve noticed this new side to him, you’re truly scared when he eyes you down. You’ve been upset, and worried, and angry before - but this is new. As the only sound between you two is the shallow rise and fall of your chest, you try to walk up and wrap your arms around his bicep. “I love you, Kiyoomi. I have only ever… loved you.”

He frees a hand to run it over your hair, before leaning down to rest his nose at your crown. “I know you do. You’re a smart little thing, that’s why I like you.” His training jacket still smells like mint and eucalyptus wash sheets, and it does absolutely nothing to soothe the aching pressure that makes its way between your ears and squeezes. And the soft kiss to your forehead doesn’t, either. “Get back inside. I’ll be right there in a bit.”

+

Your apartment is barely a shell of itself now. You realize it -truly realize it- when you toss and turn in your bed and can’t help but get stuck on little things that shouldn’t matter, but they do. The sheets are different, silkier somehow. Kiyoomi got new toothbrushes instead of the old ones with dolphins, and your entire apartment smells just different enough to make it pressing. Slightly bleachy, and too hospital-like. A blue haze is cast through the window by the moon when you softly slip out of bed, ignoring the way a soft puff comes from your boyfriend. He doesn’t stir as you move, though his empty hand seems to reach for the heat you left. Normally you’d wonder if he misses you when you go, but instead the reach just feels possessive. 

It’s like living with a brand new boyfriend all over again.

You don’t like it as much the second time, you realize, trying to choke down the bad air you’re breathing. As you wobble around in the dark, it’s hard to find your footing. The door clicks too loud for your liking when you brush it closed behind you, and slide down onto the couch as your eyes adjust to the dark. You feel like you’re hanging off the edge of falling apart as you look around the room— and try to think. That night when he came home, when he stared off into space and wouldn’t talk to you, your first thought was of another woman. Kiyoomi had never given you any reason to doubt.

He was handsome and intelligent and you were lucky to have him, but he always made it easy to trust him. If he wanted to be with you he’d be with you.

But as more and more days passed, small things got bigger. Not letting you call friends, not letting you dress how you wanted to, glaring at anyone who so much as looked up at you on the street. He’d never been so possessive when things were good. Still, you don’t want to mourn a relationship that isn’t even over yet. You cover your sniffles into your hand, and get up from the couch to go search through his jacket for his phone, or wallet. A stray bobby pin or earring, anything to make sense of the mess inside your head. You wouldn’t be proud of this in the morning - but your brain is eating itself alive. The apartment’s so quiet at night, and the old building pants and moans in the darkness.

The small closet is hotter than the rest of the apartment, more damp too. The jackets are piled high on the dryer, and though you shove your hand down every pocket, your search turns up empty. After a few seconds of turning the last pair of pockets inside out, you sink down into a crouch— and take a deep breath. Just a few weeks ago, you’d thought that you could see yourself marrying Kiyoomi. You’d spent hours by his side, convinced that no one in the world knew you better than he did.

A soft whistling noise sounds from behind the dryer, and makes you wipe your hand under your nose. There’s an old door to a bricked up stairway here, that you never got any use out of. Kiyoomi once stored some brooms there, you think. You don’t know what possesses you to slide your hands into the narrow space between the dryer and the wall and pull, but with some force- it moves. You strain to drag it aside until you jerk, scrambling up.

A track of blood.

Smeared over your normally proper linoleum, there’s a dried off-maroon that can only be blood, crusted onto the wood as a dark patch between the dryer and the door. Your chest caves. Instead of normal breaths, shallow gasps start making your entire body go solid and cold, and your throat dries up. This can’t … it isn’t real. Can’t be. Everything inside you tries to convince you that this is just a nightmare, but even as you pinch your arm hard, nothing happens.

Blood rushes to your bruised knees as you look around, trying not to panic too hard— instead put a shaky hand on the handle. It could be rusty water. A busted pipe. As you move at a glacial pace to open the door, it creaks, and you lick your lips. You can’t cry. You want nothing more than to explode into a dam of tears and unload, but it’s like your body refuses. Every second makes your body pump with adrenaline, until the door clicks open and reveals the narrow space - and in it, something that doesn’t make sense.

Blood pools on the floor, dulled, matted and a disgusting, sticky mess that has you gasping; only to hold back a gag. But in it, sits the slumped, unmoving body of your boyfriend.

The same boyfriend you were sleeping next to just a few minutes ago.

Every hair on your body rises when you choke on the smell, and sink down to press your fingers to his pulse— even when the off white pallor of his face says everything it should. “Omi?” You whisper, and when you breathe out, your throat closes up. You want to wake up. Your first coherent thought is that you can’t breathe; the next, to run. There’s no more heat in his skin, icy to the touch, and it frightens you so much that you jerk back and slam the door to the closet, stopping abruptly between the couch and the door.

It’s when the lights flick on that you do regret that.

Kiyoomi’s voice sounds deeper when you turn. As he stares at you, he brushes his messy curls out of his face. “What are you doing?” You don’t speak. Nothing but a shallow hiccup makes it out of your mouth, but you’re still holding out your hands like they’ve been burned, and maybe that’s enough for him to slide his eyes over to the closet. For a moment it stays quiet. So quiet that you can hear the blood rush beneath your skin, pumping with adrenaline you have no room for. Kiyoomi’s dead. Your Kiyoomi’s dead, isn’t he. “Ah.”

“I- I-”

“You weren’t supposed to go snooping, angel. You’re really making things difficult.” The noiret’s quiet calmness makes way for a slight smile, before he steps out of the doorway towards you. And you flatten yourself to the wall on shaky legs, but moving any more than that feels impossible. You’ve never been so scared in your life— literally frozen solid to the wall as your panicked hiccups send tears welling up in thick, childish bubbles that refuse to tip. He gives you an up and down, before pointing at you as he walks over to the closet, and sighs. “Don’t move.”

You couldn’t, even if you had the courage to. And you very much don’t. It’s so cold— you watch as he pushes into the small room only to drag the body you’d left there out of it. The heavy scraping noise of a limp body across the floor is almost enough to have you totally break. When he dumps the body in the middle of your shared living room, you manage to let out a few noises, strangled, pathetic noises, before you wring your hands together. “W-what did you do to Kiyoomi?”

“I am Kiyoomi,” he says back with enough certainty to shake you, and then smiles a little when finally the tears spill, and you shake your head left and right through your panic.

“You’re not—” is all you can squeak before he walks up to you too close and grabs your face, leaving sticky cold blood with his touch. Your cheek is almost held lovingly, but one glance up at his eyes convinces you that it’s anything but. It’s predatory, a mean glitter of amusement that plays in the darkness, and the harder you cry, the giddier it seems to get. “Let me go, p-please,” you sniffle, “let me go. I won’t tell, I just don’t wanna be- h-here.”

“Shhh, we might as well pretend I’m him still. You look so cute whining that name like it’s your fucking job.” He takes you by the hand after pressing a brief kiss on your forehead, and then sits you down onto the couch. And your chest still feels much too rattled to think about running anywhere, but when he pushes one finger into your mouth with a slight grin, you consider it. “Don’t know any better, do you?” He groans. You want to bite and run, and hide until everything stops pounding— but run where? Your boyfriend’s cold on the floor of your apartment. You can barely stop crying for long enough to take a breath, and the man above you pushes another finger down your throat. “Such a pretty little girlfriend I’ve got- look here-” 

You do - can’t help it when the pressure starts choking you, and whatever frightened look you’re giving him, is enough to make him groan long and hard. It fucks with your brain. It’s still your boyfriend- looks, smells, tastes the same- and if you stop paying attention for a few seconds, it’s almost like everything is back to normal. It’s almost like you’re safe as long as you pretend not to notice what’s going on around just you and the invasive touches that are forced onto you. “Man, you look so fucking wrecked, baby. Say my name, won’t you?” His grin is wide and cheshire-like when he leans in and starts nudging your top down your shoulders. “Say ‘please, Kiyoomi’.”

He doesn’t move his fingers out of the way to allow you. Instead you whimper around his fingers, and try not to choke as spit gets all over your chin and his hand. “Pwea-se, Kiy-oomi.”

“Hahah, you’re so fucking nasty, getting spit all over me. Drooling like a fucking dog while you’re being forced— You like whining and moaning for me?” He takes his fingers out to wipe them on your flimsy camisole and stands to start sliding down his boxers, pushing you back towards the couch. The small grin changes to a tight grimace when you try to grab at him for comfort. “Ah ah ah, don’t think so.” There’s a fistful of hair in his hand before you can apologize, as he shoves you face down towards the couch and holds you there, cheek pressed to the rough fabric. Until your face is hung just off the side, and you’re forced to face the trail of blood that ends in a familiar face.

It’s horrible, and the harder you squeeze your eyes shut against the wave of fresh tears, the deeper the image seems to force itself into your brain. “Kiyoomi~” You whimper pathetically, and he hums in response. Everything’s too close, too loud, his touch is too real and too pressing and warm— burning you from the inside out as he yanks your clothing the last bit down until it hangs around your waist and he drags his fingers up and down your slit through your panties a few times. It leaves the wet fabric awfully sticky against your pussy, and your cheeks get hotter. It’s not your fault, his fingers work you in ways that always work. That thought has your eyes flicking open, but the horrific sight has yet to disappear. “Mh-hck,” you start up again, and try to roll aside as he grabs your thigh hard to hold you in place. “I wanna stop. I wanna stop.”

“Aw, poor baby. Poor angel.” The dismissive tone is cooed as a loving mockery when he pushes you down between your shoulder blades and yanks your panties the rest of the way down. “You don’t even know what to do with yourself, huh?” He then yanks your head up so you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the window, unable to see anything else. You can’t close your eyes to hide from it. Kiyoomi’s grabbing you tight enough to have you unable to move. “I’ll give you a hint. You lay here and you take it. You just listen nice and sweet, ugh-” He groans low when pushing the hot head of his cock against your entrance, patting it with a patient sigh— only to push in with a force that makes you jerk.

Why does it hurt so much? You wanna cry harder when he forces all the heavy girth of his cock inside you and the wetness dripping between your legs squelches loud, but your throat’s too clogged to. Instead only a pinched moan comes out, and he grunts when bottoming out deep inside you. “Girls who don’t listen make me wanna cut them open and eat their insides out. Would you like that?” The pull on your hair forcing your head up is making you lightheaded. That, and the stinging, uncomfortable tightness inside your pussy, squeezing and clenching against the intrusion - still isn’t enough to drown out the horror of those words as he whispers them.

Almost instantly you shake your head left and right, and your muffled ‘no’s melt into a childish cry. “No, nonono, Omi- ‘yoomi- I, no~ pleas-hck- stop. Wanna stop.” He pulls back his hips for long enough to really let you feel the ache of your walls as they cling to his cock, but then thrusts back in and bounces you on his cock. He drops your head back to the side of the couch, and places a hand in the middle of your spine to anchor you down under his weight. 

“You don’t? I think you’re lying. You want to be treated like a sack of meat.” His hips make a loud sound when connecting with your ass. “You don’t like this?”

“Ow, oww, Omi- ‘hurts-” You’re fighting against the caving of your chest each time you exhale, and forced to take shorter breaths each time he fucks back into you. “Ah, ow.” And your pussy hurts, but the rolling of his hips and the stubborn, deep grinding is too overwhelming. You hate that you can hear the wetness of your cunt squeezing around the pumping of him inside, you hate the way he breathes above you, how you can feel him everywhere. It makes you sick. It’s all too much, and still it feels so fucking good that you’re hot in the face. “Mhm~ ‘m sorry. I’m sorry.” You blink through the tears to stare just a second at the trail of blood that he made from the closet to the couch— but you can’t make yourself look any closer. Instead you aim your eyes back at your reflection, and meet other eyes.

“You haven’t wanted to play with me much since I got here. ‘S your own fault that I’m all pent up now, stupid girl.” The steady rhythm in and out of your needy pussy is too much. It feels so good— and you hate it. You clench your hands into the couch as best you can and try to hang on, until your knuckles turn white. The noiret’s voice is back to taunt you, this time as his other hand reaches around to grab the soft of your throat and squeeze, shaking you back to him. “If you want your nice, reliable Kiyoomi, look- he’s right here for you.” You can’t. You can’t. Your tears well over in ugly rivers that you shut behind your lids, and Kiyoomi makes a noise.

You can’t tell if it’s a pleased noise or not, you don’t care. He rolls his hips, and your cunny accepts too eagerly. But it still feels so fucking good. And you can’t stop yourself from feeling like the worst person in the world. Your hands shake, and your head feels faint. Kiyoomi’s dead. There’s nothing else to know. Kiyoomi’s dead and you’re about to cum getting fucked— your whimper gives you away. It’s faint, but he hears it. “Hm, you don’t like him either now huh?” Instead of squeezing your throat, his hand moves to grab your tit instead, pinching your puffy nipple until you can’t help but make a noise. You’re so gross. And your pussy’s still pulling him back in, clenching to the pulsing heat as it fucks right into the softest part of your walls. “I- agh, f- I like bullying my pretty little cock sleeve to tears. So- f-fucking cute like this.”

He ruts into you until your belly feels hot and tingly, and you grind back against him on instinct. You’re getting so close, the pinching, the precise way he hits the needy spot deep inside you - you don’t even want to. “No, no- Omi, I’m- agh, please stop.” You really don’t. “I’m- I’m gonna—” But before you can stop it, your eyes squeeze shut, and your entire body goes tense. The tight ball of heat that’s been expanding all over your body with each pump, each time his heavy balls slap against you, explodes into a million pieces. “Kiyoomi, I love you, I’m so- sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s— all my fault.”

As he fucks you through the blooming heat and the white and black spots that play on your lids, he groans your name low and possessive. Your clenching only slows way after you’ve grinded yourself back against him and drooled all over the couch, until your tired body drops back into the plush. And Kiyoomi lets out a little chuckle. “Yea, it’s all your fault, stupid girl. You lay here and stay— I’ll be right back.” You barely feel the heat leave until it comes back, shoving some of the wetness from your sensitive pussy right back inside with a grunt, and a harsh tap of his hand to your pussy. The sting is sharp, and you glare through your tears as you look up. Not that he cares. “Here. Look. Kiss it.”

The sharp blade that’s basically shoved in your face glints when you hesitate, and suck your bottom lip into your mouth. “Come on. Or else I’ll put it to use on him instead, and you don’t want that, do you?” Your lips press against the cold metal, but your eyes stay resolutely on his face. Dark curls framing dark eyes and long lashes — you often told him he was the most beautiful man you knew. You wonder if he remembered it in the end. You suppose it doesn’t matter though, watching his mirror click his tongue.

“Good girl, such a good baby girl under all the crying and mess, aren’t you? Almost make me think you like me better like this after all.” You can’t answer, but the tears that wobble sadly along your waterline spill over in the silence— and your lip wobbles. And Kiyoomi only brushes a thumb along your lip, before shrugging. “No? That’s a shame. Because you are mine now. Mine. All of you.” He points the knife into the top of your leg, and leaves behind a mark that immediately wells up with dotted red. The immediate pain and sting of hot blood sears through your skin. “Tell me again what name you want me to write? Say it nice and sweet, angel.”

Your voice doesn’t shake as much as you think it should. “Kiyoomi.”

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2023. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

[vroomvroomcircuit]

Avocado Allergy

Summary: Max and his girlfriend are learnign to understand each other's love language

Warnings: mentions of an ex cheating, slight mentions of emotional abuse and manipulation as well as love bombing, but there is also a whole lotta fluff to make up for it

Wordcount: 2.1k

🏎Masterlist🏎

______________________ It’s quiet. A drastic change to the noise that happened mere hours earlier.

But Max relishes in that. After feeling like he is on top of the world with a first place trophy in his hands, he loves feeling grounded again. Especially through her.

(Y/N) head lays on his lap while she reads. Both sitting on the couch that the hotel room offers. Upon checking in they joked about trying not to think about what that piece of furniture has already seen.

Max massages her scalp, concentrating on how her eyes move from line to line, taking in the words that will lead her to a whole story eventually.

In this moment, Max feels at peace.

A peace he never thought he would reach.

A peace, where his thoughts are not full of self-deprecation.

A peace, where he feels enough. Secure. Without a worry.

He presses a kiss to his girlfriend’s forehead. “Will you read to me?” His soft voice cuts pleasantly through the silence. (Y/N) smiles and nods, clears her throat and starts to read the words on the pages in front of her out loud.

A peace, they both thought they would never be able to reach. And yet, they are still here. Basking in each other’s presence like it’s their form of ambrosia. Like it’s the only way that makes them invincible to what the world has against them in its pocket.

To get there, to this point, a whole process of understanding each other had to take place first.

It all started during the early days of their relationship.

“I’ll take you out for dinner tonight. Do you want to go for a shopping trip with Victoria for a new dress? You can take my credit card with you.” Max offers as he appears next to his girlfriend on the sofa.

Confused, she takes her eyes off the article she was reading in some magazine that had been laid out on the coffee table. “Is there a special occasion we go out for?”

(Y/N) thinks for herself a few moments. There is not an anniversary approaching. Neither is any of their birthdays. Or a big accomplishment.

So the question is: What did Max do? What will he be apologizing for?

“No reason except for me wanting to have an amazing date night with my even more amazing girlfriend. I just want us to have a good time.” This makes her even more suspicious.

“Oh,” (Y/N) answers, “Sounds like a good idea. But I don’t feel like going out shopping today.”

In reality, she does not want to get a special dress for a night out, just to get told that he cheated on her or that he totaled her car or something similar in that dress. The young woman does not want such negative energy clinging to a piece of fabric that is supposed to be special.

Max presses a kiss to her cheek before getting up again. “No problem, whatever you put on, you’ll be the most beautiful woman. I love you!” Off he goes, probably doing some Max-Verstappen-stuff.

His compliments and love exclamation in combination makes (Y/N) even more nervous for the upcoming dinner. He must have fucked up royally.

Several horror scenarios are going through her mind over and over again while (Y/N) is getting ready.

Did he actually cheat? Would she take him back after a confession like that?

Or maybe he hates her family and wants to tell her that he doesn’t want to spend any more time with them. That she has to decide between him and her family. Can she make that decision again? Would she make the right one this time?

“You look breathtaking.” Max’s eyes begin to sparkle, similar to the eyes of a child upon entering a toy store.

Can this face, the one of a man admiring the current love of his life like she is the most beautiful sight he has ever been blessed enough to put his eyes on, belong to the same person, that will isolate her from her family and friends? That cheats on her and acts like it was her fault for not being there for him 24/7?

For an average person the answer is simple: No, Max is the guy who nearly brought her bridal style to the emergency room because of her period cramps. He is the same one that ran to the store and back in record time to get some ice for the toe she stubbed on a chair leg.

For (Y/N) the answer is also just as simple: Maybe. Because her previous boyfriend also had a pretty face and said I love you. He also went to expensive restaurants and extravagant short trips with her. He took (Y/N) out for designer shopping trips, making her whole family say that she made the right decision by falling in love with that guy.

The same guy, who cheated on her with a close friend and got her some unimportant, but apparently expensive purse. That man, that followed her to the bathroom, giving her compliment after compliment, to make up for all the dates he canceled.

Maybe, they are not the same to the naked eye. But no one really knows what broods under the skin of any person, right?

“What’s going through your pretty head?” Max asks, putting his hand on her thigh while using the other one for the steering wheel. (Y/N) tries to shake his concern off, simply answering with “Oh, nothing much. Just something about work, you know?” But this man never lets up until he gets to the bottom of a problem. “Tell me about it. If it’s bothering you, it can’t be nothing.”

“Why are you taking me out for dinner? What did you do to try and make up for it? Is it in a public space because I can’t make a scene there?” If he wouldn’t have to watch the road, Max would have gotten whiplash by how fast he looked at his girlfriend. “Um, no? I really just want to take you out because you deserve an amazing night out. I genuinely just want to give you a memorable night. But I can turn around and we order something in. I don’t wanna pressure you into doing anything. I know that we can have just as much of a fun night on our couch watching that one show you have been raving about.”

It takes a few minutes for (Y/N) to comprehend what he said. “So, you will not tell me something bad you did? You actually take me out for no reason, no ulterior motive here?” Max caresses her thigh with his hand. “My only motive is wanting to spend some quality time with you.”

And so they did. The couple has a really romantic evening, sharing jokes and laughs over food and candle light, tugged away in a private corner of Max’s chosen restaurant.

This was the first, but unfortunately not the last time (Y/N) has accused the Dutch of having done something horrible.

Whenever he does a grand gesture, gifting her a very nice bracelet or bringing her to a place she has dreamed to see, it is followed by her asking what kind of crime against their relationship code he committed.

