#but would have a threshold of lives he would afford to be lost for a cause

[everyandanything]

I can’t get the idea out of my head that the Curtis brothers all feel like "the outsider" of their core family. So please enjoy this quick drabble I wrote when I should be writing my next chapter whoops.

Pony, the youngest, and his brothers just want him to remain a kid for as long as possible. They constantly search for ways to protect him and keep him from having to grow up any faster than he already has. But that protection means whispered secrets and pretty lies that make Pony want to scream.

Sometimes, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and Soda isn’t there, he tiptoes down the hall to the threshold of the kitchen to listen to the terrified whispers of Darry and Soda as they pour out their fears under the quiet cloak of night. How can they afford to keep going? How can they pay off Pony’s hospital bills? How can they make sure he’s okay after everything life has dealt him? One day Pony hopes he’ll look back on these moments and see that these conversations were only out of love, but at fourteen, he feels like a burden, like there’s an ’otherness’ in him he can’t shake.

And when the morning comes and his brothers stand in the exact same spot and offer him bright smiles and kind eyes, his chest aches with a pain he doesn’t think he’ll ever escape.

Soda, who down to his looks has always been told he’s different. Different smile, different nose, different laugh, different temper. Some days he wonders if he was switched at birth, perhaps he might even believe it except for the fact that when he looks in the mirror his eyes are so clearly his mother’s that he tells himself that's enough.

Sometimes, when he watches Darry and Pony fight, Soda’s reminded of the things he’s thankful he didn’t inherit: like their father’s sharp tongue or their mother’s quick temper. It’s a lethal combination, especially when shared by two stubborn boys, and causes his brothers to have blowouts that Soda wonders how they can possibly recover from.

But then there are other days— eventually, not at first— when his brothers finally learn how to love one another again. Soda listens as they talk for hours about their favorite books, or the story Pony’s writing, or how his track season is going, or even Darry’s favorite football team. All things Soda’s never understood. And as he watches his brothers become closer it hits him; Darry and Pony no longer need him, not really. The thought sends a shock of fear coursing through his body, and as he watches Pony smile up at their brother there is a small part of him, a part that he’ll never admit to and always hate, that hopes they won’t ever stop fighting just so he’ll know they have to keep him around.

Darry, no longer just a brother but instead a not-quite-father figure. He sees Pony and Soda together, all the ways they’ve bonded from having to live under Darry’s regime. He listens as Soda soothes Pony’s fears after yet another nightmare of Darry sending Pony away, or the gentle words they whisper to each other when Darry’s temper gets the best of him for the umpteenth time and he takes it out on them.

He lies awake at night wishing he could simply be their older brother again. He would do anything to not have to yell at Pony about his grades or chew Soda out for coming home late without calling. But what can he do? He can’t stop, because stopping could lead to something worse: losing his brothers, and he’s lost so much already.

So instead he lets himself be the villain in their story, and when all the ways he’s wronged them leave him lying in his bed unable to sleep, he creeps down the hall and sits by their door, listening as they laugh about something only they can understand, and tries to remind himself what he’s doing it all for.

[codenameredkrystalmatrix]

Another Life

Perhaps parts of us die, but revival is all the more fulfilling for it.

A shape bounded across the crags in superhuman leaps. His roar startled the local wildlife out of their hiding places. Pants for air mingled with the early morning mist. It was brisk out, as chilling as his aura. The minimal light brought to bear hints of his rigidity in feature. His eyes burned with the hue of all the suns that had never smiled on him.

He was hated.

He was feared.

In trying to take a step forward, his body locked. Savage, after 5 hours of training (or rather, trying to pound the ghosts in his mind with his fists), had reached his limit. His legs buckled. Now on the ground and slumped against a tree, he stared at bloodied hands.

He was nauseated.

Just as that very first day under Count Dookou, he felt his frame crumble. Without the resentment driving him forward, he was no longer sure why he trained. Still moving in that way without the purpose behind it was to live as the undead.

His breath condensed, translucent tendrils rising and becoming lost among an invisible, infinite sea of particles. The world had a lighter tint, blue-grey and so very cold. The silhouette of the forest canopy drifted slightly in the breeze. The damp of the forest floor reached under his skin.

Stillness....

...but for the wind rustling the leaves...

...and the occasional caw among the trees....

The rage faded to a soul-sucking numbness. He would end things for the moment.

Walk.

To hands and knees. Then he staggered to his feet, and took a deep breath. One foot at a time.

Walk.

His body grudgingly obeyed.

Thump.

Another breath, another step.

Thump.

Boots dragged, heaved, stumbled past tree trunks, logs and scampering creatures, past wide-eyed faces to a little hut at the edge of the town. His fingers fumbled around the door's handle and guided it open.

The scent of caf and roasting meat permeated his senses. The hissing of the Dark Side, the biting air and the lingering resentment had no place within those walls. That old, painful skin they formed around his being began to slip. A breath left his lungs, and he stepped beyond the threshold.

Warmth. Quiet. Darker than the outside.

You moved about at the dining table, wearing an apron while setting the table. From the moment you looked up, you could guess at what kind of morning it had been. He still looked a little wild. You kept your voice low for a soothing effect.

"Take a shower, and we'll have breakfast, ok?"

You were not a threat. You weren't ordering him. Crossing the room in three strides, he stood behind and embraced you, the pads of his fingers pressing into your waist.

"Thank you."

He nuzzled your neck to remember your scent. Citrus, muted with something mild and fresh. You were soft. The arm reaching up to caress his jaw reminded him you were kind. His pulses, finally, slowed down. You wouldn't hurt him. You never did.

"Thank you." He breathed, a low, continuous rumble starting from his chest.

"Of course, my love. Now you..."

You turned, lifted his face with both hands, and looked into slightly-glazed eyes. "...should go freshen up. I'll be here."

Pecking his lips elicited a small sigh from him. "Promise me."

Longing, a dash of humour, and...fear. You wondered if, sometimes, he felt like he was walking in a dream.

"I promise."

After a few more moments, he left for his quarters. The hot water soaked him and refreshed his body. His mind could wander to lighter things. He remembered spending hours inside the fresher when he'd first arrived, in shock that he could just...stand there without urgency- and that he could be truly clean. Flying around the galaxy did not afford such pleasures.

After he dried himself and changed, he joined you in the dining room. As you said you would, you'd laid food out for you and him. The tension in his body loosened, and he could savour each flavour of the meal. He took the dishes and washed up once the both of you were finished.

His glances outside looked weary. Maybe he'd like something different. "Do you want to stay i-woah!"

You laughed as you found yourself slung over his shoulder and on the way to his room. Unbeknownst to you, a soft smile was dawning on his face at the fact that you weren't resisting.

Laying you on the bed, he rested his face on your stomach and wound his arms around your middle. (He wouldn't confess it, but that was one of the reasons he'd filed his horns low.)

You moved your hands along his shoulders, kneaded his neck, then moved to his upper back. On the golden and inky canvas, scars lurked. Long since having learned their contours, your hand traced gashes, puncture wounds and burns alike

The warmth permeating your little hut had finally found a hold inside him, welcoming him home. Being lulled by your touch, Savage closed his eyes. In this new world- this new life...

He was cuddled.

He was kissed.

He was held.

He was loved.

[s0nia246]

(Since no one wrote it, I did. Have fun reading and thank you for reading. Sorry if it's bad or has errors, I'm not the best at writing still.)

____________________________________________

You don't know how you survive this long in the Backrooms. You thought you would have died at level 0 with all the other lost souls, but instead, here you are, alive and breathing.  You should be relieved to be alive, you suppose.  It's a miracle,  isn't it? But you're not grateful for the circumstances. You were never given a choice to live or die in the first place, and now you're stuck. The Backroom has become your home. Your prison, really.

"Finally the exit is just ahead," Y/N murmured to no one and themselves.  