It’s starting to take a strain on both of them. “I don’t know what to do”, he vents to his mother over the telephone. “I love her and only her, but (Y/N) somehow has this twisted image of me that I cheated on her or have done something else wrong and want to apologize for that by taking her on vacation or so. I feel like she doesn’t trust me at all!”

The frustration is detectable in his voice. His mother feels bad for her son. “Have you asked her why she suspects something is off? Maybe you gave her a reason for not having her whole trust?” Max thinks about it. He has never really asked. He doesn’t know why.

“I think I’m losing him.” (Y/N) cries to her best friend. They both sit on her couch in her best friend’s apartment. “I’m accusing him of all these things I know that he would never do to me. But whenever he gifts me something expensive I immediately think of my ex and how he did that too, followed by him telling me he totaled my car or made out with some other woman at a party the night before again.”

Her friend looks at (Y/N) with sympathy. “He love bombed you and distorted your whole love map by doing that. You need to tell Max what he did to you. And you both need to work on understanding what the other person needs in order to feel comfortable in the relationship.”

Having been pep talked to, both find the other person in their shared four walls as soon as possible. They sit down and talk about what they need. They open up to each other and try to find compromises.

Later that night, they lie together in bed, cuddled up while some random movie plays in the background to fill the silence. “I have never felt so safe in a relationship than I do ever since we got together” (Y/N) mumbles, drawing shapes and numbers on his arm with her fingers. “I have never been able to be so true to myself while being romantically involved with someone else.”

Max’s heart starts hurting again. While (Y/N) told him about how much her previous boyfriend manipulated her over and over again, trying to win her over with both grand gestures and verbal threats. He gets it, her getting upset over him trying to be the best boyfriend by reading every wish from her lips.

They both learn to understand each other’s love languages. Max loves to spend quality time and by bringing his girlfriend everywhere with him where she could be present, may it be a simple interview where she sits in the background or the big vacation he had planned for the two. (Y/N) is more a lover of the small gestures. A flower there, holding the edge of a table when the other retrieves the fork that has fallen down during dinner here.

Rediscovering how they can love their soulmate best, it feels like diving into a new part of their relationship. They start to feel a deeper connection, a new level to finding each other. It gets to a point where (Y/N) confidently can say she knows Max like the back of her hand. She is better versed in his voice and tone indication than in her favorite songs.

They are out eating at a nice restaurant with a few of the drivers and their partners. It is a nice evening after the intense race weekend they just endured.

“Can I have some of yours?” Max refers to the pasta dish (Y/N) ordered. “Of course”, she smiles and pushes her plate towards him. Max takes a good bite from it, praising his girlfriend’s choice for her dinner. “Can I try yours?” She asks, eyeing his burger. “No.” Max answers shortly after having already taken a bite of his dish.

Lando chokes on his sip of water he just tried to drink. “No? But she just let you try her food. Why don’t you share?” But Max continues to chew his bite, taking his sweet time before answering.

“Do you want me to kill my girlfriend? Because it’s a sure way to do so by letting her have a bite of my burger, since it has avocado on it and she is allergic to that.”

(Y/N) just melts immediately at that. She mentioned her allergy to avocados once in passing to Max while he was making them sandwiches. But he still remembered it, even after it never had come up ever since.

Maybe it’s really not the big things that make you fall in love with a person. Maybe it’s the attention, the eye for the little things, that can make the greater difference.

And maybe this attention is what led to Max not proposing to her in front of a ferris wheel under the light of fireworks but rather in the kitchen of their shared home over a home cooked meal, asking for her hand in marriage on one knee while being shrouded in solitude.

[italian-lit-tournament]

Italian literature tournament - Second round.

Propaganda in support of the authors is accepted, you can write it both in the tag if reblog the poll (explaining maybe that is propaganda and you want to see posted) or in the comments. Every few days it will be recollected and posted here under the cut.

Propaganda in favour of Primo Levi by @itsmalombra

What to say about Primo Levi? Jew, a leftist until his death, Holocaust survivor (thanks to beng a chemist, he was considered useful by the SS and wasn't killed as soon he arrived to Auschwitz), he condemned with decades of advance the first cases of violence from the just started Israel occupation aganst the Palestinians, having still care for the difficulties that many jews like him were experiencing in Europe. He is one of the author you have to read if you want to understand the contrast and the difference between anti-semitism and anti-sionism. The horrors he endured were the cause of hid death in 1987, possibly by suicide.

About his relationship with other italian jews who moved in Occupied Palestine/Israel but at the same time his distrust to Menachem Begin policies and latent antisionism: Levi was clearly inspired by them, but not enough to follow their example and join his fate in the postwar period to the Zionist project in Israel. He had a complicated relationship to the country. […] Like other Jews, Levi kept up with news from the region, especially during times of crisis. His responses to two of these crises reveal a strong attachment to Israel on a personal level but also some sharp differences with the country’s policies. His criticisms were political and generally lined up with the views of the Italian Left. They came to a head in 1982, during Israel’s incursion into Lebanon in Operation ‘Peace for Galilee’. […] Much of public opinion in Western countries, including Italy, turned against Israel, especially following the Christian Phalange militia’s massacre of Palestinians in Sabra and Shatila in September, 1982. Levi joined his voice to the protests, signing letters urging Israel’s withdrawal and calling for Begin’s retirement from office. In turn, he himself came under criticism from prominent leaders of the Italian Jewish community, who called for communal solidarity at such a time. Fearing an intensification of hostility against Jews in Italy as a result of vehement anti-Israel and antisemitic demonstrations breaking out across Europe, they also thought it unwise for Jews to join their voices in protest against Israel, as Levi and others were doing. Levi’s Italian Jewish friends living in Israel, some of whom lost family members in the country’s War of Independence and subsequent fighting, also spoke out against him. ‘I retain a close sentimental tie with Israel,’ he confessed at the time, ‘but not with this Israel’. [source]

Another article about this important part of him is here, unfortunately is in italian.

I don’t think there is another author as representative of the Holocaust horror (and war horror in general) in Italy like Primo Levi, considering also is eminence in contemporary literature, his interviews with Philip Roth or Judith Butler, him being the namesake of various international associations against discriminations and violence like the Primo Levi Center, the raw and vivid power of his writing and poetry:

You who live safe In your warm house; You who find, come evening, Hot food and the faces of friends: Consider if this is a man Who struggles in the mud Who knows no peace Who fights for crumbs Who dies because of a No or Yes Consider if this is a woman, Nameless and hairless Without strength to remember Vacant eyes and a womb Cold like a frog in the winter: Consider the fact that this has happened: These words I suggest: Etch them on your heart When staying home and going out, Closing your eyes and rising back; Repeat them to your children: Or may your house crumble, Illness bind you And they turn their faces away from you.

If This Is a Man, Primo Levi, 1947.

To describe his importance not only in the italian, but also european and world-wide canon, it takes months and pages of space, a thing that sadly now I don't have, but if you, readed, have never heard of him, you have in front of you so much of books, essays, poetry and writing by Levi that will let you amazed by his depth of though and sensivity, but most importantly, vote now for him👆.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Propaganda in favor of Guido Cavalcanti by @eresia-catara

May I add further propaganda for Guido: He's a noble, he disdains aristocrats, he was Florence's number one Server of Cunt, he was the city's faggot, he was heretical, he went on a random pilgrimage but interrupted it and managed to be buried in a church anyway, he had an archenemy who sent some men to murder him on said pilgrimage, he came back and tried to murder him back in plain daylight, he gave zero fucks about politics, he got exiled because he was considered a menace for the city. He SAW DANTE's poetical talent, encouraged it, shaped it, and through him the whole of italian literature. Think about it. Also they became besties until they evolved to a tormented psychosexual haunting dynamic (see break-up poem) where Dante himself actually exiled him. In the 13th century his poetry anticipates so many of the literary themes of the XXth century, going from fragmentation of the self (his is basically vivisection and dispersion of his parts), to dissociation from one's own mind and body, lack of identity, irony, desecration, his poetry is full of schizophrenic-like hallucinations, reading them is truly a trip, and yet his language is profoundly meoldic and sweet. And there's also gender-fuckery. and theater, of course, because his poems develop like a scene from a theater (adding layers to the dissociation). So really he has it all guys.

Guido Cavalcanti propaganda by @girldante

GUIDO CAVALCANTI PROPAGANDA ABBIAMO:

LA DISSOCIAZIONE SCHIZOFRENICA:

IL COMICO, IL SIMPATICO BURLONE, IL MEMATORE ANTE LITTERAM:

IL MACABRO, IL GORE, I SINTOMI™

IL BREAKUP TOSSICO PASSIVO AGGRESSIVO CON DANTE

in conclusione

[lovebugism]

hi angel! I have a little fictober request … can I pls get holding hands for the first time from the prompt list with steve harrington and shy!reader? maybe they’re in a busy place and steve doesn’t want to lose r so he grabs her hand, not realising how ridiculously flustered she gets <3333

ty for requesting angel :D this can be read as a part two to this fic!

summary: steve takes you to a mall in the city in a desperate attempt to spend time with you, fending off freaks, douchebags, and your anxious tendencies alike (shy!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers cw for mentions of anxiety, 3.5k)

fictober leftovers (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Steve idles between the X-rated horror and thriller sections for several long minutes until he works up the courage to talk to you. You’re a pretty little thing behind the counter, hand in your palm as you scribble into the journal Keith threatened to confiscate from you earlier that morning.

He’s never been this nervous to talk to you. Things are different now. Post-first date, and Steve’s still toeing that wretched line between friends and something more. The puppy love is so painfully mutual, but it’s equally hard to navigate. He can’t come on too strong — not with someone as soft as you — but he’s still got some King Steve left in him. He’s still learning how to be gentle.

With sweaty hands, he walks up to the counter and tries to be subtle about the whole thing. Stealthy, like a ninja. He leans on his folded-up arms and blurts before he means to, “So you’re, like, totally coming tomorrow, right?”

You lift your chin and blink at him with wide eyes. You hadn’t heard him come over, too busy doodling a bunch of nothingness in your notebook. Your stomach whirls at the sight of him. It takes you a moment too long to answer.

“Coming… where?”

“To the mall,” he reminds, then corrects himself with a shrug. “The one in the city— not the shithole we have here.”

“Oh. Uh, I don’t— I don’t know,” you stammer. Steve invited you earlier that week, and you promised to think about it. You did. And you want so desperately to go, but your brain’s too mean, and it just won’t let you.

The disappointment that flashes on his face is fleeting, but you don’t miss it. The hurt softens his features in an unbearable way. It makes your chest ache.

“C’mon,” Steve presses in a gentle lilt. He leans closer to you, eyes twinkling and lips curling. “It could be fun, you know? I mean, everyone’s gonna be there.”

He’s trying his best to persuade you. He has no idea that that’s exactly what’s keeping you from going. Crowds are always stress-inducing, even those of the familiar kind.

“Everyone as in…?”

“Robin, obviously. Dustin, too,” Steve answers, counting on his fingers as he goes. “Max is coming, but Lucas has a basketball thing, so he can’t. And the rest of the little shits are in California, so that’s definitely a plus.”

It’s a dumb joke, but it makes you laugh anyway — a quiet giggle of a thing that makes him grin.

“Uh… Eddie’s coming, too, I think— but don’t let that dissuade you, alright? I promise I’ll protect you from that freak. You don’t have to worry about him.”

You smile because you know he’s joking. You’ve met Eddie a couple times now. He’s always been really sweet to you. Him and Steve just have a strange complex that forces them to be assholes to each other.

“And also, I’m gonna be there. Obviously. So…” he trails off with a wavering smile. So if you don’t wanna come for them, maybe you can come for me, is what he’s really trying to tell you.

“I don’t know,” you repeat, quieter now as you shrink into yourself. You try and fail to meet Steve’s honeyed gaze. “I just feel like I’ll make everything all weird.”

His bushy brows pinch, almost in offense that you’d think you’re anything less than totally perfect. “Why would you think that?”

“‘Cause… I don’t know,” you murmur in a quiet sigh. You don’t want to lie to him, but telling the truth feels so much harder. “They don’t really know me, you know? And I feel like… like I’ll just ruin everything if I’m there…”

It takes Steve a couple of seconds to answer you. He doesn’t know how you could say something that — like you don’t light up every room you’re in. “Well, that’s… that’s just not true,” he argues with a shrug. “They like you. They love you, actually— they just wanna get to know you. And the only way they’re gonna get to know you is if you come hang out every once in a while.”

Your heart flutters. You want to believe him. It’s hard for you to comprehend that anyone could care so much about your presence, so you just nod and don’t say anything further. 

Steve is quick to comfort you, almost like he can read your mind. “But if you think it’s gonna be too much, you could always just stick with me. I’ll fend off the freaks for you, no problem.”

His cinnamon eyes glimmer with honey. He looks at you far too fondly to say no.

—————

There’s six of you crammed into Steve’s 733i. It’s already a tight fit, but it’s more suffocating when it’s full of a million different conversations. Almost all of them are pointed your way. Steve tries to bat everyone off of you, but it’s hard to yell at everyone and drive at the same time.

You’re being a pretty good sport about it despite how anxiously helpless you feel. 

You wring your clammy hands in your lap and try to regulate your bated breaths, nodding to whatever Max is telling you. It’s hard to hear her because Eddie’s talking to you, too. You’re too scared he’ll think you’re mean if you stop him.

You watch Robin reach for the radio, complaining about all the yelling as she turns up the volume. The cheesy pop song is all you can hear. The conversations around you become a monotone buzzing. You feel like you could just about explode.

“Jesus, you guys are acting like you’ve never seen another person before,” Steve shouts over it all, the only definite thing you can understand. “Let her breathe before she thinks we’re all a bunch of lunatics, alright?”

He’s met with a bunch of muffled complaints, but the noise quietens nonetheless.

Steve glances at you in the rearview, a quick check to make sure you’re still okay. You catch him doing it and try your best to give him a smile. It looks more like a wince.

“Well, it’s your fault for finally bringing someone cool around,” Max argues with all her practiced teenaged ambiguity. “I have to spend all day surrounded by freaks— at least now there’s someone halfway normal to talk to.”

“I’m normal!” Steve insists, face twisted in offense.

“You’re a jock.”

“Hey. C’mon, Red,” Eddie scolds, so obviously playful. “Let’s not go throwing the j-word around—”

The brunette boy huffs. “Thank you!”

“—Jock would imply that Steve’s still cool,” the wild-haired boy continues. “Which he isn’t.”

Poorly hidden laughter fills the small car. Steve nods and mutters beneath it all, “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for the clarification, Munson.”

He glances at you again and finds you cracking a halfway sincere smile. He shoots you a light-hearted glare. “Don’t laugh! You’re just encouraging him!”

“Sorry,” you apologize, hiding your giggle behind your fist. “’M sorry.”

Steve smiles at you, silently tells you he doesn’t really mean it. He’d let Musnon make fun of him all day if he thought it meant he’d get to hear you laugh like that again.

—————

You take your first good breath in an hour when you step out of the car. 

Steve shuts it off and gravitates towards you on instinct. His honey eyes are wide as they dart across your flustered features. You see his hands reach towards you, to grab your elbows maybe, but he decides against it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, quicker than you mean to. “I’m good.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I really tried to—”

“I know,” you cut him off with a sweet, still quiet smile. “It’s still okay.”

He sighs heavy, like a deep breath of relief. “Okay. Good,” he hums, almost to himself, nodding with a pink grin you could stare at all day. He would’ve let you, but neither of you get the chance. 

Your friends start messing around, and the chaos melts into the buzzing crowd surrounding you, and you realize the two of you aren’t the only people on earth. Bummer.

You gather around the large map at the entrance of the bustling mall. “Where should we go first?” Dustin chirps from the front of the crowd. His eyes are as wide as his smile. “Game Player? Sam Goody? Oh, look— they have a RadioShack! I’ve been looking for a new supercomm. It’s on the other side of the  building, though, but we can just work our way around, I guess—”

“Jesus, Dusty-Bun,” Robin interjects with a gritty laugh. She stands on the outside of the group, arms crossed over her chest, effortlessly too cool for it all. “Take a breath, buddy.”

“Don’t call me that!” the boy gripes over his right shoulder.

Steve shrugs. “Go wherever you want to. I don’t care.”

Dustin looks to his left, shooting the older boy a glare. “Aren’t you supposed to be the babysitter?”

“You’re fourteen!”

“Well, what if I get kidnapped?”

“No one’s kidnapping you, alright? Trust me,” Steve jokes, only smiling when he sees you trying to hide yours. He puts his hands on his waist and cocks his hip to the side. “They’ll send you right back where you came from. You have nothing to worry about.”

Dustin squints. “Rude.”

“We’ll just meet back at the food court in, like, two hours. And if you don’t get yourself killed, you’ll be fine,” Steve reasons with a nonchalant shrug and a jutted-out lip.

“Oh. Wow. Thanks, Steve. What would I ever do without you?”

He rolls his cinnamon eyes at the boy’s monotone. “Alright, smartass.”

When the rest of the group dissipates, he leans over to nudge your shoulder. It knocks you from your stupor — so deep in your own head you were practically drowning. You blink at him with wide, glassy eyes. “Hm?”

“Do you wanna go anywhere?” he asks with a wavering smile. His laugh is equally forced. “You’re kinda staring a hole into the map there…”

“Oh. No. I was just…” you trail off with a shake of your head. You’re not entirely sure what to tell him, how to make him understand your easily overstimulated mind. “I was just distracted. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. No big deal.”

“Where did everyone else go?” you wonder with a furrow to your brow, noticing the lack of familiar chaos around you.

“Eddie and Dustin went to some movie store, and I think Robin and Max are on the hunt for cassettes.”

“Okay...” you nod with a tremble in your voice. 

You’re still not totally used to being alone with Steve. Your friends are usually good distractions. They fill your awkward silences with something funnier and talk loud when you get too quiet. When they’re not around it’s just… awkward silences and quiet air. 

You get too in your own head, so eager to impress the pretty boy beside you, that you end up putting your foot in your mouth.

Steve doesn’t seem nearly as apprehensive. Instead, he’s beaming at the fact that he’s finally got you alone. He doesn’t have to worry about quieting Dustin when he gets too loud or shoving Eddie away when he forgets what personal space is. It’s quieter with just the two of you — warmer, cozier, easier.

“Wanna go down to the food court?” he wonders, honey eyes sparkling when he looks your way. “I know you haven’t eaten anything yet, so…”

Your eyes narrow, accusing and playful. “How would you know that?”

“Uh, ‘cause I know you,” the boy scoffs like it’s obvious. “I basically have to force you to eat every morning.”

“That’s not true!”

“It so is!” Steve giggles and it’s heaven to your ears, the exact sound of honey. “That’s why I hate not opening with you. ‘Cause if I’m not around to force you to eat the other half of my Poptart, I’m just, like, worrying if you’re withering away or not.”

Your face burns hot. Your heart swells with a similar warmth that borders on painful. You didn’t think he cared so much about you — or that he ever thought about you outside of work or the occasional hangout.

“Fine,” you concede with your arms crossed over your chest, trying not to seem as flustered as you feel. “Let’s go to the food court.”

Steve grins. He follows you in stride when you start to head that way. “Cool. We can go get one of those disgustingly good burgers or something.”

“For breakfast?” you wonder with a light-hearted laugh.

“Yeah! Like, one of those crazy huge ones, you know? The patties are, like, the size of your fist— make a fist.”

You do. You ball your fingers and hold them up between you. Steve holds onto your wrist for further inspection, fingers long and warm and soft. You swallow.

“Bigger than your fist,” he corrects with a laugh. The sweet sound is drowned out by the swell of yelling teenagers. They talk so loudly and over one another that their conversations become a meaningless drones.

Two in particular shove at one another, laughing loud like it’s fun. One of them almost barrels into you — long blonde hair, tight shirt, tighter jeans, and cologne so potent it stings your nose. He just narrowly misses you, mostly because Steve’s there to yank you out of the way.

The boy’s gentle grip on you tightens. He pulls you close until you’re stumbling into his side. With a strong arm wrapped around you, he shouts at the roughhousing teens — “Watch where you’re going, assholes!”

The scrawny boys walk on ahead of you. They seem apologetic, halfway scared at first. When they realize Steve’s not rushing to beat their asses, they chuckle about the whole thing and keep punching each other.

You’re still frozen in shock — not so much of fear anymore, but of how tightly Steve’s holding onto you. It’s an embrace of the firmer kind, a touch so solid you feel immediately safer inside it. You don’t think you’ve ever been this close before. The teenage girl in your heart starts to spin.