They were walking through a huge myriad of rivers, lakes, valleys, and even mountain ranges in the distance. A dense layer of green flora grows everywhere, composed of plants that your brain is not even capable of imagining. You don't know how long you've been walking aimlessly through the "Terror Basins", but you're exhausted, physically and emotionally drained. You'd like nothing more than to sleep for hours and years. Maybe for decades. 

But you couldn't afford to stop now. Not when it looks like there could be more dangers waiting for you at every turn. You just wanted to get home to your family and relax with a book until you could collapse into bed. You didn't want to face the horrors of these strange new landscapes. 

You walked through the glowing door and stumbled on the threshold. 

(Level 200 No Place Like Home)

"Where am I?" you murmured weakly.

You felt as if your muscles might tear apart at any moment. As much as you try to fight off sleep, the exhaustion will always win out over you. So much so that you don't think you could stand upright right now if you tried.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" said a soft voice from beside you.

 They sounded familiar somehow, but you couldn't place why.

 "We've missed you, you know."

The voice continued to murmur soothing words as if they came straight from the heart, but the owner was missing. You had a weird feeling about the voice, however, as if it were almost... familiar. Almost like you have heard it before, but where?  You closed your eyes and tried to remember what your mind was made up of before the fatigue set in and rendered you useless.

As you tried to piece together your memories, they began to slip away from you and fade.  One by one. Finally, all that remained were vague impressions.

 "W...Where am...I-I d...don't - know..." You tried to speak, but everything got jumbled up together, rendering you speechless.

"It must have been a long drive, your home," the voice mused, "Let's take a walk."

With great effort, you managed to open your eyes again, which helped clear things up a bit, but it still didn't make sense.  Who is this person? Who's talking to me? Where am I? What is going on? What does this person mean by home? You wondered.

"Oh sorry about that, here let me help you up. You seem pretty tired. Just lean against my shoulder for now. That'll do, dearie." 

The stranger held out their arm and you gratefully took hold of their elbow. They pulled you along gently and you followed. Even as lightheaded as you were, you managed to stay upright thanks to their help.  The stranger kept muttering softly to you all the while, and you were beginning to wonder if they were a hallucination.

"There's old Joe Vee, still running that breakfast place, serving the same people, day in and day out. Been doing it for 60 years. Remember going there before school, on those days with a bleak blue sky and cold air that chapped your lips? You remember, right? That man poured his heart and soul into that food. It's his legacy. His flesh and blood. He's been holding that soup bowl for 30 days. It's starting to fall apart."

You blinked, trying to focus your vision once more, but it still wasn't making much of a difference.  There was something very odd happening, but you weren't sure whether it was because you were too tired to see it properly or just because it was an unfamiliar environment. Your brain was still a bit hazy. 

"30 days...falling apart ...what...What are you talking about...?" you muttered. 

Your mouth and tongue wouldn't cooperate enough to form complete sentences, this is bad. Why can't I focus... 

"I'm - I'm not quite understanding,  um...." You looked around.  You two were standing in front of a sign, reading 'Old Joe's  Delight'.

"There's the school. With enough time, it could be your school, just the way you remembered it. Remember that year you went to space camp in the science lab and you met Sarah Palmer? Remember how she dared you to go into the basement alone, and you did it because you were 10 and stupid, and she was the first girl you've ever noticed?

Remember how dark and cold it was down there? Below, below, below. You remember. You were so happy to leave, to see sunlight again. To see Home again.

 If you didn't know any better, you might have believed you were falling apart down there."

The stranger's arms slipped around you again, and you rested your head on their broad chest, letting them carry you forward. They were warm, and they smelled good. 

"I wonder what Sarah Palmer is doing with herself now? You can find out if you want. All you have to do is remember. Bring her with you." 

"Rot," you murmured, barely louder than a whisper. "I...don't see it. It's...just a normal town...my town. This...is not normal."

They laughed, and though their body shook a little from the action it was quite pleasant. "This is normal...for you. Normal isn't always what you think it is."

As you leaned more heavily on their chest, you could feel them smiling slightly at you. You couldn't tell whether it was a real smile or a figment of your imagination, but either way, you welcomed its presence.

 "I know you must be tired l, dearie. It must be hard being back. After all, it's been such a long time since we saw each other, yes? One more stop to make. Just one more stop to make."  They stopped outside of what appeared to be a house.

"You can tell it used to be beautiful and untouched. Now the paint chips and the walls have grown too thin. It's not a place that's taken shape yet. You can make it better. Please remember how it used to look. How your Mother would take you on walks around the neighborhood on summer afternoons, the pure and genuine joy that came with your birthday, how it felt to not think about living and dying or breaking into a million pieces. You remember." The stranger was stroking your hair gently and whispering sweet promises to you.

"Everything's gonna be alright now." 

"You are home."

"Welcome home. We've missed you."

"We're here for you."

"The rot only grows when you're not around."

"Start building, molding. We're adaptable."

"We can be whatever you want, and we knew what you wanted from the second you set foot here."

"Keep that rot at bay."

"Just how you remember, whatever you want, all the time. You're in control here. All we need is for you to remember."

"So stay with us."

"Stay."

"Look behind you. Everyone's here. "

"Come home."

All you needed was to close your eyes and see your friends' faces, to see the smiles on their faces as they welcomed you home, to see their hands on your shoulders to show you love and support you unconditionally.

You couldn't resist closing your eyes and letting the darkness consume you.

"You'll be happy hear with us. Welcome Home..."

Again, thank you for reading this silly little idea.

[ihatehannibal]

trauma dumping bc I can't afford therapy

thinking about how I didn't even say our dad was abusive to us out loud even once until I was like 21 (or think it, honestly), which was a full 7 years after he was out of our house for good. and when I did finally say it my sister replied with "no, we weren't abused, he had a temper but that isn't abuse" & then I internalized that for a few more years. I still have moments where I doubt my own perception of what happened & need a reality check, to see it all laid out so I can pretend it happened to someone else & be like "yeah okay of course it was abuse". I can't really put this anywhere else but here

I remember at least 2 occasions where my mom definitely thought my dad was going to kill us all. the first one was especially terrifying bc I was younger, he broke down a door (not just broke through thr lock, I mean he kicked the door until it splintered to pieces as if it had exploded) to get to where my mom had us all hidden, locked in her room. & when the banging of him kicking the door started she began frantically apologizing immediately through her tears & I sensed her fear & knew instinctively what she thought was about to happen. I was 10 at that time I think, my siblings were 8 & 6. my memory blacks out at his silhouette appearing in the threshold so I dunno what happened next but later said that he thought that /she/ was killing /us/ and that's why he broke down the door but that is the most ridiculous lie I've ever heard. he knows damn well she would never harm a hair on our heads.

the second occasion my mom thought he was going to kill us was when I was 14 and it was only a year after the family annihilation happened to our friends, which was committed by the father-who my mom & aunts had known since they were teenagers-so it made that seem much more real & plausible to us all. my (9 at the time) brother did something, I don't even remember but it was probably just normal child misbehaving, & it made my dad so mad that he started chasing him around the house screaming that he was going to kill him, my mom yelled for my brother to run as far away as possible so he left the house and ran down the street & my mom and sister were physically holding my dad back so that he couldn't go after him, but he pushed both of them to the ground and got outside. luckily my brother was out of sight by then, hiding in our neighbors bushes. I had called the cops but he was miraculously very calm when they arrived, as usual. after that my mom never let him live with us again & he went off and shacked up with his current wife before the divorce papers were even served. not even gonna get into how fucked up that whole situation was.

those are the big occasions but god there was so much in between. he was really jekyll & hyde, the second he lost his temper he became something very terrifying. he and my mom had screaming matches long into the night very often, usually about stuff he was doing to us (he believed in corporal punishment, not closed fist beatings or anything but spanking and hitting us with spatulas and such, and he was always full of rage when he did it so it hurt a lot & scared us) and she almost never let us be alone with him, another relative would always have to be there supervising.