“You okay?” Steve asks when the anger ebbs.

“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing tightly and forcing an awkward laugh. “You don’t have to keep asking me that, you know?”

He nods rapidly, then notices how close he’s holding you. Fearful that he’s made you uncomfortable, he uncurls his arm from around you and takes a small step back. “No, I know! I just wanna— I just wanna make sure, you know? ‘Cause I know you don’t like… all this.”

He waves his hands vaguely out beside him.

You’re immediately cold without him holding you. You wrap your arms around yourself to compensate for the lack of him. 

“Yeah, but… It’s not the rest of the world’s fault that I’m scared of everything,” you say with another forced laugh, shifting your weight on your feet. If you could melt into your oversized sweater, you would. “It’s mine. So I can deal with it. I have to deal with it.”

Steve nods, slower this time and with a silent sense of understanding. He steps closer to you and shrugs. “I think the least I can do is make it a little easier on you… And I feel like I’ve been doing the exact opposite of that all day.”

“That’s not true,” you argue with the shake of your head.

His chocolate eyes widen. You’re rarely so assertive. “No?”

“No,” you answer, softer this time as you grow sheepish all over again. Your unsure gaze darts from your dirty sneakers to his twinkling eyes until it makes you dizzy. “You’re actually making it more bearable for me, so…”

“Oh. Okay. Good,” he nods with a smile, breathless because his chest is swelling with pride. He knows the world can be a little much for someone as soft as you. It’s good to know that he’s the exception to all that. 

He gets lost in the way you look at him for a moment too long. He clears his throat and stammers, “Uh, do you still wanna go get food?” he asks, pointing off beside him. “We can find somewhere quiet to eat so we don’t have to deal with teenage douchebags the entire time.”

Your heart lurches into your throat. It’s practically your love language — spending time alone in a quiet space, with no overt need for conversation or people to fill the void. 

You nod, trying and failing to hide the beam on your face. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

—————

The quiet place in question is a photo booth on the halfway vacant, furthest end of the mall. Closed curtains, small spaces, and entwined breaths. It smells like his deep cologne, your perfume, and a freshly cooked meal. It’s too easy to forget that there’s a whole world outside of here.

You sit twisted on the bench, facing Steve with your burger trays in front of you. You pluck salty fries from the plate with a trembling hand, distantly fearful that you’re not supposed to be eating here. You think being so close to Steve is worth the risk.

“Is this the day you were expecting to have?” Steve asks with a lopsided grin. He takes a big bite of his burger right after and gets mustard on the corner of his mouth.

“No,” you answer, giggling as he swipes the stain away with his tongue. “But not because it’s bad.”

“Hm?” he hums to egg you on. He’s got too much of a mouthful for anything else.

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head, equally nonverbal as you chew on a handful of fry crumbs. You swipe your palms together to dispel the grains of salt. “I’m having more fun than I thought I would, actually.”

Steve scoffs in disbelief. “Spending time with me? Alone in a photo booth? That’s a good time to you?”

His tone makes you self-conscious. You feel a little shameful, like a child, because you don’t need much to be entertained. You get all warm with embarrassment, too. Being alone with Steve has always felt like climbing mountains — something short of an adrenaline rush that makes you think you could conquer the world. Maybe you’re too small in comparison to do the same for him.

“Yeah,” you shrug in an inaudible murmur. “I don’t know— I just… I like spending time with you, you know? I don’t really care what we’re doing.”

Steve’s chest swells. From a girl who too often keeps to herself, inherently nervous and incessantly frightened of being a burden, it’s more of a proclamation of love than he ever thought he’d get from you.

“Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he confesses with a crooked pink grin, internally praying his cheeks aren’t as red hot as they feel.

He holds his half-eaten burger out towards you. You knock yours with his, clinking them together like champagne glasses. He takes another too big bite. You go to do the same but get a whiff of the sleeve of your sweater before you can. 

“God, I smell like a teenage boy,” you groan, only half-playful. The nose-burning musk from the kid from before has seemingly stuck itself onto you. Like fruit and sage and wood and vanilla, every scent ever made combined.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything, but you definitely smell like bodyspray,” Steve affirms, scruffy cheeks jutted out from the burger in his mouth.

“I think I’ve been tainted,” you giggle, a quieter sound compared to his boyish laughter. “Thanks for saving me, by the way.”

You’re saying it to be nice, but you watch him get all shy about it when you take a bite of your sandwich. He shifts on the bench, like he suddenly can’t get comfortable. When he rubs his palms on his thighs, you can’t tell if it’s because of the salty fries or because they’re clammy.

“Yeah— I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean to grab you like that,” he stammers with an apologetic twinkle in his eye and a gaze that can’t quite meet yours. “Just so you know. I was just trying to—”

“Save me?” you interject.

Steve smiles when he sees how softly you’re looking at him. He shrugs. “Well, I was gonna say ‘pull you from the line of fire,’ but sure.”

“It’s okay,” you repeat for perhaps the thousandth time that day. “I didn’t mind. It felt nice, actually— you have really warm hands.”

“That’s ‘cause yours are always ice cold.”

“Well, maybe that’s because you’re not holding them,” you blurt before you mean to. 

You freeze mid-bite, eyes wide in distant horror as your blood runs cold. In a desperate attempt to break away from the awkwardness you caused, you muster a trembling smile. “I’m kidding,” you murmur, halfway hidden behind your burger.

You weren’t.

Steve knows this, too, so he smiles. 

He’d been thinking about it all day, in truth — how he was gonna get to hold your hand without having to stick his foot in his mouth to ask you. Turns out, a series of unfortunate events and an impromptu date in a photo booth was all it took. And he’s grateful. For all of it.

“No, you weren’t,” he teases, fingers as warm as his smile when he wraps them around yours. He holds gently onto your hand — even though it makes eating a little harder, even though your fingers are cold, even though you tremble.

[navybrat817]

Jump Scare

Pairing: Motocross!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You get quite the jump scare during a movie night with Bucky. Word Count: Over 2.8k Warnings: Implied sex, scary movie (violence), jump scare, prank, scary vibes, slight feels, established relationship, swearing, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: Fic #9 for Navy's Trick or Treat Nonsense! A bit further down the line for Hothead and Spitfire. @tavners, @maskedmistress87, @drabblewithfrannybarnes, this did NOT go the way I wanted it to, but that's okay!❤️ Edit: Also submitting for @witchywithwhiskey's Horror Movie Hoe-A-Thon with "What's your favorite scary movie?". Not beta read and written on my phone​, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The sound of the basement door creaking open permeated the air in the otherwise silent house, fear paralyzing the soon-to-be victim who hid under the staircase. Terror mounted with each heavy footstep, as if they were a countdown to her impending doom. The masked assailant surveyed the dark space with his sharp knife in hand, still stained with the blood of the girl’s boyfriend who tried and failed to protect her. She covered her mouth as the killer got closer, her nostrils flaring as she desperately tried to keep from making any sounds. Maybe there was a chance he wouldn’t find her.

Her prayers were seemingly answered as the killer began to walk back up the steps, daring her to crawl out from her hiding space once she thought it was safe.

The bloodcurdling scream she let out as the knife plunged into her chest a heartbeat later was the last sound she ever made.

You stifled a yawn as you stared at the television, red light from the screen illuminating the darkened room as the killer stabbed his victim over and over again. “Why do people in horror films immediately pop their heads out when they think the killer’s gone? Do they just think they gave up? Or that they outsmarted them somehow?”

Bucky chuckled as he threw an arm over your shoulder. “I think that’s one of the rules of those films.”

“Which part? Running into a terrible spot where the killer is inevitably going to find you or thinking the coast is clear when it isn’t?”

“Both,” he replied.

You huffed and grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Bucky’s lap. You had to hand it to him. When he asked you over for a movie night, you figured it was an excuse to get in your pants. So when he invited you in and took you to the living room instead of the bedroom, it both surprised and disappointed you. It wasn’t that you wanted sex to be the main thing between you two. You enjoyed talking to him.

But, fuck, was he amazing in bed and you were only human.

Your new boyfriend, which was both exciting and nerve-wracking that it was official, had set up a few blankets and pillows on the couch so you’d be comfortable while watching the films. He shut off the lights to create, in his words, a spooky ambience. There was no reason not to indulge him. He even had a couple of your favorite snacks nearby so you wouldn’t have to get up and go to the kitchen.

Who said motocross riders couldn’t be a little bit romantic?

Bucky took your hand after you finished your helping of popcorn and slowly licked the salt and butter off one of your fingers. The cheeky little shit smirked when you sharply inhaled. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“You’re really asking me that right now?”

“Just curious,” he said, gently licking your middle finger when you held it up in his face. It was difficult not to feel aroused with his amazing tongue lavishing you with attention. “Are you giving me the middle finger to insult me or is that a promise?”

“It’s both. Fuck you and fuck you, Hothead,” you said, gasping when he lightly nibbled the tip.

“That can be arranged,” he smirked.

He isn’t romantic. He’s horny just like me.

“See? I knew there was a reason other than movies for having the blankets out here,” you smiled. You knew deep down he wanted you to stay the night. The man was a cuddler. “As much as I joke about some of the cliches, I like a lot of scary movies. The jump scares are always fun, especially when you don’t see them coming.”

“Name one movie,” he said, finally allowing you to take your hand back as he shifted to face you more. Neither of you were paying attention to the movie on the screen now. “Just one.”

“Okay,” you said after a moment, one recent film you watched popping up in your mind. “I like ‘Ready or Not’.”

His brows pinched a bit. “That’s the film about the bride getting hunted down by the groom’s Satan worshiping family, right? Why that one?”

You lifted your chin and looked back at the screen momentarily. “Grace was kind and caring, but also determined and resourceful. She was a survivor and I found it easy to root for her,” you replied, avoiding Bucky’s gaze when your voice softened. “At the root of her character, she just wanted to be part of a family.”

It was one of the reasons you moved to town. There was nothing for you back home. Friends didn’t stick around, some wrote you off because of your outspoken attitude, and things went south with Frank. Bucky was aware of all of that. It almost sounded like you ran away, but you didn’t see it that way. You made a choice to change your path for the better.

And thanks to Natasha, you not only met Bucky, but made other friends as well.

A soft kiss to your temple made you jump a bit. “You see yourself in Grace, don’t you, Spitfire?”

You swallowed, not wanting to get emotional. It was almost unnerving how Bucky could take down the bricks of the inner wall you sometimes built up. “I guess I do,” you whispered, clearing your throat. “But if you marry me one day and you try to sacrifice me so you can keep winning races or whatever, I will haunt your ass forever.”

Bucky’s nose scrunched as he laughed, bringing a smile to your face. “Listen, we both know if I’d try to sacrifice you that you’d knock my ass in the dirt,” he joked. You were glad he went along with the humor you shifted to instead of delving into a deep discussion. You could save that for another day. “And I wouldn’t do that anyway because I’d fight beside you.”

His declaration spread warmth from your chest as you snuggled close. It meant more to you than he knew. “Keep saying sweet things like that and we won’t make it through the next movie.”

“I’ll say all the sweet things you want,” he promised, resting his head against yours. “I actually did have an ulterior motive for movie night.”

I knew it.

You narrowed your eyes even though you directed your gaze at the television and not him. “Well, you have to tell me what your motive was.”

“I wanted to watch scary movies with you in the hopes you’d get a little scared and cuddle in my lap,” he admitted, the screams from the speakers not affecting either of you in the slightest. “But I should’ve known you don’t scare that easily since you’re a badass.”

It was so endearing that you couldn’t help but smile. “Being a badass doesn’t mean I don’t get scared. I’ve just seen most of these films. I know what’s going to happen,” you said. You weren’t usually the type to jump out of your skin, especially since they were movies and nowhere close to reality. “Would you like me to pretend I’m afraid? I can do that.”

He sighed and you could easily picture the pout forming on his stupidly handsome face. “It isn’t the same when I know you’re faking it.”

“That’s what she said,” you said, making him snort as you moved the bowl of popcorn from his lap and scooted closer. “And I can easily pretend that you’ll keep me safe from the scary masked killer who isn’t actually here because he’s on television.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“He’s walking slowly and he’s managing to catch up to the girl running at full speed because of reasons. Wait! She tripped over nothing. He’s going to get her! Oh, no!” you cried before you hid your face in his chest, which rumbled when he began to chuckle. You didn’t lift your head immediately since the whiff of cologne you caught distracted you. He always smelled so good. “See? Easy.”

“That’s not very believable, but thank you for trying,” he teased before the room got quiet. “What the hell?”

“What is it?” you asked, turning to look at the television. The screen was black now, leaving the room darker than before. “What happened to the movie?”

“I don’t know,” he said, glancing behind him. “Maybe something happened with the connection. I’ll be right back.”

“You know you’re never supposed to say that. One of the horror movie rules,” you said, moving back to give him room to stand and checking your phone for messages. The light from your screen gave you a chance to catch a glimpse of his abs through his shirt when he stretched. It tempted you to pull him back down beside you. “But I’ll send a search party if you don’t come back in ten minutes.”

“How generous of you,” he said, tilting your chin up as he leaned down. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered against your lips.

You barely brushed your lips back against his in a kiss before he left you alone. “You said it twice. I’m not responsible for anything that happens to you!”

A minute passed by as you mindlessly scrolled through an app. You felt a little bad about your teasing, even if Bucky didn’t say it bothered him. You didn’t scare easily, but you could’ve allowed yourself to be a bit more vulnerable. All he wanted you to do was turn to him. When he got back, you’d do just that.

But a few more minutes passed and he still hadn’t returned.

“Bucky? It hasn’t been ten minutes, but I’ll send the search party,” you said, looking behind you when you didn’t get an answer. You still couldn't see much of anything. “Bucky?”

THUD.

It sounded like Bucky fell to the ground in another room. At least, you thought it was him. “Are you okay?” you called out, using your phone to light a path as you got up and left the room. “Do you need help?” you added, flipping the switch for the hallway light.

Which didn’t turn on.

If this were a horror movie, his body would either fall out of a ceiling somewhere or he’d be the killer.

“Of course,” you mumbled to yourself as you slowly walked down the hall. You were familiar enough with Bucky’s place, but it almost felt empty and cold as you searched for him. The wind picking up outside only made the unsettling feeling grow. Why wasn’t he answering you? “Bucky, come on. We can just watch a movie on my phone.”

BANG.

You jumped when the office door slammed shut, a nervous laugh bubbling up as you took a step toward it. “Well played. You got me to jump,” you said, hesitating as you reached for the doorknob. There was something red smeared on it. No way was that blood. It couldn’t be. “Bucky?”

It’s just a prank, right? He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine.

You pressed your ear against the door to listen for any noises before something slammed against it on the other side, making you jerk back. Your heart admittedly leapt in your throat. You wished Bucky was beside you to hold your hand.

“Okay, Bucky! You win! I’m officially creeped out!” you announced, hoping it would get him to jump out before something hit the door again. “Fine, asshole! Ready or not, here I come!”

The door flew open before you could twist the knob. You held up your phone with a shaky hand and spotted a large figure in the light. He wore what you guessed was a dark robe and a Boogeyman mask, the eyes and mouth completely blacked out. That wasn’t the thing that made your mouth fall open with a scream.

It was the bloody machete in his hand.

Your eyes scanned the darkness for Bucky, worried more about him than yourself. “Run,” the figure whispered, lifting the weapon over his head.

Fight or flight kicked in and you chose to fight, though you didn’t have anything to use as a weapon. “Fucker! What did you do to my boyfriend, you piece of shit?!” you yelled, kicking him as hard as you could in the shin when he got close enough. He hardly budged, but you hobbled back and grabbed your foot as pain shot through it. “Ow, fuck! Are you made out of pure muscle?!”

The Boogeyman dropped the machete immediately. “Shit, are you okay?” he asked in a normal voice as he took out a phone and pressed the screen, the lights in the place coming on a moment later.

You recognized that voice.

Bucky. Fucking. Barnes.

“Bucky,” you said through your teeth when he removed the mask and brushed his long hair from his eyes. “What the actual fuck?!”

“I'm sorry. I was trying to scare you a little, not hurt you,” he said, going to look at your foot. You almost kicked him again. “Is it okay?”

“It’s fan-fucking-tastic, asshole!” you hissed as you hit his right arm with a ringing slap. “Shithead!” you added, smacking his arm again as he laughed. He was laughing at you. “Fucker!”

And to think I felt bad for not acting more scared during the movie.

You tried to get another hit in, but he grabbed your wrist before the blow landed. “Easy, Spitfire. Okay, I deserved a couple of hits. It was a stupid joke.”

“So stupid,” you snapped when the corner of his lip twitched. If he laughed again… “How did you shut everything off?”

“App on my phone for the lights and streaming service. I got ready and hid here until you went to look for me. Though I had to make a loud noise for you to do so,” he said, the humor in his blue eyes almost outweighing his worry. “I really am sorry.”

“And where the hell did you even get this?” you asked, tugging on the robe.

“Remember, all the guys are helping out with that haunted hayride this weekend? We each got scary costumes for it,” he reminded you. All the riders planned to help out, followed by a party once it wrapped up “Are you really okay?”

Your heartbeat returned to a slower pace as you took a breath. There were tons of films where boyfriends pretended to be killers to scare their girlfriends. It was somehow oddly endearing that Bucky did the same thing.

“I’m fine,” you said, even as unshed tears burned your eyes. “But I did think for a moment something may have happened to you. And it isn't like watching you at the tracks when I know there's an element of danger or watching a movie. This was different.”

And that scared me.

“Hey. I'm right here and I’m okay,” he whispered, touching your cheek. “I just wanted to scare you so I could comfort you. I'm sorry.”

Stupidly sweet logic.

“That’s such a guy thing to do,” you said as he gave you an abashed smile. “Okay, I’ll let you comfort me. You’re also going to rub my foot,” you added, which actually felt perfectly fine now, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll give you the best foot massage,” he promised. “You really tried to beat the ‘killer’ up for thinking he did something to me. I’m touched.”

“Well, I didn’t have a weapon, but I’ll aim for the crotch next time,” you teased a little, giggling when he winced. “I guess I’m just as dumb as some of those horror movie victims.”

“You’re not dumb. You’re a badass. And I would’ve done the same thing if I thought someone hurt you,” he smiled, making your heart race for a good reason this time. “And I’m still your boyfriend after this, right?”

You smiled softly, but poked him in the chest for good measure. “Yeah, but I’m not sorry for kicking you in the shin, you can fuck yourself tonight, and I’m telling Nat what you did.”

Because if anyone is scarier than an angry girlfriend, it’s Natasha Romanoff.

“You know, you’re hot when you’re pissed off. Very hot,” he smirked. The vicious glare you gave him didn’t sway him as he gripped the back of your head. “And let’s see if I can convince you to let me fuck you.”

“It’s going to take a lot of convincing.”

You opened your mouth to accept the slide of his tongue against yours and allowed him to press you against the hallway wall. Nat would surely give him a piece of her mind tomorrow for scaring you. Tonight though, you’d let Bucky convince you to snuggle again and sleep with him. Because you had to hand it to him.

He delivered a worthy jump scare.

Motocross!Bucky was sharing a brain with lumerjack!Steve, wasn't he? Love and thanks for reading! 🧡

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Because I've really enjoyed Peaceful Property and contributed to the discourse on here around it, I want to spend some time exploring the thoughtful critiques of the show by @bengiyo, @lurkingshan, @twig-tea, @respectthepetty, @my-rose-tinted-glasses, and @one-of-tankhuns-neurons. I started writing this out but then it got all annoying and academic so imma just list rant with the utmost respect for everyone's thoughts for making me think so much about this show.

1.I wondered about what shows might be examples of class division themes done with an orientation toward the lived experiences of the working class in BL, cuz honestly it's just not super prominent and well-done in much of media anywhere. The Aof series where he takes screenwriting credit seem to be the best representatives: ATOTS and Moonlight Chicken, especially, but he touches on macro and micro economic issues in all his works. Aof's really willing to depict the hardships and compromises required when living with less financial security, and I can def agree that Peaceful Property is not offering that. I just personally feel okay with that, because I see the latter show as doing a more theoretical and symbolic narrative about economics, and overt symbolism seems pretty in-line with the ghost story horror genre its using.

2. To me, I see Peaceful Property's main critique of class issues as being about Marxist alienation. So we've got our first two ghosts being really literal with this, where they have a labor they do and a final product that they don't get to partake in. Builder wants to have a meal in the house he built. Wig maker wants to wear the luxury wig she sewed. Then, with rider, we get a lil more abstract with him wanting him and his delivery to be recognized and build a meaningful relationship with someone. And since then we've been getting more and more abstract about people finding personal meaning and supporting others through their labor. But all of it still connects back to this idea of alienation from their labor, the magician, Chef Hong, and Peach are all prevented from performing the labor that brings them fulfillment by different circumstances.

3. For my reading, the queerness is very much part and parcel of its capitalism critique. Agree with it or not, but man x man loving stories have been used historically to run counter to the competition between men fighting for the top spot encouraged by capitalism. Maurice is a pretty prime example of this, where Maurice, instead of pining upward for Clive, ends up choosing the lower-class Alex and running away to be happy together. Pat and Pran's love in the face of their family's business related feud in Bud Buddy is an even closer example to how I think Peaceful Property is contrasting queer love and capitalistic competition. There's a few signals for me that Peaceful Property plans to explore this a bit more. The Cok Long sign reminds me way too much of the slang of "dick measuring competitions" and I don't think they gave us a character named 'Best,' who has reappeared a couple of times for no reason. With the magician, Pang, and Chef Hong, we also have a repeating motif of lost assistants who made the work meaningful and possible, a socialist emphasis on the value of all workers and the need to connect with others to produce their labors of love, which we see thwarted for the queer story line. The fact that the Thai dancing was two men working together to create the art offers an alternative to a competition between men. And I want to say that I'm just talking about narrative devices here, not the reality of how capitalism works. We're very much in symbolist land, with this take. I'm just a sucker for symbolist land, and it's hard for me to watch horror especially without taking my brain there.

4. And then there's the way queerness alienates one from the accepted 'normal,' which has emerged as a dominant theme in the last few episodes. But if we take this theme and apply it back on previous episodes, we can see traces of it throughout the characters. Home's statements have been the most explicit in illustrating an internalized homophobia with his desire to be part of a 'normal family.' And the tensions with his family about whether he deserved to inherit the properties has queer connotations about queer people's inclusion in their families and the legal and financial repercussions of that (What Did You Eat Yesterday is the top tier of detailed impacts of queer rights in that vein). Peach's social anxieties and depressive behaviors, ostensibly related to his close call with death and ability to see ghosts, parallels queer experiences, too, and we see how it shapes his and his sister's financial predicaments. (Aside: I wonder, regarding some of the complaints about their behavior in the context of poverty, if we might better read the two of them as broke middle class characters. We don't have much context about their childhoods, but their behavior has never really presented as people familiar with getting by on a dime.) Queerness and the threats of financial insecurity have been articulated as interrelated by the series.

5. Home's redemption? We'll know more as things get revealed, but it seems that we're meant to see Home's biggest failing as the negligence that allowed him to hit Peace and his cowardice in not standing up to his family and taking responsibility for the harm he caused. If that is his chief issue, in my view of a restorative process (and thank you so much @respectthepetty for naming this aspect of the show!), the necessary amends are...

facing up to his family (partial check)

admitting his mistakes and seeking forgiveness from Peach (he was in the process of doing so in the latest ep)

addressing the distraction that led to his negligence so that he can attend to Peach and people like Peach so it does not occur again (hmmm...)

That last point is key because we still don't know why it was significant that he was on his busy ignoring the call of girlfriend number 32 or whatever. But I'm suspecting it will connect to Home's internalized homophobia (and @heretherebedork has done some great writing about that subtext). That would give the accident a significance regarding horizontal violence between gay men that the privileged can then run away from while others who can't escape have to suffer the consequences. There's lots of ways queer men can and have done this to one another in everyday life and hook-ups but at the most extreme historically we have the the AIDS crisis, where someone's negligence regarding sexual health inspired by the psychological fear induced by being in the closet could truly be a life-or-death matter with major financial ramifications. For Home to truly own his mistake he is going to have to risk his own financial security in standing up to his family, and he's going to have to stop hiding from himself so he can develop compassion for others in the world. And the last scene in which we see him in the same predicament as Home I saw less as a cop out so Peach and the audience would feel bad for him and forgive him and more as a representation of his ability now to truly understand what Peach has gone through.

6. Do I think this series is going to solve capitalism? This show is about the spiritual dimensions capitalism robs from people, and I think it has real answers about disrupting capitalism through reconnection with our relationships to our work and to other human beings. I'm not religious, but I respect religion's ability to help people find and emphasize a deeper meaning in life, and I think that that doesn't necessarily but can challenge capitalist practices. Peaceful Property is working to show how caring about spiritual well-being breaks up the automaticity of capitalism and has never let go of that thread. To discuss Peaceful Property's takes on class division without speaking about its religious elements seems disingenuous to its greater purpose and a bit disrespectful to the Thai culture the series is so infused with. I'm intrigued about how Kan's plot will play out with the Vimarnsukmun family and it's impact on their finances. What would actually disappoint me and run counter to the show's themes is if the gang somehow inherited the family's wealth or properties other than the ramshackle Cok Long Cocktail Lounge. In Aof's work and in Maurice, the endings involve a disinheritance to represent that life is about connection not financial gain, which contrasts philosophically with the upward fantasies of capitalism. So in ATOTS, Tian moves to the village, in Moonlight Chicken, Jim trades out his diner for a smaller food truck, etc. To find the true meaning of home, Home will need to release himself from his attachment to his inheritance of financial privilege. Of course, being dead might be an option for that lol, but we'll see how the rest of the series plays out.

[prettyboypistol]

How the TF2 Mercs De-stress/Manage Anger

Scout

Actually a stereotypical movie bad boy about it. Cigarette, batting cage, and punching bags his emotions out. Shouts at people and shoves them out of his way, throat closed up in welled up emotions, his lungs refusing to give him air as the tightness of slamming against the metaphorical wall of frustration feels like it kills him inside. You know what? Being so tired you can barely register the world around? It's better than feeling like an elephant trapped in a jam jar.

Soldier

Works out and represses the expressions unless he's in battle. That's actually where he gets most of his energy. He thinks of all the shit that pissed him off or made him feel small and uses that flicker of rage as the start of the firecracker of a soldier on the field. Doesn't talk about his emotions much and doesn't see any need to. Yeah, a few drinks in and he gets sappy, but that's normal. Anger usually gets metal pipes bent or people's faces bashed in. Usually both.

Pyro

Expresses anger and stress as overexcitabiliy and hyperactivity. A constant overstimulation mode. Referencing the comics, Pyro won't hesitate to kill a bitch knowingly if they are pissed off. They're the reason it's called a "crime of passion". High spikes of anger followed by a low simmer of calmness. Actually pretty good about deep breaths when it comes to mild annoyances or daily stress, but the over the top bullshit absolutely gets an over the top reaction.

Heavy

Intimidation and powerplay is the name of Heavy's game. Sharp glares and a clear body message of "I will snap your spine if you breathe near me." This comes from his time in the gulag, when he had to keep himself and his family safe. Looking murderous when upset had a lot of advantages. When it actually comes to relieving the anger, he's an isolationist. Def thinks over the situation over and over again as he distracts himself with one of his hobbies. Usually not reading because his mind wanders off too much to focus on the pages.

Engineer

Hyperactive workaholic. He locks himself in his workshop and doesn't leave until he makes something either revolutionary or a man made horror you could only fathom in your nightmares. Whatever, he can sell it to the Administrator as a torture device. Who cares. Engie isn't much of a talker so much as he is a ranter. He grumbles and shouts to himself in a one way conversation as he tightens that one bolt that gave him trouble. Only once has he dented one of his sentries with his wrench when the energy was too much to comprehend.

Demoman

As is his usual solution, he drinks. He drinks and he talks. It doesn't matter to who or even if people are with him. Talking and bitching helps him to understand the situation, get his feelings validated, and develop more points of view. If that doesn't work, there's always testing his explosives. That release of emotions as he watches the burn pile explode is cathartic in a way. Pyro usually joins in and watches the fire, giving Demo someone to talk to.

Sniper

Also an isolationist, but you couldn't tell either way unless you pissed him off while talking to him. If it's just him, then you wouldn't even know that motherfucker was milliseconds away from starting a fight. Mutters to himself softly, barely able to hear the words himself as he shoots at sodacans and empty food containers all lined up by his van. Long drives while music plays in the background is one of his guilty pleasures when he can get away with it. If you ask what's bothering him he'll have a 50/50 between shrugging and saying a dismissive "it's nothing, just woke up wrong" or will barely explain it, but get the just of it accurately.

Spy

Tries to work through it physically, not emotionally. Man's has never talked about his emotions in his life and you won't make him start now. Usually very bitchy when something pisses him off, and his weapon of choice is personal insults. It's a funny thing really. He needs to feel superior by putting others down because the anger and stress makes him feel weak. There is only one good way to snap him out of a bad mood: casually praise him. "Nice work, Spy." "I knew I could count on you." "Thanks Spy, you're a lifesaver." Are instant soothers. It's nice to be acknowledged.

Medic

Workaholic worse than Engie. This man is really out here about to create an elderitch horror because he stubbed his toe and spilled his coffee. Strained smiles and snide comments are his language when he's had a bad day. If someone directly irritates him, that man is a solid 6'1 minimum and is built. He will and continue to physically intimidate people. Has violent fantasies as a cope.

[poetry-protest-pornography]

The way that they're talking about consent (in the midst of all the recording and dishonesty) is really interesting and important.

Last week, we had First and Soong doing a lot of roleplaying-- and First asking Soong why he didn't use his safe word if it hurt and Soong saying he liked the pain, and then there was aftercare.

This week, there was the whole really intense kidnapping scene, which required so much planning and discussion. And then later, there was the argument about Soong feeling pressured to perform and faking an orgasm, and First's reaction to that read to me like he was hurt that Soong wasn't honest with him, and shame that his desires were causing Soong stress. And mostly, horror at the idea that Soong wasn't an enthusiastic participant in their sex.

I feel like this is confirmed later, when we have this scene, where Soong uses his words, and First is genuinely distressed about their boundaries. (And in his talk with Zouey at the end, but more on that later)

If you've been with your partner for long enough -- or you're naturally observant/careful to pay attention-- yes, you can pick up on the difference between "into it but getting used to what's happening" and "not into it, this is Not Good", but as First points out later, the line between the two is blurry, and that's why safe words exist. So what Siong is asking for here isn't out of the question, but it isn't something that their relationship could manage at this point; they just don't know each other well enough.

And then, we have Teena and Zouey.

Zouey said he wanted to have sex with Teena, and Teena was a little dubious, but he just got that boyfriend title, and there was no way he wasn't going to take the chance to sleep with Zouey -- the boy is down bad. But, Teena is a smart cookie, and he's also experienced, so he establishes a safe word, rightfully anticipating that it would be a struggle for Zouey to let go and needing to know he was being safe and considerate (and sane and keeping it consensual).

It goes poorly, because Zouey protests, but doesn't use the safe word, so Teena pushes, thinking he's still within established boundaries

But Zouey isn't experienced, and when he gets uncomfortable he doesn't remember to use the word.

(And there was the whole "if we're going to be a couple, we're going to have to do it" bit, which I do believe Teena when he says that he misspoke, because he was so genuine when he said before that they didn't need to have sex, but that's a different post. But, at face value, this idea of "we're already halfway there, we shouldn't stop" is very much about consent and how and why safe words are important.

Discomfort and hesitation are natural parts of sexual experience, especially if it's new, and double especially if it's kinky. Having a word that means "Actually stop now, something's not working/is wrong" is vital to keeping you and your partner safe and feeling good physically and emotionally.)

This conversation with First and Zouey is so important.

They're both struggling with the idea that they've been involved in a sexual situation that veered into abusive, and they both need to hear what happened was actually bad communication.

And then, First wraps it up nicely, when he can see Zouey is struggling a little still.

I'm really impressed by how hard this show is pushing the importance of consent and safe sexual experimentation (especially when these discussions are held up against the not-sure-if-this-is-consensual things that are happening with Many, and with the definitely-not-consensual sex tape Captain made). It's very rare for conversations about sex and kink to be handled so well-- or to be shown at all, really.

Also, Zouey?

Please do, he looks like a kicked puppy.

[vagabond-umlaut]

gray cashmere

Solitude makes many a tough decision too easy to make.

However, is one truly ever 'one'? Or are they 'one' from a collection of many such 'one's' — guaranteed to be affected by the actions of one another?

Strictly isolated systems are mere hypotheses, anyways.

[Alternatively: Amanai Riko's life overlaps with that of three young students from Tokyo Jujutsu High for only fifty-five hours, yet the effects they leave on her and the effects she leaves on them– they can be felt even after a period of one-hundred-and-fifty-five months.]

▸ student! gojo satoru x student! fem! reader; 4400 words of me trying my best to forget the horror of the 'Hidden Inventory Arc' by writing THE CANON-DIVERGENT FIC I DESPERATELY NEEDED TO FUNCTION ATP; riko is the little sister yours truly the reader never had; kuroi is the gentle sunshine on a winter afternoon; THE sweet romance between satoru & reader; suguru is the most awesome best friend and/or brother figure ever; FUSHIGURO TOJI IS HIS OWN WARNING; Hidden Inventory Arc Spoilers with Canon-Level Violence; Angst with a Happy Ending.

▸ notes: The reader's CT was to read others' thoughts freely without them knowing, but after a binding vow she undertook when young [disgusted with the way the old geezers governing the jujutsu society misused it for their personal gains], she lost it, gaining the ability to instantaneously kill an entity the moment she opts to read their mind in place. Not even a special-grade can stop her attack. Aniki = older brother in Japanese.

▸ belongs to series we're the summer to our winter rain but you can read this as a stand-alone if you wanna!

▸ the gif, divider and characters used ain't mine. please don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

DAY 1; 11:44

Yours is a beautiful, awful life when it's the one chosen for the sake of all.

Everyone everywhere will remain smiling, crying, speaking, yelling, moving – living, if put in a word– yet you'll be nothing more than a name and, if lucky, a fading face filed away in a mind. Yet, yet, yet– everyone everywhere will remain smiling, crying, speaking, yelling, moving— and one young Amanai Riko thinks that's what makes her fate so bearable.

Too bad one of her three bodyguards doesn't think along such lines.

"She's too young to die. Why is she even agreeing to this merger?"

Your quiet voice breaks Riko's scuttling from one room to another, in search of the things she needs for school.

Craning her neck, she peeks into the room, only to find you standing by the windows, holding a cup of tea delicately as you look intently at your companions. Geto's shoulders rise and fall in a short sigh. Gojo gets up from his slouch on the couch to drape an arm round you.

The girl thinks it's the softest she has seen the goggles-wearing boy appear in the time you all have been here.

(Honestly, this is the first time she is seeing Gojo act so careful and you, so disquietened, in the three hours the three of you have been here—

A jarring contrast to the way the boy introduced you as 'the coolest and hottest jujutsu sorcerer ever' who also happens to be his 'better half' while you greeted them with a beam (which did not reach your eyes) and turned away, focus switching to your beeping mobile.)

(Geto looked like an old grandpa then, when he whispered to Kuroi, a wide smile on his face as he looked at you, how difficult it was for the two of you to get together as a couple – and how happy and relieved he and your other friends are now, watching the two of you be so very in love with each other. Kuroi let out only a tiny quiet sigh with a small gentle smile at his words.)

Your boyfriend's voice pulls her away from her mind.

"You heard the brat, didn't you? She is Tengen-sama; Tengen-sama is her. So she isn't really going to die; she's going to live forever and ever and eve–"

"I thought I was the one who couldn't read between lines well in this relationship, 'Toru," you interrupt him, frowning. Riko finds it too hard to stifle the giggle that threatens to follow – albeit, the threat doesn't stay strong for long, vanishing away at your next words. Thrown into the room, a mix of visible anger and despair.

"The kid was obviously spouting all that nonsense, more as a means to convince herself than to convince us," you say; the young student considers bursting into the room, exclaiming she ain't a little kid, yet a voice in her urges her to stay put outside the door. Begrudgingly, she listens to it. You continue, tone the same as before.

"There's some part in Riko-chan which doesn't really want to merge with Master Tengen, but a burden once dumped on one's shoulders has to be carried, and Riko-chan has no option left but to choke that wily voice in her head until it quietens forever."

Gojo's eyes drift over to the door once. A bit startled and a lot scared, Riko shrinks into herself, yet budges not an inch from her spot. Focus returning to your puckered features, the junior high schooler watches him croon softly into your ears, "Babe, how about we discuss–"

"I don't think there'll be a later, Satoru," you say, then exhale air out in a burst of clear frustration, "And I seriously cannot understand how in this world you and Geto senpai can be so relaxed about this? Y'all are answering Yaga's calls as if Riko's an important but lifeless mail, while we three are some FedEx employees and not three sorcerers leading a girl a few years younger than us to her death, grinning and singing."

The cup in your grasp looks dangerously close to shattering; not to mention the way your cursed energy swells and swells until it comes too close to suffocating the hell out of her — it ebbs away faster than it came.

Face morphing into an easy smile, the girl watches you slip out from under your boyfriend's arm and walk over to her. She wishes the grin she shoots back is half as bright as she hopes it is.

"Hey, Riko-chan," you greet, voice shifting into a soothing melody, "Ready to go to school? Geto senpai's already called the driver. He must be waiting downstairs."

"Oh, I see," Riko responds, a bit lost as her gaze rakes over your face, then darts over to the two still in the room. The weird-bangs-sorcerer offers a small smile while he cuts an apple into slices. The other boy's eyes remain trained on the back of your head, upbeat nature nowhere to be seen.

She looks back at you. Kuroi asks her to hurry via a frantic yell of her name. The girl sighs and slowly moves into the direct line of sight of everyone.

"Have any of you seen a thin blue notebook anywhere? I can't find my music no– OH MY GOD, ONEE-CHAN!!! YOUR STUPID AS HECK BOYFRIEND DID NOT JUST MAKE PAPER PLANES OUT OF MY NOTES, DID HE!?!?"

———

DAY 2; 19:55

"Satoru is not really bad, y'know?"

Your comment arrives few hours and many adventures later – though Riko wonders how much of an adventure they were for you or the two upperclassmen of yours, given the way you three were kicking ass for the entirety of the time, both before and after Kuroi was captured.

Lips curving into a teasing smile – one which the woman, taking care of her since the latter's childhood, shares – the teenager returns her attention to you.

You blink back, a tiny smile playing with the corner of your lips before it widens, digging into your cheeks and crinkling your eyes.

"What?" you ask with a giggle, "Is there something on my face? Or is suggesting my boyfriend to be kind of good really that outlandish of a concept?"

"Hmm, do you want the nice answer or the honest answer?" Riko asks back, plopping a spoonful of the ice cream you bought, then breaking into a shiver as her brain freezes from how insanely cold it is. Neither you nor Kuroi bothering to hide your chuckles, you hum. "I'm not sure which I will find honest and which, nice; why don't you shoot both my way, Riko-chan?" you suggest then add, mirth gleaming in your voice, "Of course, when you're okay again, only then."

The girl thinks of retorting to you with a silent glare but opts to think better of it. Couple of minutes pass in almost silence, Kuroi and you chit-chatting about Okinawa in general while the three of you amble down the sidewalk lining the inky-black sea, casting eerie shadows in the sparse lights dotting the streets — when she decides to reply to your suggestion from before.

"I don't really think Gojo-san is a bad person," She says, stopping and offering you a smile over her shoulder. You too stop and accept it with a bright smile of your own.

Riko continues, "I mean, yeah, he's very, very annoying all the time – making fun of me and calling me a kid or brat – but if you chose him to be your boyfriend, I guess he's kind of fine. Maybe. Plus, you don't really seem to have a bad taste," she adds with an appreciative once-over at the sundress you're wearing.

You crack an amused grin. Riko turns to her caretaker. "C'mon, Kuroi. Tell onee-chan. She has a pretty nice taste in outfits, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, you do," the other woman is quick to agree with a kind grin, "I suppose Riko-sama is correct in saying this; although, Riko-sama..." trailing off, Kuroi smiles at the addressed girl the way she used to in her childhood, whenever the latter used to babble the stuff children always do, and gently rebukes.

"Having a good taste in outfits is not the best indicator of someone's taste in men. You must never view a person from an angle as shallow as that."

"Kuroi-san is right, Riko-chan," you pitch in your two cents an instant later, then cast the woman beside you a sly glance, "Though I wonder if that was an indirect criticism of 'Toru... I hope it wasn't – was it?"

"No, of course not," Kuroi denies with a small laugh. Riko watches you crack a freer smile at her words, which slowly softens when you move your gaze back to her. The ice cream in her hand seems four seconds away from melting; still the girl decides to ignore it in favour of giving you her undivided attention.