then of course there was the religious shit, obviously, I've talked about it before. he told me from the time I was 4 or 5 that I shouldn't focus on what I wanted to be when I grow up cuz the world was going to end before I reached adulthood & I had to be a soldier for god in the apocalypse, which could happen at any moment so I had to be prepared. oh and that everyone i loved-my whole family except him-would be dragged to hell to be tortured for eternity, that my dead grandpa who I was very close to was already there for being a catholic rather than a fundie, & that I'd go to hell if I didn't listen to him. he said he was trying to save me. my mom had to find this out from my therapist when I was in first grade & she lost it. she has since told me that she would have left him right then if she didnt have a 3 kids under 7 at the time & no way of supporting us alone. another harmful thing he tried to force on us was of course the belief that gay people are broken & need to be fixed or they'll go to hell. as someone who realized I liked girls as a preteen that obviously was hard to hear. my brother is gay too & I know it's affected him badly.

I was a really troubled child & I guess it makes sense given the horrible anxiety he instilled in me plus I was seeing psychiatrists from as early as 5 for my ocd & depression. I got my autism dx (well, aspergers, since that was still a clinical term back then) around that time too. school was hellish bc people ostracized & mocked me for being a mute & wearing the same clothes every day due to sensory issues. I had no friends at all for a few years. I hit puberty really early & got groped by a few boys so that was just great. I was also the tallest person in my class until 7th grade when the boys started growing which while not traumatic kind of sucked bc I felt like a hulking giant when all I wanted to do was hide. I eventually learned to mask, forced myself to talk more & made friends with other unpopular girls at school. safety in numbers (by high school I stopped giving a shit about what anyone thought so that was good).

I was medicated for the first time at 12 when my intrusive thoughts got worse & I tried to kill myself, from then on they just kept adding more diagnoses and more pills from 12-16ish. bipolar, like my dad & uncle (who has since killed himself). I started using food as a coping mechanism around age 14 & developed various eating disorders that extend to this day, which probably also originated in my fathers fear that we would be fat like everyone on my mom's side & his control over our eating (he wouldn't even let me have cupcakes if someone brought them to school for a bday party, he told my teachers I had allergies that I don't have). I slit up my arms for awhile in my late teens and early 20s as a way to stop panic attacks. I dropped out of college. I became a drug addict. never had sex or a proper long term relationship & probably never will bc I don't like being emotionally or physically vulnerable. I know it has a lot to do with the way I was treated as a kid. I took a test once & it said I have an avoidant attachment style which is very accurate. apparently that happens when a child grows up not feeling safe with one or both parents.

reading this back I still immediately think "well others had it worse so maybe it wasn't REAL abuse. maybe I don't have C-PTSD." like no matter what my brain just won't accept my reality

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

I wish I had a version without a paywall, but I don't, and it's a long article with far too many important parts to excerpt all of the quotes I'd like to share, so here's a summary:

Giselle (G) was 11 weeks pregnant with twins in 2020, when she was 17. She lived in Texas, so she needed to prove to a judge she was "mature enough" for an abortion (although forced birthers apparently assume a 17 year old is mature enough to be a parent.

Without judicial bypass, she would have needed to reach out to her sexually abusive father or emotionally abusive mother for their consent to her abortion.

She had broken up with Cecil, the father, and neither made enough money to care for children.

She had considered adoption and decided she wanted an abortion. She thoroughly researched abortion and decided that was what she wanted.

The judge, David Hodges, told her to try visiting a Christian prolife centers and said he would consider this as if he was making a decision for his daughter. She did as he asked...but he said she wasn't mature enough to get an abortion.

"How the courts interpret maturity has since proved to be arbitrary. Judge Hodges told me that “of course it’s subjective.” He also said that part of his thinking in denying G’s petition was that he disagreed with her statement that she wouldn’t make a suitable parent. “My thought process was, You sound very mature to me, for a 17-year-old, living on your own, paying your own rent, making these decisions,” he said. “Sounded to me like she actually, probably would make a good parent.” His view was paradoxical: He believed that G was mature enough to raise two children, but he had ruled that she was not mature enough to decide if she was ready to be a mother."