(Ever since she met you three, you've always struck the young girl as someone a bit... different.

From the way you train your focus on your opponents during a fight; to the way you speak, neither too loud nor too quiet, just the perfect loudness and pitch required to snatch everyone's attention and keep them for yourself; to the way you carry yourself, neither as pompous arrogant akin Gojo nor as discreet smug as Geto, but as a girl who is aware of her worth and won't hesitate to show another their place, if the need so arises.

Riko thinks if she lived a little longer, she might have wanted to make you her role model. Not that it matters now, though.)

Your musing voice break through her thoughts.

"Satoru was the one who suggested this trip," you say, sharing a half-smile with Kuroi, "The best option would have been to take you back to the school as soon as possible, where you and Kuroi-san would be safe and sound. Plus, our mission too would have been complete. An extra feather to our cap, given we delivered the Star Plasma Vessel to Tengen-sama and secured the foundations the entire Japan is based on. Yet he argu–"

You abruptly fall silent, the loving look on your face withering to one of helplessness and profound sadness when the ticking hands of the wrist watch you wear catches your eye; and you shove your emotions beneath a forced chuckle.

"Oh no, it's almost eight," you say, a faux buoyancy to your words, "Do you wanna go back to the hotel and have dinner there, Riko? Or some place outside, maybe? Our schedule's packed tomorrow – our littlest Riko-chan needs some good sleep tonight to not be fussy tomorrow, doesn't she?"

Glancing at Kuroi, only to find her with the same tense cheerfulness, Riko stifles a sigh and parts her lips into a mirthful beam she doesn't feel at all.

"I really wanna try the soki soba and the yashigani. Do you know any good restaurants nearby?"

You nod exaggeratedly, lips thinning into a solemn line though the faint ray of fun can still be made through the grey clouds cast over your irises. "Don't you worry, Riko sama. Your two faithful servants will certainly find a place to dine to your liking. You just keep being the cute little princess that you are."

The girl opens her mouth to snap back at being called a little girl yet again – you aren't very different from your boyfriend, after all – then shuts it, then opens it again, a teasing giggle wanting to bubble out.

"Y'know, onee-chan," she says, skipping over to you and smiling in an innocent fashion, "I answered your second question, but I never gave a reply to the first one – you wanna know it?"

You take a second before shrugging. "Um, yeah, why not?"

Throwing a mischievous glance to Kuroi, who hides her mouth with a palm and looks away, shoulders shaking a little, Riko returns her eyes to your expectant smile. And beckoning you to come near, whispers.

"There isn't anything on your face. But the foundation's on your neck and shoulders is kind of off, I guess. Were you bitten by a bug, onee–"

An obnoxiously cheery ringtone cuts the girl off. Your face burning a deep hue of coyness, she watches you pluck your phone out of your bag, then walk a few steps away, voice dropping to a hushed murmur – which takes a minute before growing shrill then silent. Your cheeks and ears sport the deepest shade of red Riko's ever seen.

Asking them for a little more time, grin so sheepish and flustered, you whirl on your heels and walk a couple of feet away, your hand fiddling with the Okinawa keychain your boyfriend bought you today at noon.

Lips quirking in a fond smile, Riko looks away from your shy giggling figure to the chuckling Kuroi, to the big ocean waves crashing on the sands below.

Yeah, it might've been good to have a chance at a bit longer life.

———

DAY 3; 15:08

This is not good.

Oh heavens no. This is so not good.

Tears springing forth and streaming down her cheeks, Riko moves to take a step towards you. Then, stills when you put up a bloodied hand asking her to stop. Face scrunched into a smile which, the little vessel knows, conveys nothing of the agony tearing at your insides; you cast a glance at the gaping hole in your palm, then drift your gaze back to her.

Something acidic and pungent surges to the girl's mouth — though not at you, never at you – but at herself, the sole reason why you're clutching your profusely bleeding wound, left by the bullet originally meant for her; why Geto stands shocked and numb, with a hundred curses looming round the room, ready to attack at the slightest hint of an order; why Gojo's probably lying near the torii gates, dead and swarmed by cursed maggots – if what she heard less than a minute back, isn't a lie, that is.

Judging from the sharp gasp of air you drew in then — it isn't, Riko thinks.

Your smile stays as pathetically serene as ever; the only traitor now being those rivulets of grief carving their courses on your face. You part your lips in a heart-wrenching plea.

"Run, Riko-chan. Run to a place far from here. Somewhere none can find you. And don't ever come back. Please."

Shaking her head a 'No!' as fiercely as she can, the girl bites back her sobs. A cold hand pulls her by the shoulder towards the entrance; she keeps her feet firmly planted to the ground.

Everything was going so, so well– why then did this abominable man have to appear out of nowhere and upend everything in her life? Only when she realized she did not want to be the sacrifice for the sake of everyone else, and that, she too could afford an ounce of selfishness — why then did this man have to appear and extinguish that singular flame of hope lit in her world? Why, why, why—

A harsh bark of a laughter barges into her thoughts.

Your eyes develop a pinch of panic as they travel from the man you froze in the entrance to them, then back to him. The victim of your cursed technique sneers.

"You're that girl with the psychic powers, aren't ya? Thought you can only use your power to kill a person; since when can you freeze them like a statue, eh— can see, hear and feel everything, but can't move a single muscle, except to speak, huh? Or, no, wait–" A second raucous laugh rings through the halls and corridors; you clench your wounded hand into a fist so tight, she thinks she too can feel the pain weighing on your senses right now.

The assassin jeers, "You must be so, so tired to not be able to kill this poor cursed energy-less bastard, hm? And on top of all that, you also must not have refined the technique enough to shut me up, yeah?" A vein throbs in your temple; the man speaks, more gleeful than ever.

"And given how I'm slowly losing the numbness in my arms and legs... your technique is so fucking weak, girl. And the jujutsu society called you their messiah, eh? Fucking fools, the whole lot. Their six eyes in a pool of his blood outside while their other trump card's soon to meet a similar miserable end at this monkey's hands. How funny, ain't it?"

Giving no semblance of a reply to him, you turn your eyes back to her – no, to Geto who's standing behind her – and urge him, so desperate and desolate, every breath you take a short jerky heave of your chest, "Take Riko somewhere safe, senpai. And don't return till you've gotten help. Now, go. Quick."

Craning her neck upwards, the teenager catches a glimpse of the boy grasping her shoulder firmly — hoping he'll refuse to listen to you and stay right there, fighting the monster right beside you — but finds no fragment of dissent on his face.

Extreme reluctance? Yes.

Profound melancholy? Yes.

Stifling resignation? Yes, yes, yes.

But dissent? No.

It makes an appearance, now and then, but never persists for long.

She makes yet another attempt to get closer to you.

"Onee-chan, no," Riko begs, snarling and thrashing from under Geto's unyielding hold on her arm now, "please don't do this. I wanna live my life to the fullest, but I cannot if I don't have y'all beside me. So, you–"

"Riko-chan, no–"

"–ask me to go away like an escapist coward–"

"Riko-chan, listen–"

"–staying right over here, next to–"

"RIKO!"

The harsh call of her name makes the girl stumble and stutter. It isn't you who called her so; it's Geto, peering down at her with moisture in his eyes. An ugly sob crawls out her throat. He mumbles, "You're way too young to understand all this, but know that, if you're out there in the world– safe, free and happy– the Star Plasma Vessel mission can be marked successful only then. Whatever sacrifices all of us made or are going to make today," a glance at you shows the bittersweet smile you're wearing; Riko's wails worsen, "they won't make any sense if, at the end of the day, you're harmed. So, please listen to us and escape with Kuroi-san, yeah?"

The man to her not-so-distant left flexes his fingers a bit. The three of you look at him before looking at one another. You look a few minutes away from passing out, skin paling and breaths growing labored with every second that elapses.

Eyes screwn shut, Riko lets go of the fight she was harbouring in her body. Geto's voice breaks with unshed moisture. "Try not to die, kid. I already lost a best friend today, don't wanna lose a sister too."

Riko doesn't need to open her eyes to know your reaction; the heart-rending sob paired with the "No promises, aniki," you let out tells her enough – before your cursed energy expands yet again, and a chilled palm pulls her by the hand into a swift run, the hit of her shoes on the floor echoing in the stuffy underground air.

Air which soon switches from the suffocation of ancience to that of blood and death — the teenager takes but a moment to realize who the person is. Biting down harshly on her lower lip, she swallows the raw anguish tearing her sinews apart, and keeps her eyes shut firm.

Willing the darkness reigning behind her eyelids to overtake every part of her body – especially her mind, being hurtled one memory after another, and another – Kuroi making her lunch for school; Kuroi teaching her to tie her braids; Kuroi congratulating for every success of hers and supporting her after every failure, be it big or small; Kuroi being the family she once thought she had lost in a car crash–

The sharp ding of the lift and the crackling warmth of the sun on her tear-stained cheeks are the last two things Riko registers, before the world round her fades away into a noiseless black — finally.

———

DAY 4718; 16:02

"Anableps can see both above and below the water at the same time, y'know?"

The statement and the awed "Woo!" that follows it rouses Riko from the siesta she was teetering on the brink of. She yawns and rubs her eyes. Then yawns again, a bit more subdued this time, considering a family walks past her.

Uni's been very stressful of late, and to top it all off, the woman who's supposed to handle this shift has called in sick – so, as fucking same as before, the manager is gonna call in some newbie to work instead.

The newbie being none other than Riko – very unfortunately – on a tiring Friday afternoon as today.

At least, the job pays well and she gets to spend time explaining fish and their world to excited kids, plus the occasional one or two adults who look a touch different from their usual bored indifference.

But, of course, there's always a group of friends who come bounding in.

Worse than a class of kindergarten children fighting for the single toy of a dinosaur their teacher has brought — Riko avoids such crowds of like the plague. Storming past them, turning down their query, asking a coworker to fill in for her – the young grad student applies all tricks and methods known to her to escape the situation.

To escape the familiar buzz of cheer and enthusiasm.

To escape the familiar weight of nostalgia and gloom.

To escape the—

"Um, miss, where can we find the whale sharks' tank? Heard it's the main attraction here... And, uh, we're also a little lost, actually."

Trains of thought thrown off-track, the young woman squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again, a customer service smile flitting onto her lips as she turns back. And holds back a very exasperated groan. Why the fuck did Mio had to leave for a snacks break now of the innumerable times she could have gone before? And why does this crowd have to be the very thing she hates dealing with? Ugh... Never mind–

"Just turn to your left, go down the corridor, then to your right. You'll find the whale sharks there."

The pink-haired boy accepts the reply with a nod and a bright thanks, before the black-haired boy places a hand on his shoulder and he falls quiet. The latter looks strangely familiar, Riko thinks... ignoring it, she shoots the boys a quizzical smile. "Is there anything else you would to like to ask or—"

"You're my mom's friend. I've seen your pictures at home," he cuts her off, brows furrowing. His friend looks at him, so perplexed, not much unlike how Riko's feeling. He pays no mind, continuing, "You attended a Catholic school, love music and aquatic life, and have an obsession with coconut crab meat and soba, don't you?"

"Megumi..." A slightly older girl standing behind them with two girls donning identical t-shirts, begins in a lightly chastising tone, but the tour guide feels she's miles away from them. Catholic school, music lessons, aquariums, soki soba, yashigani, Okinawa... it simply cannot be you—

"Tsumiki! Mimiko!" A voice, Riko once was under the impression she'll never be hearing again, except in nightmares, rings through the near-empty hall of the aquarium, soon followed by the appearing of a face she thought she'll never see again, except in the sole photograph left with her on the phone Geto gave her, besides 5000 円 and contacts he asked her to get in touch with, as soon as possible, that evening a good twelve years ago in Osaka.

You reach a stop before the group, a young brown-haired girl trailing you with a worried scowl on her face. Dumbstruck, Riko watches you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"I can understand Nana-chan's phone is busy being used in clicking photos but the same excuse cannot be extended to you, can it? No. So, why on earth can't any of you four pick your mobile up when I'm calling you, hm? Or please don't tell me the batteries are dead. Again."

The blonde girl, presumably Nana-chan, smiles smugly while three out of the addressed four kids shoot a sheepish smile your way. Your frown slowly gives way to a fond grin and you huff a chuckle, shaking your head – which only grows in intensity when the girl following you lets out an annoyed hmph! and launches into a tirade how extremely worried the two of you were and how much dumb and careless them five are.

Eyes welling over with emotions percolated over the course of many, many years, Riko watches you grin so freely — only for it to still and fade when the spiky-haired boy says he has met your friend from the photograph, and you look from him to her standing inconspicuously, half-hidden in the shadows.

A painfully slow second passes.

The entire gaggle of kids falls quiet at the disbelieving watery chuckle you let out. Taking two steps forwards, she offers you a mirror image of your expression.

"Told you the aquarium's fun, didn't I?"

A call of your name bounces off the grey walls in a saccharine tone: Riko knows instinctively, can be no one's except one blue-eyed and white-haired bastard's. You cast a glance at the tall man rushing to you, then return your gaze to her, with the same radiant beam you gave on that day twelve years back, when Riko first expressed her real thoughts out in the air.

The young woman wastes no moment before running to you and engulfing you in the tightest hug she can possibly manage, tears rushing down her face. Your gentle voice shushes her, the way an elder sister would do to a younger sister.

Riko's lips stretch in the widest and freest grin she has felt in forever.

Joyful and thankful her onee-chan is finally back in her life, giving the added length it received some much-needed hues — 'cause a longer life is obviously good but it's the best when your life is long and spent with your near and dear ones.

▸ notes: The reader was in the process of developing and perfecting a new CT, hence her CE was so unstable – spiking and ebbing – besides the fact it drained her energy like hell. Toji was a smart man, he figured it out pretty quickly and easily. [And for the ppl who're wondering how the reader was able to stop the attack on Riko: she used a tendril of thoughts emanating from a person's mind to detect their presence, instead of their cursed energy remains.] [She can't read those thoughts, though.]

▸ masterlist

[cece693]

PLEASE PART TWO OF THAT NICO DI ANGELO FIC

I'm not even a fan nor do I know anything about the PJO series but that.. THAT fic makes me wanna start reading it

Sword Fighting Pt. 2 (Nico Di Angelo x Son of Aphrodite)

Part 1 can be found here, however, you don't need to read it to understand this.

tags: love confessions, Nico being overprotective, near-death experience, takes place during The Blood of Olympus, reader is injured (badly)

Time was something demigods rarely had, and Nico di Angelo had lived long enough to know that it always slipped through their fingers. He never planned to reveal his feelings for you, the son of Aphrodite, but as Gaea rose from her slumber and the earth itself raged in the final battle, regret gnawed at him.

He should’ve told you.

The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos—monsters falling, demigods fighting with every last bit of strength they had left. The air was thick with dust and the stench of death, but through it all, Nico’s eyes sought you. You moved like a whirlwind, graceful and deadly, wielding your twin blades with a skill that defied your heritage.

Even now, in the heart of war, there was a terrible beauty to how you fought—fluid, precise, unstoppable. Nico's breath hitched as he watched you, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the battle around him. He had seen many things in his life—gods, monsters, and the depths of the Underworld—but he'd never seen anything as beautiful as you.

For a moment, it seemed like the battle was turning in their favor. The monsters were thinning, their numbers dwindling under the combined might of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter. Nico’s heart pounded with a glimmer of hope. Maybe—just maybe—they had a chance.

Then it happened.

As the demigods paused to catch their breath, thinking they had won, a final foe—enormous, armored, and ancient—rose from the shadows, roaring with fury. The beast lunged, aiming straight for Hazel, its jagged weapon raised for a killing blow.

You didn’t hesitate. Without a second thought, you threw yourself between the beast and Hazel. Nico saw it as if in slow motion—how your eyes flashed with determination and your blade shone in the sun as you swung to kill the beast before a sickening crunch echoed across the battlefield. You had saved Hazel, but you had also been stuck, crumpling to the ground, your blood spilling across the earth.

“No!” Nico’s voice tore through the chaos, a raw cry filled with panic and horror. He barely felt his feet moving as he sprinted toward you. He reached your side in what felt like an eternity, falling to his knees beside you. Blood stained through your armor, dark and thick, pooling beneath your body. Your face was pale, lips quivering as you struggled to draw breath.

“Nico…” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, eyes fluttering.

“No, no, no stay with me.” Nico pleaded, his hands trembling as he pressed them against your wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. Around him, the other demigods rushed to your side—they moved quickly, but it felt agonizingly slow to Nico. The son of Aphrodite was barely conscious as Percy and Jason lifted him gently, careful not to jostle his broken form too much.

Hazel, pale with guilt and worry, led the way back to the makeshift camp they had set up behind the front lines. It was a patch of relative calm amidst the chaos of war, but Nico’s heart hammered in his chest like a storm.

“Will!” Nico screamed, his voice tight with fear. The blond healer turned around and paled upon seeing your state—ushering Percy and Jason to lay you in an empty bed.

“This is bad,” Will muttered, his voice hushed, trying to keep his composure as he assessed your chest. He pressed a glowing hand to your wound, his brow furrowed in concentration, but he shook his head slightly. “The weapon must’ve been enchanted—it’s deeper than it looks, and it’s not healing like it should.”

Nico’s throat tightened. “You can heal it though, right? You have to.”

Will glanced at Nico, his expression shadowed with doubt. “I don’t know, Nico. This kind of wound…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I’ll do everything I can.” His grip on your hand tightened as Will began his work, the faint golden glow of healing energy surrounding your body, but Nico could tell it wasn’t enough.

Hours passed, and Will pushed himself to the limit, alternating between ambrosia, nectar, and healing magic, trying everything he knew. But still, your breathing was shallow, and the wound stubbornly refused to fully close. Nico stayed by your side the entire time, refusing to move, barely blinking as he watched every flicker of your face for a sign of improvement.

The others came and went—between the battle's cleanup and burning of shrouds—they all offered words of comfort, but Nico barely registered them. His world had narrowed to the cot where you lay, your face pale and peaceful as if already slipping into the void.

Days blurred together. Each dawn brought a renewed wave of dread, as Nico feared you wouldn’t wake up. Every breath you took seemed a miracle, but it wasn’t enough. Ambrosia was fed to you sparingly, Will careful not to overuse it. Every time you twitched or murmured in your sleep, Nico’s heart leapt, only to sink again when you didn’t stir beyond that.

He never left your side.

“Nico you need to rest,” Will urged gently, exhaustion lining his own features. “You’ve been here for days. You can’t keep going like this.”

Nico shook his head. “I’m not leaving him.”

Will opened his mouth to argue but stopped. He knew better than to push Nico. The look in his eyes—dark, haunted—was enough to silence any protest. He had seen that look before, in the faces of those who had lost too much already, those who were on the edge of breaking. “Okay.” Will said softly, placing a reassuring hand on Nico’s shoulder before stepping out of the tent. His footsteps faded, leaving the ghost king alone in the dimly lit space.

Nico leaned forward, resting his forehead on the back of your hand. His body was heavy with exhaustion, every muscle aching from his own battle wounds and malnutrition, not having eaten anything in days, but he couldn't leave. Nico wouldn't. The thought of walking away, even for a moment, felt like abandonment—like if he left your side, you might slip away for good. And that…that was something Nico couldn’t bear.

“I convinced myself there was time to tell you how I felt,” Nico said, his voice cracking, each word feeling like it was pulled from a wound too deep to close. “But now…now it might be too late.”

His breath hitched, and he squeezed your hand tighter, as if holding onto you physically would stop you from slipping away. He could feel the faint warmth of your skin, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel real—none of this did. You were so still, your chest rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths. The strong, brilliant demigod he admired—no, loved—reduced to this fragile, fading presence in the cot before him.

Nico swallowed hard, the ache in his chest nearly unbearable. "I should’ve told you the moment I realized. I should’ve been braver. But I was scared. Scared that you wouldn’t feel the same, or worse—that if I let you in, you’d leave me. Like Bianca did."

The name hung heavy in the air, thick with old grief. His sister. His rock. The one person who had ever made him feel less alone—until you came along. Losing her had shattered him in ways he’d never fully recovered from, and the thought of losing you now? It was a nightmare he couldn’t endure.

“I couldn’t handle it,” Nico whispered, his voice trembling as the confession spilled out. “If you leave me, I don’t know if I’ll survive it. Not again. I’m not strong enough to go through that again.”

The dam broke, and the words came faster, more desperate. “I swear, if you die on me, I’ll follow you. I don’t care what Will or anyone says. I’ll follow you to Elysium if I have to." He pressed his forehead against the back of your hand, his body shaking with the effort of holding back tears. "I love you. I should’ve said it before. I love you, and I’m not ready to let you go."

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Nico stayed perfectly still, the weight of his confession hanging between you, the silence around him thick and unbearable. Then, faintly, a shift—a movement so small Nico almost didn’t notice it. Your fingers twitched beneath his.

His eyes snapped open, and he lifted his head in disbelief. A soft, rasping sound reached his ears. “Nico…” His heart lurched. Your eyes fluttered open, bleary and filled with pain, but undeniably alive. You coughed weakly, wincing at the movement, but your lips curled into a faint smile. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Nico froze, staring at you as if you were a ghost. The relief hit him so suddenly that he couldn’t breathe. “You’re awake…” His voice was barely a whisper, disbelief coloring every word.

Your smile widened just a fraction, though it was strained with effort. “You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?”

Nico’s relief was overwhelming, but it didn’t come without an edge of something sharper. Anger, bitter and cold, began to surface as he stared at you, still fragile but alive. The thought of how close you came to dying—how close he came to losing you—made his chest tighten painfully.

He pulled back, his expression hardening, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “What the hell were you thinking!? You nearly died out there!”

You blinked, still groggy but more aware now, and gave a weak smile. “Someone had to, right?” you rasped, trying to lighten the tension, but Nico wasn’t having it.

“That’s not the point!” Nico’s voice was louder than he intended, eyes burning with something between fury and heartbreak. “You could’ve died. You almost did."

Your smile widened, even as you winced at the effort. “You would’ve done the same thing,” you said, your voice hoarse but filled with that infuriating calmness. “If it had been you, and Hazel was in danger, you wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Nico froze, his jaw clenching as the truth of your words settled over him. He wanted to argue, to shout at you for being reckless and careless with your life, but he couldn’t. You were right, and that only made it worse. If the roles were reversed, Nico knew, deep down, that he would’ve done exactly the same thing.

You smirked at his silence, clearly pleased with yourself. “See?” you said softly, your voice still weak but playful. “I know you, di Angelo.”

Nico scowled, but his anger was already slipping away, replaced by something warmer, something he couldn’t quite name but felt deep in his bones. He didn’t reply to your teasing, didn’t trust himself to say anything without his emotions spilling over again. Instead, he just shook his head and muttered, “You’re impossible.”

You laughed, though it quickly turned into a pained cough. Nico’s heart clenched again, his worry returning in full force. “I don’t care what you think,” He said after a moment, his voice quieter now, but still laced with intensity. “Next time, don’t throw your life away for anyone. Not Hazel. Not even me.”

You met his gaze, your smile softening. “I won’t.” you said, though the glint in your eyes told him you were lying. Nico didn’t reply to that. He knew you too well—knew that your words were empty promises. But for now, you were alive, and that was all that mattered.

[gofancyninjaworld]

It started with murder

One of the big differences between the manga and the webcomic is that Tatsumaki and Fubuki seem to have a much nicer relationship in the former.

The reasons for the difference have been staring us in the face, if only we're prepared to actually READ.

The manga starts with a murder. Multiple murders, in fact: Tatsumaki tore apart four members of Tsukoyomi who'd tracked her down when she went to see Fubuki, and their blood splattered all over her and stained Fubuki's room red.

Nightmare fuel.

In contrast, nasty as webcomic Tatsumaki has been, her intention in tossing Fatton and lifting the school was not to kill, but to bully the people bullying Fubuki, to make them feel the same degree of fear and helplessness as they'd inflicted onto her little sister. As best we know, she hasn't killed anyone.

She wanted them sorry, not dead.

And this difference really matters.

As a ten-year-old desperate to reach her sister and protect her as she'd been charged to do, manga!Tatsumaki's horror at being treated as a monster by Fubuki scarred her for life. [Aside: it reminds me a lot of Mob Psycho 100 where a big part of Shigeo pushing down his emotions has stemmed from his horror at accidentally hurting Ritsu when he lost his temper.] Anyway, Tatsumaki has been trying since then to convince Fubuki that whatever else she might be, she *is not a threat to Fubuki*. As we've seen, it has taken Fubuki decades to finally start believing her.

The horror of realising that her sister sees her as a monster.

It's taken Fubuki nearly 20 years to start seeing her sister differently.

Webcomic!Tatsumaki has had to have no such scruples. She may have terrorised her sister, but from Fubuki's perspective she did not cross the line to monstrous until she thought that she'd killed Saitama -- and by that point, the 29-year-old's Tatsumaki's psyche is far more hardened (it also helps that Tatsumaki knows that Saitama wouldn't have been killed by being dropped into a crevasse).

It's only at this point that webcomic Fubuki starts seeing her sister as monstrous.

There's another difference that's just as striking: a sense of personal responsibility. In the manga, Blast charged Tatsumaki with not one, but two directives: not just to refuse to depend on anyone for help but also to protect her little sister. Since Tatsumaki has put Blast on a pedestal rivalled only by that Genos puts Saitama on (well, that's breaking in the webcomic but we're not here to talk about that now), she's taken it as an absolute commandment. She finds it hard to forgive herself for triggering Fubuki's psychic awakening as until then, Fubuki was safe from being targeted by Tsukoyomi. She feels that she has screwed up, that she keeps messing up, and she really wants to change that.

With a child's sense of total responsibility for everything, Tatsumaki has shouldered an impossible burden.

She feels trapped by her actions and really wants to change.

Even though the trigger was incredibly dark and fucked up, since the circumstances of their reuniting have led to Tatsumaki being more gentle with Fubuki in the manga than she otherwise might have been, it has led to some real rewards in that they do actually have an ongoing relationship. A difficult one, particularly once Fubuki became a hero too, but the last arc saw Tatsumaki having to admit that her sister could be a capable hero. They struggle, but there's enough of a bond between them to struggle together.

Hey, at least she didn't go straight for homicide. :)

They're still living, scheming, and fighting together. Because it's worth it.

Webcomic!Tatsumaki feels no responsibility for any of her actions nor sensitivity to Fubuki's feelings. And damn, it shows. They have had an antagonistic relationship short on mutual trust or respect. Since Tatsumaki has no intention of changing, non-contact is the best outcome they can hope for.

To be fair, Tatsumaki has left Fubuki alone since their bust up (with Saitama's intervention).

None of this is hidden. ONE has put work into making sure that each version gives us a cogent set of facts regarding key events in characters' lives. I've not seen people talk about the origins of the differences in the way the versions, and it originates, I'm sorry to say, from people failing to read to learn and rather reading to confirm their prior beliefs.

If I see one more waste of literacy education say that 'Tatsumaki is nicer in the manga because the manga characters have been dumbed down' I'm going to scream.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Aemond and reader really be going through it together, call that shit trauma bonding ok? I'm so tired but also so keen to pump out these chapters for you so that we can finish this month long journey that has been Smoke, Fire and Ash. You are all the best!!! I love you so much! Enjoy <3

Chapter 93: Stoking the Flames 

What are women but an object for men to possess?

A body they can press their hands into, and mark with their teeth. Giving them validation that they are men, man enough, above status, better born.

Noble.

A vessel for their cocks, ears to hear their woes, and arms to hold them tenderly when needed. A body for them to take out their anger, a body for them to act upon their lust. A way for them to let out the rising tensions within their own bodies without repentance. 

A good wife should never say no. A good wife should never fight back. A good wife should have 'yes' at the very tip of her tongue, 'thank you' in the back of her throat, 'please' at the ends of her fingers, 'more' between her thighs.

A good wife should be smiles and curtseys, kisses on both cheeks and eyes, embroidery wheels, and laughter. The womb for his child, the mother to raise them, the teacher to teach them, the cook to feed them, the cleaner to keep the house tidy for them all.

A tongue that is bitten and raw, teeth that are chipped and broken, words unspoken and kept between brittle fingers and chewed lips. A body bent to his will, when he wants, without question because he is your husband, and that is what you are meant to do.

But you were not a good wife. At least, not in a way of being complacent and weak.

You were far more than that.

And Aemond now knew this.

Your confessions to one another seems to have begun to pull the seams between the two of you back together. Each thread being tugged, to make you whole.

To burn together. Not apart. 

As one.

And despite the horrors that you had faced, despite the losses that seems to continue to mount against you, you knew that you had a duty to your mother. To the realm. To your husband even. And this duty extended itself to dining with the King without argument. To dining with the people who watched as you were dragged to the throne room, all teeth and claws, to watch your ally be slain before you. 

A warning. 

A threat. 

Their victory. 

The Greens believed in their heart of hearts, that the Maester was the only eyes in the Keep. Or at least, you suspected Aegon to believe this. Alicent, despite her sometimes lack of spine and wherewithal, had a paranoia that often worked to her favour, not to her mental health, her chewed and battered fingers and all round jumpy demeanour could attest to that, but perhaps to the way things always seemed to fall in line around her, no matter how messy.

The maids were silent as they doted on you, as though the simplest of touches would pull a carefully laid brick in your very being, and the rest of you would fall down, tumbling to the surface below with a crash.

It was a black gown you wore, not only in support of your mother, but in mourning of the mother you would not become. 

High necked, and tight sleeved, the bodice wrapped around you tightly, false dragon scales lining your bust with a dark leather, the sleeves cuffed over your middle finger in a sharp point. Skirts of sweeping black, and hair braided tightly behind your head, not a hair out of place, not a strand left loose.

Stiff. 

Strict.

Together.

A vision of power, despite how powerless you felt.

Aemond wore black leathers, a similar scaling press at the front of his own chest, buckles of gold reaching right beneath his chin. His own hair pulled back into a half braid at the back of his head, large rings upon his fingers, and his sweeping black leather coat that used to strike fear in you. 

And so you walked, as one, in unity.

One in loss.

One in mourning.

One in fire and blood, and rage and grief. 

Walking as one to the Small Dining Hall where you knew the both of your strengths would be tested by the King and all those surrounding. By the Council. By the Dowager Queen and the Hand. All eyes would be upon you, and all lips would no doubt utter false senses of condolences and meagre hints of regret.

You were exhausted.

Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.

And as Aemond walked you through the corridors, he kept with your pace, his hand in yours, letting you squeeze his tightly. Preparing yourself for the inevitable.

When you had entered the Hall together, the room instantly became silent, and the thundering roar of blood in your ears filled the noise instead. Each step that you took seemed to echo, and each breath that you breathed seemed to rattle within your lungs. 

All eyes were on you. 

Not Aemond. 

You.

And your eyes were on Aegon. 

He matched your stare with equal verocity, violet eyes glinting in triumph. 

I won, they said.

And he had.

For now. 

No one spoke a word as you sat in your seats, nor did they stop their silent staring at you either. It was worse, you thought, this false pity. Worse than the usual disdain or hatred.

It made you feel weak. 

“Princess,” Aegon began, tone low and filled with false sorrow, “You should be resting in your chambers.”

You cleared your throat softly, shifting in your chair as you watched the tables reaction.

Everyone seemed to be on edge.

“I have rested plenty. I have a duty to my husband, and he a duty to his King.”

Aegon nodded solemnly, as though he was not the catalyst for your losses, “You are a good wife to be sure. And strong.” 

You tapped your fingers against the table, looking around at the Lords and Lady Alicent, who watched you with cautious and sad eyes. The table was full of food already, piled high with meats and legumes, gravies and sauces, and large decanters of wine and ale. 

Turning to Alicent, you gave her a terse smile, “Lady Alicent, might you say a prayer to begin?”

Alicent blinked at you doe-ishly for a moment, before nodding, holding her hands in front of her, “May we pray to the Father,” She began, and all Lords bent their heads to look at there hands in prayer, whilst Aegon kept his eyes on you, “And ask him to guide the child lost to the Stranger gently where it may rest."

You let your gaze meet Aegon, and fire erupted within. His lips were pulled forward in a pout as he looked at you, then to your husband beside you, who’s head was diligently bowed, and eye slid shut.

Alicent continued her prayer as heat rose within you, “May we pray to the Mother, for mercy and peace, and ask her to give blessings for a new heir.”

You swallowed thickly, hands in your lap tightening into fists, “May the Crone guide us forward, and show us the path to strength and unity.”

The prayer ended, and all eyes fell upon you again, some looking away as your gaze met theirs, others offering you a sad smile in brittle support.

“I pray to the Father,” Aegon began, hands tucked under his chin as everyone warily looked at him, “I ask that he delivers divine justice, and judgement upon my actions, and pray that he forgives me of my misdeed which led to the loss of an innocent babe.”

You breathed heavily, teeth clenched as he looked at you.

“Very good, My Lord.” Otto Hightower praised stiffly from his side, whilst Alicent looked as though she had turned a shade of grey.

Aemond dropped a hand into your lap, stopping the way one of your own pulled at the skin of the other meanly. His large fingers pressed between yours, squeezing it in a subtle show of strength, a show of support. A sign that he was there with you. 

An attempt to ground you.

“I pray that he delivers such justice indeed.” Came you cool response, reaching forward to pour yourself a goblet of wine, bringing it your lips as you did not trust yourself to hold your tongue. 

The Lords around the table began to eat, and their own chatter rose amongst each other, replacing the once stale, stagnant air. And as they spoke, Alicent asked after you. 

“Might there be anything that you need, Princess? Perhaps we could go to the Sept together and pray.” 

An attempt at kindness. 

But kindness did not come to the Lady Alicent easily.

You swallowed, feeling Aemond’s hand still in your lap, “That is kind of you, Your Grace. But for now, I think I need time to spend with the Old Gods first.”

The older woman gave a crooked smile, “Of course.”

You all ate, yourself and Aemond staying quiet, listening to the filler conversations that the Lords tiptoed around, all the while Aegon continued to stare at you in a way you could not describe. 

Was there remorse there behind his eyes?

“My condolences to you, brother, and to you niece.” Aegon spoke quietly to you both, “It is no easy thing to lose a child.”

Jaehaerys.

Aemond’s eye was cast down at his plate, before he gave a solemn nod. 

The hand in your lap tightened.

“Have you written to your mother and father to tell them of the loss?” Aegon inquired, placing his cutlery softly against his plate, he was treading carefully. 

Too carefully. 

He was worried for your parents reaction. 

“I had not the chance to tell them I was with child, and it would seem silly to send them such notice of losing one they didn’t know I had.” Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth.

“Of course, it would be difficult to say such things over parchment. A far better conversation to have in person, when one can convey the misfortune of it all. Not at all what I had intended, I would never wish anything like the loss of a child upon a mother.”

You ground your teeth down in your jaw, Alicent and Otto watching you and Aemond carefully. 

“Your apologies are too kind, Your Grace.” The words were sour in your mouth, "You were not to know of the outcome of such a thing.”

Aegon’s violet gaze searched your face before he asked a new question, “And how are you faring? Is the new Maester tending to your needs?”

The new Maester. 

“He is perfectly acceptable.” Came your stiff response.

Aegon smiled, “Good. Did you know that he was the one to treat Aemond’s eye when he lost it?”

Aemond’s hand twitched in your lap, and it was your turn to soothe him. 

“I did.”

“Then you are in good hands.”

“Indeed.”

You finished your meal, and as the Lords continued to dance around you, you decided that you had had enough. Standing from your chair, you offered no bow, no apologies, but instead stiffened your posture, holding your hands in front of you as you had been taught to do, and excused yourself from the Dining Hall. 

Aemond followed you, curt farewell on his tongue.

Your maids dressed you for bed as soon as you entered the chambers, and soon enough you are beneath the sheets, calling out for Aemond to join you. He crawled in from behind, the heat of his body engulfing you. You rolled in your spot, turning to face him before you asked him to hold you. 

Aemond pulled you tight against his chest, lifting your leg over his hip to slot his between yours. Not in a sexual way, but in a way to have you as close as possible, to have all of you pressed against him. He tucked your head beneath his chin as you lay in the dark of the chambers. 

“I wish things were different.” You whispered to no-one. It was just something that you wished. Something that you needed to speak into existence, for you feared if it was not said, it would not be true.

Aemond only pulled you tighter against him, small hum vibrating his chest as he kissed the top of your head, keeping his lips against your hair.

“I wish he was dead.”

Spoken into existence again. 

Aemond’s chest stilled, before breathing again gently.

You licked your lips, inhaling the scent of your husband. Musk. Sandalwood. Smoke.

“I wish Aegon was dead.”

You felt hot air blow against the top of your scalp, but Aemond did not move to stop you, and so you let the roll of thoughts tumble out of your mouth. The thoughts and words which had been hiding in the back of your throat, your tongue bitten and bleeding, teeth chipped and raw.

“I can still feel it.” You breathed, heart beginning to race in your chest, "I can still feel the way he felt inside of me. The way he forced himself inside of me.” Aemond’s hands tensed on your flesh, and you felt the familiar sting of tears on your eyes. 

“I remember it all. The fear. The terror. The pain.”

Another sharp blow of air atop your head.

“I called out to you, and he would not stop. I tried to stop him. I tried-“ You hiccupped, feeling a sob wrack your body, “But he was so strong, and I couldn’t move, and all I could do was pray you would come home and save me.”

Aemond murmured your name so quietly that you would have missed it if his breath were not above your ear.

“I hate it. I hate him. I hate that I know what he felt like. I hate that he was inside of me. How he laughed at me. How he mocked you. I think about it and I feel sick. I feel so sick and horrified at the thought of him in our bed again.”

Tears slid down your cheeks, and you felt Aemond press another kiss to your head, though his body was stiff, and vibrating with energy.

“Sometimes,” You licked your lips, tasting your salty tears as your voice crackled, “Sometimes I’m thankful we lost the babe.”

Aemond’s chest stopped again, no hot air of his breath moving across your scalp.

“B-ecause,” Your voice wavered, more tears beginning to fall, landing in the crux of your neck wetly, “What if the Moon Tea hadn’t worked. What if it was Aegon’s.” A sob fell from your lips. “What if-“

“Shh.” Aemond whispered atop your head, shifting so that your body was now atop his. You curled atop him, his hands coming to hold you against his body as you felt his chest rise and fall raggedly beneath you.

“Ēdrugon, byka mēre.” Sleep, little one, The One-Eyed Prince whispered atop your hair, pressing his lips to your forehead gently, “Ñuha idaña perzys, ȳdra daor pendagon hen ra.” My twin flame, don’t think of such things.

“Nyke vaoreznuni.” I’m sorry, You sobbed into his chest, feeling him hold you against him impossibly tight.

“Shh, konīr iksis daorun naejot sagon vaoreznuni syt.” There is nothing to be sorry for.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[onceonafullmoon]

Convos With Rin

Rin x Gn! Reader

No warnings! Just pure fluff, also you can ignore the last 2 lines if you want to read this as platonic!

Aka: maladaptive daydreams by yours truly that I cleaned up and formatted. Part 2 here

“Sometimes I wonder if the idealized, romanticized version of relationships I’ve built up in my head are subconsciously affecting my navigation in reality.”

“What?” Rin asks, rolling over from where he lies on his bed to look at you, his teal eyes switching from his phone to glance over at you.

��Sorry, that was word vomit.” You say waving a hand dismissively before speaking again. “It’s just… I mean that I wonder if my expectations of romantic relationships have been distorted because of all the media I consume. And I wonder if that would ruin any chance I have of a healthy relationship.”

You absentmindedly start fiddling with your fingers as you speak.

“Like, for example dating sims, every love interest is over possessive and jealous, and that’s fine, cause it’s a fantasy. And obviously it’s not endorsed in real life, because if you date someone who foams at the mouth every time you look at another man, you’ll have issues. But… sometimes I wonder if I’ll think back to those dumb games when I’m in a relationship and choose something unhealthy for myself.”

A comfortable silence lapses after your ramblings and you wait patiently for your best friend's response.

“…you sure do think a lot more than I expected.” He says after a while and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Wow thanks.” You drone out. “You know what? I’d rather you have just flipped me off and called me a dumbass than whatever attempt of a compliment that was.”

“Didn’t mean it like that, I meant that I’d never once thought about that.” He says cooly, in a way that makes you unfairly jealous of his demeanor.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not surprised. Your brain is composed of 50% football and the other half is basic motor skills. I doubt you’ve even thought of anything outside of that.”

“…not true.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right. Somewhere, squeezed between the cracks of those key areas, is your vast knowledge of horror trivia.” You joke, your eyes darting over his sprawled form.

“…” He hesitates to respond before muttering out. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What’d you mean then?”

“…nothing, never mind.”

“Oh boo, you whore.” You scoff, sitting up in his desk chair to devote your attention to him. “Come on tell meeee! I tell you everything… well, almost everything but— nonetheless…”

He glares but you simply smile at him before waiting eagerly for him to finally loosen his tongue and spill whatever he has locked away from you.