G fell into such a deep depression that it eas hard to get our of bed.

She got back together with Cecil, not because she wanted to, not because she thought he was reliable, but because they felt obligaed to do so.

Her job that paid 8/hr didn't make ends meet, so she had to sell naked pics of herself. Her employer didn't provide paid leave, so when her doctor ordered her to bed rest, that was lost income.

She had problems bonding with her children, alternating between loving them and thinking about smothering them. She was aware enough to get help for postpartum depression.

"Although G had applied for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, the safety-net program for low-income parents, she was denied because their household income exceeded the $231 monthly threshold. Cecil covered the rent, fast food, utilities and their car payments, but G wanted an income of her own. Rachel and Michael Borego, the parents of a friend, offered to watch the babies at their home on the weekends, allowing G to get a job as a waitress. G kept asking Cecil to help clean, at least wash his own dishes. He complained about his exhaustion and her nagging; he felt that he had lost his dream to build a streetwear brand and that he couldn’t meet the impossible expectations of fatherhood. “I feel like a single mother already,” G wrote to Cecil in a letter. “I love you for just being there, holding me and giving me a slice of peace that I didn’t think existed, but I’m not happy.”"

Cecil and G broke up, but she couldn't afford her own place so she slept in the closet of her children's room.

Now, she lives in a camper with no water or restroom. The roof leaks.

She gave her twins to some friends to care for.

You forced this on her, forced birthers. May it all happen to you. According to you, this is a happy ending, right?

[thetorchwoodnineroleplayerwriter]

“You mustn’t,” the guardian of eternity had said. “If you take any of it into yourself — you’ll be doomed, like me, to outlive everything you care about.”

I remember the moment well. I cared, in that moment — I cared enough to cross the threshold anyways, to become immortal just like she was.

I remember the look on her face, already giving up on me the moment I stepped out. “You’re doomed,” she had said. “Everyone always things eternity will be one day forever — but I warn you, the world will leave you behind.”

I remember it perfectly. I remember everything perfectly. It’s part of what it means, my eternity — my memories won’t die any more than the rest of me will.

I remember the day I met him.

It was not long after — I was still going through the shocks, still learning what it meant to be immortal. Still finding all the edges and grooves. Heck, I hadn’t even joined the chat room!

But I was alive, and so was he. He wasn’t immortal, but he was just as alive as I still felt I was.

I took it upon myself to be there as much as he would let me. As the years turned, and he grew older, he appreciated my constant presence at his side, my youthful vigor and the way I was wise like his age. As for myself, I appreciated his humor, his style, his beliefs — and, when he was willing to give it, I didn’t shy away from his embrace.

I wasn’t surprised when he passed, a mere ten years after we’d met. He wasn’t young, and he wasn’t healthy, and he wasn’t immortal.

No, what surprised me was that his children asked me to attend his funeral. I had by this point heard all the stories my elder immortals tell, about drifting away in life, so the idea that someone would reach out to me — a mortal who was grieving, especially — it was something I had doubted happening for a long time.

But they invited me to go to the family’s funeral. It was the least I could do, with my Eternity, to make sure they could afford it — or maybe I could entreat upon some of them a hint, a path to Eternity — or any of a thousand thousand other gifts, for my friend’s grieving family —

“Aren’t you grieving, too?” His middle child had said. “Share the pain with us — we’re ready for it.”

I remember everything perfectly. I remember his children asking me to stay in their lives because I was in his.

I remember their children. I remember their children’s children. I remember everyone in your family’s last fifty generations, my old friend, with the same clarity as I remember you.

The guardian of eternity was wrong, that day. Maybe one day she’ll realize. It’s painful to lose something, but I change just as the world does. I have a family, and I am loved, and I love them back. I don’t need the great magics I have, and I would — and have — lost some of that now-ancient sorcery willingly, to keep this family safe, and everyone in it safe as well.