And maybe deep down he knows that there’s no winning against you because he ends up opening his mouth to speak.

“I…I think about romance sometimes.” He eventually admits, his eyes darting back to his phone in embarrassment.

“Oho?” You straighten up further, a goading grin on your face much to his annoyance. “Our little Rinrin is growing up!”

“Fuck you, this is why I don’t tell you shit.”

“Aww come on, I won’t tease you anymore I promise! Please tell me more!” You practically beg, looking at him with prying eyes.

“This is lame.” Rin scoffs.

“You’re lame! Romance is perfectly natural. Anyways, is this a crush? A passing fantasy?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I live vicariously through my friends’ love lives, now spillll!” You say, dragging out the last syllable deliberately to piss him off.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Why not?” You say a pout on your lips.

“Because you’re annoying and you’re only asking to make fun of me.”

“What? Me?” You gasp out in faux surprise. “Never, could I ever make fun of you, after all you’re my dearest most important–”

“Save it.” He cuts you off, content to ignore you now, engrossed in his phone.

“Kill joy… I’ll get it out of you one of these days.” You say darkly before leaning back to sulk in his chair.

“Over my dead body.” He mutters, but if you looked over to him again, you’d see the tell tale way his gaze fell back to you.

Unfortunately for you, Rin’s crush would stay a secret for just a little while longer.

[lostfracturess]

【 ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】 9

x PAIRING gojo satoru x fem!reader (main); megumi fushiguro x fem!reader x WORD COUNT 7.8 k x SUMMARY you never wanted to become part of the world of jujutsu sorcerers, yet fate had other plans when the one and only satoru gojo took you under his wing at jujutsu high. as the lines between student and teacher begin to blur, hidden powers surge to life, and a deadly target is set on your head. x WARNINGS + NOTES this story contains partly abusive and possessive behavior, explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, injury, combat and angst. you can also read it on wattpad or ao3. pls like or repost if you enjoyed ♡

➸ ch 1; ch 2; ch 3; ch 4; ch 5; ch 6; ch 7; ch 8

tw: character death; suicidal thoughts

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐨.

When was it really that it all fell down?

Was it when Yuji lost control?

Was that the first downfall?

Yuji was not one to lose control.

He never really did. But after what happened on that mission, he lost it all. And somehow, you felt like you lost a part of yourself that day as well. The horrors you witnessed etched into your very soul, leaving scars that may never heal.

You never wanted to see him like that again.

Maybe that was the day everything changed.

As you came to your senses, a scene of nightmarish destruction unfolded before your eyes. Smoke and dust filled the air, obscuring the sun and plunging the world into a cruel twilight. The ground was marred by deep craters, festering wounds in the earth's flesh.

It was a battlefield that bore the marks of Satoru's destructive fury rather than Yuji's. 

No. 

Not Yuji's. 

He's not cruel. 

He's not violent. 

But Sukuna is.

You couldn't really remember what happened. You were on this mission. Curses swarmed from all sides. One moment, you stood beside Yuji, and the next, you passed out and found yourself thrown to the unforgiving ground.

A ringing in your ears drowned out the world around you. It rang through your skull, piercing your mind like a thousand needles. Pain shot into your temple. You raised your hand to your face. It came away slick with blood.

Your vision was blurred and distorted, turning the world into a series of bright, disjointed images. Perhaps that was an attempt by your brain to protect you. Protecting you from the gruesome truth, refusing to accept the horrors that had unfolded before your eyes.

But the stench of ash and blood was so strong, you could almost taste it on your tongue.

This was no dream. It was a nightmare.

You wanted to cry out for Satoru. But he wasn't there. You were alone on a mission with him.

Satoru was not there to help you.

You hastily examined your body. Somehow all parts of your body were still there and seemed to be functioning. You gathered your strength to pull yourself to your feet. The throbbing pain from the gash on your head strangely absent, drowned out by the chaos around you.

Where was Yuji?

When the dust settled, you saw him.

Sukuna's marks disappeared from his body.

He lay sprawled beneath a heap of debris. His lifeless form pressed into the unforgiving earth. His face was buried in the dirt. He didn't move. Your heart clenched.

You staggered toward him. Your bloody hands desperately clawed away the rubble that imprisoned him. Your hands slipped a few times, unable to get a grip. Finally, you freed him, rolled him onto his front, and hovered over him. Your trembling fingers cupped his pale face.

"Yuji!" you screamed, your voice tearing through the eerie stillness. "Yuji, wake up!"

And then, a gasp. 

Life returned to him, his chest rising and falling as air once again filled his lungs. 

You brushed away the dust from his face. Relief washed over you as warmth seeped back into his pale features.

"Yuji, wake up. It's over."

Yuji's eyelids quivered open. His eyes welled up with tears, cascading down his cheeks like a torrent.

What?

Why did he cry?

You wanted him to stop.

Why didn't he stop?

You didn't want to see him cry.

That wasn't Yuji. That wasn't the kindhearted man you knew.

Before you lay a broken young man-a young man grappling with a burden too heavy-a curse too dark. His body convulsed with sobs as he lay there. His gaze avoided yours, as if unable to meet your eyes.

"I'm sorry," he choked out between sobs. His lips quivered uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry."

His once-vibrant eyes were bloodshot. Tear tracks streaked his cheeks, carving pathways through the grime and gore that marred his face. 

Words failed you. You didn't know what to say. What you could ever say. Nothing you could say would be enough. All you could do was stare, absorbing the sheer horror and pain etched into every line of his face as he cried.

"I'm so sorry, I lost control." His sobs grew more violent. "I should just die," he screamed before shielding his face with his hands from your relentless gaze. 

He tore at his eyes, as if attempting to gouge out the pain within. You grabbed his wrist. "Stop it, Yuji! it's not your fault!" you screamed, your voice a desperate plea that seemed to echo in the blood-soaked battlefield. 

But it didn't reach him.

"I'm no good. All I do is evil!" His voice choked with despair, tears streaming down his face like a relentless cascade.

"Yuji, listen to me," you tried to pierce through the chaos of his mind. "You are not your curse! You are not a monster!"

But his fingers continued their merciless assault on his eyes. You were afraid that if you couldn't stop him, he might actually rip his own eyes out in his madness.

You felt like you were about to cry. You wanted to cry. But no tears came out. There was only the feeling of your heart being torn to shreds. 

He was not a monster. He couldn't be. 

Because if he was, then you surely were one too.

His fingers dug deeper into his skin, leaving cruel, bloody streaks etched against his pale complexion.

In a desperate attempt to reach him, you let go of his wrists and instead cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were glassy, tears spilling over, but they did nothing to wash away the terror within them. You felt so utterly, entirely useless. 

"Yuji, this is not what you are. You are not him!"

"I am. I am responsible for all of this," he whispered, his voice barely more than a fragile thread. "I don't know if I can keep doing this."

His words struck you like a dagger through the heart. 

How could he say something like that?

"Shut up, Yuji! If I can keep doing it, you can too!" you yelled at him, your own frustration and desperation coming to the surface. You couldn't let him surrender to the darkness, for if he did, it would mean accepting that you were just as much a monster as he feared himself to be.

"Weren't you the one who always told me, it's not me? It's not me who violently killed? It's my cursed technique? It's the evil of cursed energy itself? So listen to me, Yuji, when I say it's not you, it's Sukuna! You're not him! And I'm not my cursed technique!" 

He was silenced. Your grip on his face tightened as his terrified eyes locked onto yours.

"If I can live with this burden, you can too. You're stronger than me," you whispered, your voice softening with a plea. "So please, Yuji, keep fighting. Because if you don't, I'm not sure if I can."

Yuji's tears ceased as you continued to speak.

"What role do we have in this world if we admit that we are monsters? Tell me, Yuji. What reason do we have to keep on living then? We can never undo the damage we've done, but we can try to make it right. It's either that or surrender to the darkness that threatens to consume us."

Your hands trembled. 

Your hands trembled so violently, you had to withdraw them from his face. You clenched them together, your knuckles white with tension.

Satoru never let you go on a mission alone with Yuji again.

So tell me, when was it really that it all fell down?

Was it back then? When you saw the terror in Yuji's eyes?

Was it then when you decided to protect what was left of Yuji's humanity?

Or was it when you met Satoru, the sorcerer who has altered the course of your life forever?

Who stole your heart?

Was it then that you wanted to do everything possible to protect them? 

To protect him?

But the truth is, it didn't really matter anymore, did it? 

None of these questions could change the brutal reality of the present.

****

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭.

Your hands trembled again.

Your hands trembled so violently, you had to dig your fingers into the palm of your hand to silence them. Blood dripped down.

Was this the final downfall?

Rising to your feet, the world around you blurred into chaos. You watched as Satoru collapsed to the ground. His breathing ragged and heavy. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him, as if the very ground wept for the tragedy that had befallen.

Each heartbeat felt like a crushing weight. Perhaps your heart could no longer bear the pain of beating. You hastily wiped away the tears that blurred your vision.

You had to be fast. Satoru would soon recover.

You moved quickly, weaving through the ruins of the battlefield. The pain coursing through your body was almost unbearable, and you longed for nothing more than to surrender to the agony that threatened to overwhelm you.

Then you saw them. Megumi and Yuji. Megumi rushed towards you, his brow furrowed. "What's happening? Where's Gojo?" he demanded, blocking your path.

"Megumi, just trust me," you pleaded, your voice strained.

"It's hard to trust you when you're acting like this."

As you tried to walk past him, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, halting you. His intense gaze piercing through you, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

"Swear to me you're not doing anything reckless," he said.

Time was running out.

Tears streaked down your cheeks. "Don't make me hurt you, Megumi."

Megumi gritted his teeth. "What are you saying?"

You held his gaze, hoping he would trust you enough-trust you enough to let you go.

"Let's just go home," he begged. "Please."

The weight of it all pressed down upon your battered form. You knew that you couldn't bear it much longer. Yet, you pushed forward, no matter the cost, no matter the pain.

"I can't."

He was torn. He was torn between stopping you and letting you go.

He knew that if he let you go, you would not back down, not now, not when you were so close. He knew he would have to kill you to stop you. So he let go. Knowing that whatever was to come was partly his fault. He would never forgive himself. But neither would he be able to hurt you. 

Not you.

So he let go of your wrist. 

He felt like he was signing your death sentence.

You turned away from him and sprinted towards Yuji.  

Your heart raced. You wanted to rip it out. 

Yuji looked up at you, his eyes filled with fear and terror. It was the same haunting expression he had worn when he lost control. You swore yourself you never wanted to see him ever again like this. But now you were the one he feared. The one he was so scared of.

It hurt. It hurt you to see him like that. When will there be an end to the pain.

Time seemed to slow down as you approached Yuji. He opened his mouth to speak, to reach out to you, but you stretched your trembling hand over his face, cutting off his words-sealing his fate.

"Domain Expansion."

****

"Who are you?"

Sukuna cracked open an eye to peer down at you from his shrine. His crimson eyes drilling into your very soul. Your blood run cold.

You briefly glanced down at your feet. You stood ankle-deep in blood. The surroundings had twisted into a nightmarish version of reality. Crimson shadows danced and twisted around the space like tortured souls.

This was no longer your domain, was it? Had Sukuna taken control of it somehow? But how was that even possible?

No. 

Drown out your thoughts.

Calm Down.

It will work.

"Don't even remember me?" you asked.

He pondered for a moment, his lips forming a cruel, mocking smile. "Aren't you the Fujiwara woman, who crumbled so easily when the brat lost control? Why are you here? Do you want to die?"

"I'm here to end you," you declared, your grip on your weapon tightening.

Sukuna burst into raucous laughter. Slowly, he sat up, his curiosity piqued. "My ending, huh? Bold statement. Let's see if you can justify it, wife of Satoru Gojo."

You flinched. Of course, Sukuna knew everything, just as Yuji did. Get a fucking grip on yourself. It was all part of the plan. The one slim chance you had to reach Sukuna and end this nightmare once and for all.

It's ok.

It will work.

You didn't need to beat him-just reach him. That's all. Then it would all be over.

****

𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨.

"How can you be sure it will work?"

Snowflakes landed softly on your shoulders. Yet, the cold air was sharp, biting at any exposed skin. Each breath you took sent a small cloud of vapor into the frigid air.

Jack turned to you. "I can't guarantee it."

"So, it's a suicide mission?" you asked, a wry half-smile touching your lips.

"Not if you can control your cursed technique," he countered, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Sukuna's strength lies in his cursed energy, flowing through his fingers. Disrupt that, and you'll render him powerless."

"Forever?"

"I guess so."

You raised an eyebrow. "You 'guess' so?"

Jack met your gaze, his eyes serious. "Like I said, I can't guarantee it. But based on what we know, yes, it should be permanent. If you can connect with him, even for a moment, you can use your cursed technique to break the flow of his cursed energy. But you need the fingers-they're the key."

"-and so easy to obtain," you added with a hint of irony.

"Mahito has them. All of Sukuna's fingers. You'll need to defeat him to get them. But there's a problem-he's with Kenjaku."

"Kenjaku?" You paused mid-step, the snow crunching under your boots. "This plan is becoming more insane by the second."

"You just have to separate them somehow, then go after Mahito to get the fingers."

"You say it all like it's nothing."

Jack's expression was grave. "I know it sounds insane, but it's the only way. And you are the only one who can do it."

You resumed walking. Each step felt heavy.

"And once I have the fingers, what's next? I have to fight Sukuna?"

"No," Jack shook his head. "This isn't about fighting him. It's about timing. When he makes contact, use that moment. With your cursed technique you can stop the flow of his cursed energy. You just have to be connected to his fingers at the same time as his body and stop it all."

He was surely insane.

Why did you want to meet him in the first place?

Ah. Right. How could you forget.

"I can stop the flow of cursed energy, but I've never done it permanently. And we're talking about the King of Curses here," you said.

"But you managed it with Gojo, didn't you?"

"Yes, but not permanently, as you might have guessed."

"If it worked on Gojo, it's likely to work on Sukuna too."

"And about making it permanent?" you pressed.

"That's the part where you'll have to improvise," Jack admitted. "There are no guarantees, but it's the best shot we have."

"What happens afterwards, if I can actually do it?" 

The question hung in the cold air.

"He'll be rendered powerless," Jack said. "Stripped of his cursed abilities."

"And Yuji will return to being a normal guy," you mused, coming to a halt and locking eyes with Jack. "Free of Sukuna's influence."

Jack nodded. 

With a heavy exhale, you tilted your head back, gazing up at the sky. Soft snowflakes landed gently on your face, melting instantly against your heated skin.

"Pick a side, Fujiwara. You can end this curse forever," Jack continued. "It's your chance for atonement. Your clan has already caused enough damage."

****

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭.

His eyes bored into you, a predator closing in on its prey.

The air shifted as Sukuna moved.

Sukuna lunged, his movements a blur. His hand sliced through the air towards you. Every instinct screamed to dodge, to evade, but you stood still. This was the moment you had prepared for, the moment that everything depended on.

The sharp, searing pain was immediate as Sukuna's hand made contact, slicing through your flesh. Agonizing waves of pain coursed through your being, threatening to rip your consciousness apart.

"Wow, you're just as easily crushed as all your other pathetic family members. How lame," Sukuna sneered, spitting on the ground. "But you, you were by far the weakest."

You grinned. "You think so?"

You seized his arm where it had gouged into the side of your abdomen with one hand and clenched his fingers tightly with the other.

You activated your cursed technique, tapping into the link that had just been formed. A burst of your own energy surged through the link, colliding  head-on into the onslaught of Sukuna's cursed energy.

It was overwhelming.  It was a malevolence beyond anything you had ever felt-a manifestation of pure evil that seemed to transcend the boundaries of human comprehension. It swept over you like a tidal wave. But you held firm. 

You envisioned the flow of his cursed energy, visualized it coming to a halt, and poured every ounce of your will into making it a reality.

Sukuna's laughter died. His eyes widened. The realization of what was happening dawned on him too late. You could feel his cursed energy faltering, its flow stuttering under your influence.

Your grin widened.

But in the blink of an eye, strong arms seized you. 

The walls of your domain shattered like fragile glass in a storm. You were hurled backwards with staggering force. Your connection to Sukuna's cursed energy snapped, leaving you disoriented and robbed of the taste of victory that had been so tantalizingly close.

No.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

No!

So close.

You were so close to stop it forever.

You crashed to the ground, wrapped in Satoru's arms. He held you close to him. He held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, as if by sheer will, he could protect you from the cruel twist of fate-or form yourself.

"Let me go, Satoru!"

Your legs kicked wildly in his grasp. Your fingers gripped his arms violently, nails digging into his flesh. You screamed and fought against Satoru's unyielding hold.

Your fingernails dug deeper into his flesh, leaving furious red welts and rivulets of blood in their wake. You could feel the shudder that ran through his body as he endured your assault.  But in that moment, you didn't care.

For what were those minor scratches compared to the pain Satoru had endured during those agonizing minutes when he believed he had lost you?

It was nothing.

A small sacrifice.

Nothing you could do would be nearly as painful to him as the suffering he had experienced while unconscious, not knowing where you were.

So when he saw your domain, he had no choice but to destroy it-free you-bring you back to him.

"Let go, damn it!" you hissed through gritted teeth.

"Stop it, love. It's enough!" His grip around you tightened, each painful squeeze of your wounded flesh adding to your agony. "What can I do to make you stop? Tell me. I'd do anything for you," Satoru's voice was soft, almost breaking, as he pleaded with you, his breath warm against your neck.

As you strained against his grip, you became painfully aware of his heartbeat. You could feel the warmth of his body, inhale the familiar scent of him that was unmistakably Satoru. It was all so awfully familiar. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you stopped fighting against his embrace.

"It's too late, Satoru. We have to do this now, or it's over forever," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper. Resignation flowed through you, leaving you limp in his arms. The fight had drained out of you. All that remained was the harsh reality of the situation.

This was it.

The last downfall.

Sukuna, having partially taken control of Yuji, was closer than ever to seizing all his fingers. If you didn't stop him now, no one ever could.

"Then let Sukuna take over. It doesn't matter. You're all that matters." He paused, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Don't you understand? I can't lose you."

He was willing to sacrifice everything.

He had seen you nearly slip away too many times, and he couldn't bear to lose you again.

It had always been a dance of love and pain, sacrifice and betrayal. The wounds from past battles still lingered, scars etched deep into your heart. But despite the hurt, the love had never wavered, an unbreakable thread that bound you together.

Yes, he was willing to sacrifice everything for you.

But so were you.

You knew that it was your turn to make the sacrifice. To put an end to the suffering that had haunted you both for far too long.

"Sorry, do I interrupt the lovely couple?"

Sukuna's voice cut through the tension like a blade. His steps were slow as he approached, his crimson eyes locked onto both of you. Your heart raced, but you couldn't let fear consume you now. There was too much at stake.

He halted a few meters away, across from you.

"Satoru-" You whispered his name, a last desperate plea.

Satoru took a deep inhale. He lifted his head from where it had been nestled in your hair. "How long do we have left?"

"His cursed energy is suppressed, but only for another minute, maybe two."

"Then we need to be fast," he said, releasing you from his protective hold. "Will your plan still work?"

"I hope so." Your hand instinctively went to your belt, relieved to feel the fingers of Sukuna still securely fastened there. Your body ached. You were far beyond your limits, but the familiar rush of adrenaline dulled the pain. "It would have worked if you hadn't destroyed my domain," you added as you turned to face him.

He met your gaze squarely. "Consider it payback for stabbing me with that damn dagger of yours," he retorted, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"Ha? You started it by throwing a fucking car at me!"

Sukuna watched silently, almost bemused. Then, with a heavy sigh, as if tired of the delay, he lunged towards you both. In a flash, Megumi positioned himself in front of you and Satoru, blocking Sukuna's attack.

"Can you save this discussion for couples therapy and focus on the fight?" Megumi shouted.

"What do you need?" Satoru quickly asked you.

"An opening."

"Nothing easier than that," Satoru replied, a hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips. 

In a flash, he lunged forward into the fray. "Move, Megumi!" he shouted. Without hesitation, Megumi dodged and cleared the way for Satoru to unleash his full power.

Satoru's fist drew back. Then, with explosive force, he unleashed his punch. His fist met Sukuna's jaw, and an instant shockwave tore through the air.

Sukuna was hurled backwards. He crashed into the remains of a building with a bone-shattering thud. The already fragile structure groaned and crumbled under the immense impact. Dust and debris filled the air, obscuring the aftermath of Satoru's devastating attack.