I know, one day, I’ll be everyone’s great-granduncle one way or another. An old man who your cousin’s husband’s ex-wive’s roommate’s boyfriend’s dad’s neighbor’s great grandfather, and — through that long, long chain, knows you too.

I don’t mind. I have enough memory for eternity. I’ll welcome you to my table all the same.

Most immortals become the angsty “everyone I have ever loved is gone” kind of immortal. You, on the other hand, instead took it upon yourself to be a loving presence to entire generations of your chosen family, because they are descended from someone you once loved long ago.

[stlispenard]

066: on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast.

“you will take half of my ration.” all, if he gets it his way. 

      james’ face twitches when eskel grunts. apparently he’s aware enough to protest even if his swollen eyes remain half-shut and his mouth is the same washed-out colour as his skin. james’ humourless laugh hangs in the air between them as he reduces their conversation to an exchange of sounds. thus, nothing much is changed in the haze of eskel’s fever. except, perhaps, the urgency of it. 

      battling an infection when you are days (weeks even — james just can’t afford the pessimism) from your target, and there is a shortage of food and supplies, is not what you want. fleas and pests live in the crevasses between the floorboards; blood, dirt, feces live on the hands of all men on board, with no real way of avoiding it. james has delegated command and left silver at the helm. the captain scarcely believes his crew will see another sunrise (at least without any trouble). mutineers may very well wait at the threshold of his cabin, rope in hand, guns pointed, but the thread is negligible as long as eskel’s suffering subsists. consequences be damned. james has removed him from below deck, barred the cabin door, and propped the man against pillows and a pile of fabrics (discarded scraps, shirts, blankets). he has cleaned, dressed and re-dressed his wounds, brought ale, wine and rum to parched lips and cursed at his inability to swallow.

      james has watched him in stillness, counted his breaths, flipped through the pages of the book in his lap that he won’t read, paced from one end to the other. watched eskel’s face morph into thomas’ and back into itself or a terrifying hybrid with their features fighting for dominance. lose one in the war you wage for the other. another fucking sacrifice to the all-devouring james flint. eskel’s blood will leave his hands with another permanent stain and he will join miranda and gates in tormenting him. the apparitions that poison his mind like some shakespearean banquo, the prelude to madness that he, like macbeth, must fend off:

avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! / thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold / thou hast no speculation in those eyes / which thou dost glare with! 

      he has hallucinated the death rattle, his final breaths, and eskel slipping through his fingers like sand or ashes. he’s imagined the worst to prepare himself for when the feverish snore that prompts it is no longer just that. james doesn’t sleep in case he misses it. he wants to be there to cradle the body until someone finally forces him to let go. he imagines the satisfaction he’ll feel from punching silver or billy or joji when they try. they’ll leave him be if they know what is good for them; they will leave him be and take him to shore to bury another lover. such lovely bones would be wasted lost at sea. 

but the fever does break.

      “and i might leave you on the next fucking island i see and make sure you have no other choice, but to recover. considering that you’re not a fucking pirate, either, i suppose i could send you to the spanish or the english and they will have remedies and food that i can’t provide. you’d look handsome in red and blue, but i suppose it will make me want to punch you a little.” 

      is there any sanity left? he wonders as he bends besides eskel — like a man kneeling in prayer — placing one hand on his bandage-covered abdomen and the other near his face, thumb brushing over where the scar on his cheek cuts his upper lip. he traces it backward, up his face and over his cheekbone and back down again. this time his finger moves over his lips, feeling them softly yield to the touch, and down to the cleft in his chin. he shifts himself forward and presses the lightest kiss across the other man’s brow and the side of his face: “your journey is not yet complete. i need my companion still.” 

@blzna/@nohtora

[casspurrjoybell-19]

CLAIMED - Chapter 34

*Warning: Adult Content*     

After triple-checking over his shoulder to ensure that no one else was watching, Head Warrior of the Crescent Moon Pack, Corey Cahill shoved his hand deep into the back of his bedside drawer. 