As the dust settled and the debris slowly cleared, Satoru's eyes remained fixed on the spot where Sukuna had been thrown.

Then, from the midst of the wreckage, a chilling laughter echoed. Sukuna emerged from the rubble, his form astonishingly unharmed. He brushed aside the debris that clung to him. His crimson eyes burned with malevolent fire.

"Is that the best you've got, Gojo?" he taunted.

Satoru cracked his knuckles and assumed a fighting stance. "I was just getting warmed up."

But you knew him better. You knew what you'd done to him, you'd stopped his cursed energy, and he wasn't quite back. His injuries still lingered, his cursed energy faltered. He was far from his peak. But so was Sukuna.

In an explosive burst of speed, Sukuna closed the gap on Satoru, their clash causing a shockwave that shook the surrounding.

Megumi clenched his fists and called his divine dog to his side.  "Go to the left!" Without hesitation, you darted to the left, circling around to flank Sukuna.

Sukuna's fist flew towards Satoru's face. Satoru dropped to the ground. In one fluid motion, Satoru twisted his body and unleashed a powerful kick from the ground, sending Sukuna flying over your head.

For a brief moment, Sukuna soared overhead. Your eyes locked with his.

Defying gravity and physical limitations, Sukuna regained control mid-air and hurtled towards you. But Megumi's divine dog was at your side in an instant, shielding you with its form.

In the next heartbeat, Satoru was there. "Don't touch my wife!" His kick connected with Sukuna, sending the cursed spirit flying away from you with a force that echoed through the battlefield. 

What the hell was Satoru doing?

Time was running out.

"What are you doing, Satoru?!" you shouted. "I need to physically touch him, stop sending him flying miles away from me!"

"Oh right, sorry." Satoru landed back beside you, his feet barely touching the ground before he moved again.

Simultaneously, you and Satoru charged forward. Sukuna swiftly regained his footing. In a blur of movement, Satoru's fist shot forward, aiming for Sukuna. His punch smashed into the brick wall where Sukuna's head had been a split second earlier. Chunks of brick flew into the air.

Sukuna exploited the brief opening. He lunged towards you, bypassing Satoru. You tensed, preparing for the impact, but Satoru was faster.

Satoru parried the attack with a swift, powerful kick to Sukuna's midsection. Blood spurted from Sukuna's mouth. Without missing a beat, Satoru followed up with a lightning-fast jab to Sukuna's face.

"Now!" he yelled, spotting an opening.

You lunged forward.  But Sukuna quickly regained his footing. He leaped back, dodging Satoru's punch with a fluidity that belied his injured state. He parried, sending Satoru reeling back.

In the blink of an eye, Sukuna's hand shot out, gripping your leg with an iron grasp. He swept your legs from under you. You crashed to the ground.

Looking up, Sukuna towered over you, his grin malicious. His crimson eyes glinted with malevolence. But before he could make a move, Megumi's divine dog intervened. Its huge form crashed into Sukuna and tore him away from you.

Megumi rushed to your side. "You good?" he asked, offering a hand.

"Never been better," you grabbed his hand, pulling yourself up swiftly.

Satoru was back on Sukuna, delivering a powerful kick. Sukuna dodged. He countered with a fast jab to Satoru's torso, breaking bone with a sickening crack.

Megumi, not missing a beat, joined the fight, his movements synchronized with Satoru's. They worked in unison-teacher and student.

Megumi feigned an attack, drawing Sukuna's attention. Satoru sought an opening. They were relentless, a blur of rapid strikes and feints as they pushed Sukuna to his limits.

Sukuna's desperate defense faltered. His movements became erratic. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, the stench of blood filling the air. Sukuna found himself cornered as Satoru and Megumi closed in for the kill.

There was no way to escape now.

They had him.

At Satoru's call, you burst into action. 

Sprinting forward, you positioned yourself between Satoru and Megumi. You didn't hesitate. Your hand shot out, seizing Sukuna's chest in an iron grip, while your other hand retrieved his severed fingers from your belt. 

With a deep breath, you activated your cursed technique once more, tapping into the fragile link you had established. Sukuna's cursed energy surged through the connection, dark and malevolent, but you were ready for it this time. 

You had felt it before. 

Now, all that mattered was stopping it-halting it forever.

You closed your eyes. The world around you faded into the background as you focused solely on the flow of cursed energy. Satoru and Megumi held Sukuna in place, their combined efforts restraining the sorcerrer.

But then, you sensed a change-a surge of power that shouldn't have been possible. Sukuna's cursed energy roared back to life.

It was too late.

Your eyes snapped open. You starred directly into Sukuna's eyes. He grinned.

"Too late," Sukuna sneered.

In an instant, Sukuna unleashed a devastating shockwave of cursed energy. It erupted like an tempest, its sheer force sending Satoru and Megumi hurtling backward. Their hold on Sukuna shattered.

But you stood still, your hand still pressed firmly against Sukuna's chest. You blocked the surge of cursed energy that rushed at you, deflecting it away from you. The chaotic energy swirled and raged around you. 

The ground beneath your feet shattered and ripped open. You twisted your feet to get more grip, holding your ground against Sukuna's overwhelming power.

The world descended into sheer chaos.

What do you think, was it then when it all fell down?

Perhaps.

Satoru and Megumi shouted. But their voices were drowned out by the chaotic force. Satoru cried out desperately, pleading with you to stop, to step away from the maelstrom, to return to him. 

And you wanted to do that. You really wanted to. You wanted nothing more than to heed his call, to turn back to the safety of his arms.

But it was too late, wasn't it? 

It was all too late.

You drowned out Satoru's pleas, the sound of his voice breaking with each desperate scream of your name. The searing heat of Sukuna's cursed energy scorched your skin. You felt your flesh tearing apart, wounds ripping open across your battered form.

You looked eyes with Sukuna. His crimson eyes bored into you, but all you could do was smile. Your lips twisted into a wry grin as you felt his cursed energy slowing.

You could almost feel the grinding halt of Sukuna's cursed energy in your mind's eye, pouring every ounce of your will into making it a reality.

Sukuna seized your arm. His grip brutal. His fingers dug into your flesh,  drawing forth a wellspring of blood. You winced at the pain, but your focus did not waver. Then Sukuna's hand shot towards your torso with lethal precision. 

The pain was sharp and immediate as Sukuna's hand pierced your flesh. A wave of agony ripped through you, so intense it was almost blinding. Blood trickled from your mouth, but all you could do was grin at Sukuna.

"Too late," you echoed his earlier taunt. In that moment, as your blood spilled and your body screamed in pain, you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you had succeeded.

Sukuna's laughter died. His eyes widened. The realization of what was happening dawned on him too late. You felt the flow of his cursed energy stutter, then stop altogether.

The shockwave subsided. Everything seemed to come to a halt. Frozen in the very air as Sukuna's cursed energy ceased to exist.

Forever.

Sukuna withdrew his arm from your abdomen. Blood gushed forth from the wound as he did so.

You watched as Yuji returned to normal. Sukuna's marks disappeared from his face,  leaving behind the familiar, gentle features you loved so much. Tears brimmed in Yuji's eyes before he sank to the ground.

You let out a heavy exhale.

It's over.

It's over.

Your breaths grew shallow.

All strength drained.

Your legs, no longer able to support your weight, buckled beneath you. The world spun, its edges darkening, as you teetered on the brink of consciousness.

Just as you began to fall, strong arms encircled you, catching you before you could hit the ground. It was Satoru. His eyes full of horror.

He held you in his arms, feeling the warmth of your blood as it spilled down his hands. He wanted to staunch the flow, to press against the open wound. Stop the bleeding. But a hole couldn't be stopped from bleeding. Some wounds couldn't be stopped.

"Stay with me, love," he whispered hoarsely. He brushed away the bloodstained strands of hair from your face. His fingers trembled. They trembled so violently. "Don't go. I can't live without you."

Over Satoru's shoulder, you caught a glimpse of Megumi. In all the years you had known him, you had never seen him shed a tear. He sank to the ground, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Satoru," you managed to breathe out. "Let's go back to the beach and live there. I'm tired of fighting," you said with a strained chuckle. Blood pooled around you, seeping into the ground, staining it crimson. 

Tears fell on your face, warm and salty-his tears.

Satoru's eyes were like the ocean as he looked at you. 

How you loved the ocean. 

You loved him so much.

You didn't know what was more painful, the pain of what had happened or the pain of what would never be-the future that was slipping away-the life you could have had-the dreams that would remain unfulfilled.

He looked so young in that moment-he was not the strongest-just a vulnerable young man. Stripped of all his strength. But what was strength anyway if he couldn't protect the ones he loved. How could he name himself the strongest sorcerer, yet be powerless in the moments that truly mattered.

It was all so meaningless to him in that moment, pointless, hollow. 

Without you, the world lost its purpose.

Oh, how cruel fate is.

How utterly cruel some fates were meant to be.

"Yeah, I'm tired of fighting, too," he murmured, his voice a soft, pained whisper. "We'll return to the beach and stay there, forever. Anything for you, love."

Your smiled. You reached up, cupping his face gently in your hand. "I'm all yours," you whispered. As your consciousness waned, you held onto the image of Satoru, the love you felt for him, and the peace of the beach that you would never see again. 

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. "And I'm all yours," he echoed softly. "Forever."

And then your hand slipped away from his cheek. It fell to your side, lifeless and still. The light in your eyes dimmed, leaving Satoru adrift in a sea of despair, grappling with the cruel reality that you were slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"I love you," he uttered, each word fracturing his heart a little more as he pulled your lifeless form closer to his chest. Repeating the phrase, as if each utterance could somehow bridge the chasm that death had created between you.

"I love you," he repeated over and over as you drew your last breath. The silence screamed in his ears. He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe. All he could do was hold your frail body in his arms-so limp and lifeless, so utterly different from the force of nature he knew-he loved.

The world around him had crumbled, leaving behind a void that seemed impossible to fill-leaving behind an unbearable weight of a future denied.

But all he could do was cry.

His heart shattered and broke in ways he never thought it could.

And all he could do was cry.

"I love you," he whispered until his tears drowned everything out.

Because all he could do was cry.

I love you.

Three simple words.

Three simple words Satoru Gojo could never bring himself to utter again.

To anyone.

Ever.

****

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.

53,245.

That was the count. 53,245 curses eradicated since you left. Each one a silent, ruthless kill—each one a cruel reminder of his relentless agony.

53,245 emotionless annihilations.

53,245 final gasps of cursed beings.

53,245... and yet, Satoru Gojo felt nothing. 

No satisfaction, no relief. 

Nothing.

Only emptiness.

How could this world just go on. 

Why didn't it stop. 

Because it had stopped for him—frozen in the moment he lost you.

Satoru Gojo was soaked in cold vengeance and unyielding fury. Nothing more then a shell of his former self—a vessel fueled by rage and an insatiable thirst for retribution, his eyes long devoid of any spark.

Every curse he annihilated  was a futile attempt to fill an ever-deepening chasm within. But with each battle, with each kill, the chasm only grew wider, deeper, consuming what little of him remained.

Blood dripped from his fingers as he stood amidst the remains of yet another curse he had violently torn apart. His form was barely recognizable beneath the layers of blood splatter, the gore clinging to his body as if it had become one with his very being.

The wind whispered through the desolation, carrying away the echoes of his silent screams.

53,246.

Still this feeling.

Emptiness. 

An ever consuming, overwhelming emptiness.

Why?

Why didn't it go away?

Why did it haunt him?

Why did it have to haunt him so relentlessly?

Why was there no end?

To the emptiness?

To him?

53,246.

But who was counting anymore? 

The number was just a hollow count.

Pointless.

Meaningless.

Satoru Gojo had lost himself. He became a shadow, haunted by the memory of what could have been and the brutal reality of what was.

The only constant was the blood that stained his hands.

He didn't care. 

He had stopped caring a long time ago.

Because the world had moved on—that traitorous thing of a world had moved on, but Satoru Gojo remained trapped in a never-ending nightmare. Unable to find an escape. Unable to let go.

He had tried to fill the void, god believe me, he had tried so desperately—tried to fill it with his duties as a sorcerer, throwing himself into battle after battle, seeking solace in the slaughter of curses.

But nothing changed.

The emptiness remained.

There was no end to his journey, no final destination. 

There was only the hunt, the endless pursuit of a peace he knew he would never again find. 

The laughter, the love, the light—all extinguished in the wake of your death. The loss of you had stripped away the last vestiges of warmth from his heart. What remained was a man driven by a singular, unyielding purpose: to eradicate every curse that dared to taint the world you had once walked upon.

And so, he continued, a lone figure against the backdrop of a world struggling to maintain its balance, a sorcerer whose heart had been irrevocably shattered, leaving behind nothing but the cold, ruthless determination of a man with nothing left to lose.

Because nothing really mattered any more.

All that mattered was the void in his heart, the ache of your absence. He had lost the love of his life, and nothing else could ever compare.

Some days he couldn't help but think back to the days when it wasn't too late, remember the sound of your voice, the color of your eyes, the feeling of your skin—they were distant memories now, fading with each passing day. He had tried to hold on to them, but they slipped through his fingers like sand.

And then the darkness consumed him again.

So this was his life now—a never-ending cycle of violence and death.

He was the strongest sorcerer in the world, but it meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the one thing he could never have again. All that mattered was the one person he could not protect.

Why couldn't he protect you? 

Why was he so pathetically powerless?

Why? 

Why?  

When did it all go wrong? 

Why didn't he see it sooner? 

Why didn't he keep you closer? 

The question echoed relentlessly, infiltrating his every waking moment and plaguing his restless nights. He searched for answers that seemed forever beyond his grasp, aching to comprehend the agonizing twists of fate that had torn you from his embrace.

His mind relentlessly retraced the steps that led to this loss. He replayed those moments, desperately seeking the point of divergence where he might have altered the course of fate, prevented the tragedy that had destroyed his world.

But he couldn't.

It was all meaningless.

Amidst the bloodshed of his massacre, he stood, his head tilted back as he gazed at the sky above. He wiped across his eyes with the back of his hand.

It's been two years. 

Still every day was painful.

Still every day he thinks about you.

Some days he thinks he's healed. Other days the wounds are fresh, cutting deeper than ever. But the unchanging, unbearable reality was that he missed you every single day.

****

"It's hot," Yuji remarked.

He's right.

The summer heat was unbearable, the air heavy and still. This summer was violent, each day bringing a scorching heat that seemed to drain the energy from everything it touched. Yuji and Megumi sat in the shade, seeking a fleeting escape from the heat.

"I wonder if Nobara's happy overseas," Yuji mused, his hands mechanically working through the motions of slicing watermelon. 

"It doesn't matter where she is. Here or overseas. She won't be happy," Megumi said as he watched the aimless swirl of a leaf caught in the still air.

"Probably not," Yuji agreed.

A heavy silence fell upon them, pressing down like the summer heat.

After a moment, Yuji spoke up again. "Aren't you leaving soon as well?"

"Yeah, tomorrow."

"You think it'll change anything?" Yuji asked, his eyes searching Megumi's face for an answer they both knew but didn't want to admit.

Megumi paused, his gaze drifting away. "I have to try."

Yuji exhaled heavily. "So, it's just me now here."

"You'll be fine, Yuji. Gojo's still around," Megumi tried to reassure, though his words lacked conviction.

Yuji propped himself up on one elbow. "Didn't Gojo-sensei say he wants to quit teaching?"

Megumi's eyes widened slightly.

At that moment, a familiar voice cut through the heat. "Did I just hear my name?"

As they turned, the sight of Satoru halted their breaths. Of course, they were shocked. But they were not surprised. They long stopped to be surprised to see him like that. In this state.

His silver hair hung in disheveled strands, plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and dried blood. His form was drenched in scarlet, the blood indistinguishable as to whether it was his own or someone else's. His eyes were shadowed with the familiar emptiness.

His exposed skin bore the marks of numerous injuries, bruises and scratches marring his pale complexion. He no longer healed himself with his reversed cursed technique unless his injuries were lethal.

He wanted to feel the pain.

He wanted to feel the pain of each and every scratch and wound.

He wanted to see the blood run down his skin—wanted to see it run out—wanted to see it end his pain.

Yet amidst the chaos of his broken appearance, a small patch on his left hand had always remained meticulously shielded by his infinity, untouched, unblemished. The wedding ring still adorned his finger, a singular spot free from the onslaught of his self-imposed penance.

Satoru drew closer until his shadow fell on Yuji. Yuji tilted his head back. "Oh, Gojo-sensei. What brings you here?"

Satoru strolled closer, picked up a slice of watermelon and sat down next to them. He seemed unfazed by the blood that transferred from his hands to the watermelon as he took a bite. The air around him carried the pungent scent of battle.

"You reek of burned flesh and ashes," Megumi commented.

"Do I?" Satoru responded, seemingly unbothered by the observation.

Silence.

"Is it true?" Megumi spoke up. "You're done with teaching?"

Satoru turned his gaze to them. "Yeah, I'm stepping back. It's time for you all to take over." He paused, his jaw clenched. "I'm tired," he added, almost in a whisper.

His gaze then shifted to Yuji. "Yuji, you're in for the teacher training program."

Yuji's eyes widened in surprise. "What? Really?"

"Yes, you've done well," Satoru said with a fleeting smile that hardly touched the weariness in his eyes. "You too, Megumi, if you want to stay," Satoru added, but he already knew the answer to that.

"Who would've thought? Me as a teacher. Times really are changing," Yuji mused aloud.

Just then, Maki arrived, her directness cutting like a blade. "Gojo, you're reeking up the place. Ever heard of a shower?"

Satoru shot a quick, irritable glance her way. "Shut it, Zenin."

She raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his response. "Seriously, Gojo? When are you going to end your self-destruction? It's been two years!"

Satoru's fist clenched, his patience clearly fraying. "Watch your words," he retorted sharply.

But Maki wasn't done. She had had enough. She had grieved, too, like everyone else, but to watch Satoru drown in self-pity made her blood boil; knowing that it was far from what you would have wanted for him.

She crossed her arms, her gaze drilling into him. "Look at yourself, Gojo! You're a mess! When do you think you will finally be redeemed? Huh? When you have wiped out every curse on earth?"

At her words, something in Satoru snapped. He stood up abruptly, his presence suddenly more threatening. "Enough," he warned, his voice icy, barely containing his simmering rage. "Shut your tongue, or I'll rip it out myself."

Maki held his gaze, unflinching. "And then what, Gojo? You think that will bring you peace?"

Satoru's eyes narrowed. "I advise you to stay out of matters that do not concern you." With that, he turned and left, leaving Megumi, Yuji, and Maki behind.

Maki let out an exasperated sigh, running her hand through her hair. "When will Gojo get a grip on himself?"

"Drop it, Maki," Megumi snapped back with an uncharacteristic sharpness. 

Maki's eyes narrowed, her own patience wearing thin. "Oh, come on! You're just as bad, Fushiguro. Both of you need to move forward. It's painful to watch."

Megumi's expression darkened. Without another word, he stood up, turned on his heel and walked away. Maki and Yuji were left in silence, the tension still hanging in the air.

"Was I too harsh?" Maki sat down besides Yuji.

"Maybe, Maki. I don't know. I really don't know." Yuji let out a weary exhale. "Just don't be so hard on them. They torture themselves enough already," he said while his fingers traced the faint lines under his eyes where painful marks had once been. "We all do."

That's it, isn't it?

That's fate.

That's life.

Unforgiving.

Cruel.

Somehow, some fates are meant to be cruel—cursed even.

And all they could do was hope—hope that one day the pain would ease, that it would become more bearable. Or that life would, at lat, offer them the sweet release they lacked the courage to seize for themselves—the release from the pain that held them captive.

Sometimes, Satoru thought about it.

In the quiet nights.

When he missed you the most.

He wanted to forget, to let go of the memories that haunted him. Maybe then the pain would be easier to bear. Maybe then it would be easier to breathe. Yet, he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to forget, even though he wished he could.

But the curses that plagued the world were a constant reminder of what had been cruelly taken from him, and he couldn't rest until he had annihilated every last one of them.

Until that day came, he would continue his relentless hunt, each cursed spirit he extinguished bringing him a faint step closer to redemption.

Or so he desperately hoped.

a/n: I can't believe I've finally completed this fic. It's been an incredible journey, and I want to express my deepest gratitude to all of you who stuck with me through it. This was my first-ever long fanfiction, and I've learned so much while writing it. 

I hope you enjoyed the ride, even if it was a bit wobbly from time to time; I just wrote it as it flowed into my brain, chapter by chapter.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. I hope you have a wonderful day or night, and maybe we'll cross paths again in another story! ♥