He blindly rooted around in the semi-organized space until his fingertips found the shape of the item he was looking for. 

Then, quickly, he slid the object into the pocket of his jacket, closed the drawer and made his way out of the room he shared with his Mate, Beta Jaxson Ortiz. 

Corey made quick work of the sweeping staircase in the center of the Pack House before navigating back to the sitting room from which he originally came. 

When he crossed the threshold, the sight before him was one that he would gaze into for eternity if only he were afforded such a privilege.

There he was.

 There they were.

"Dude, this stuff is gonna make you so jacked. Make sure to drink a lot, not enough so that you poop all over me again like last time but just enough so that you get big and strong and that I can teach you how to kick some as..." Jaxson paused, eyes widening with recognition at the curse word that he was about to use,."Sorry, not ass, I mean to say butt," the Beta’s eyes widened even more to a size that almost resembled a certain, yellow-haired Faerie. "Oh fuck, I still said it."

Corey chuckled. 

"Almost there, Gift. You're already doing better than last week," the Head Warrior praised, leaning over to press a kiss to Jaxson's soft lips before bestowing one on the top of baby Theon's sleepy forehead as well.

Corey wished that he could freeze an image in time, to brand the picture of Jaxson swaying Theon back and forth in the rocking chair as he fed him into the Warrior’s heart until the end of time. 

It was so idyllically perfect in such an imperfect way, the simple, domestic pleasure of seeing his Mate take care of their baby igniting certain desires that Corey did not even recognize as a component of his being until now.

He mentally pinched his Wolf, Dashiell as he drooled across the front of his skull, reminding him that this was not the time to pump his Beta/Omega full of pups. 

That could wait until approximately twelve o'clock, after their errands were finished.

"Thanks for the encouragement but I'm pretty sure I'm a lost cause," Jaxson sighed, shoulders drooping but he still held Theon as gently as ever. "This potty mouth is here to stay, let's just hope Theon doesn't catch on too quickly." 

Then, the Beta finally looked up at his Mate, a smile stretching the spattering of freckles that also dotted the skin of his pink lips.

"Don't you have shit to do today? Wait, fuck. I did it again."

 Corey just laughed again, nodding as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his left one clenching around the object that he had just placed there.

Lying to Jaxson was like tearing off a limb and still having to pretend that everything was intact. 

Luckily Corey’s inherent lack of facial expressions made it a little easier to hide his unease regarding the fact that he was about to intentionally mislead his soulmate regarding his plans for the day but not by much. 

So, with an incredibly deep breath and a quick talk down from the ledge, he finally responded.

"Yes. Warrior... stuff," Corey lied all-but-smoothly, palms and soul itching with the need to pull Jaxson into his arms, informing him of the truth behind his sinful, treacherous deception and then promptly beg for his forgiveness.

The Head Warrior quietly added that to his to-do list, right underneath 'fuck mate at approximately twelve o'clock.'

Jaxson just grinned wider, chirping a quick... 

"Okay, have fun. Love you." 

Before turning his attention back down to Theon. 

"Alright, lil' dude. Wanna hear about the time I accidentally set twenty-three live chickens loose inside the Pack House? See, it all starts with acquiring the goods. My personal place of choice was our local KFC..."

Corey shuffled a little in his spot, absolutely not trying to stall at all.

"Are you sure that you will be okay?" he suddenly blurted after a few moments of nervous hovering.

Since Corey’s incident, it had been harder than ever to separate himself from his Mate. 

Leaving Jaxson alone was like ripping his heart out, giving it les, and letting it walk around completely unguarded.

In other words, it was hell.

Jaxson looked back up, pausing his intricate story and raising a curl-obscured brow.

"Corey..." he started, voice soft and knowing. "I'll be fine, and so will Theon. Plus, I've got that lil' worm over there helping me out today." 

He points and Corey turns, following the invisible line drawn by the gesture. 

On the other end of it was a male Omega with gigantic, round glasses, a button nose and cheekbones so high and round that they honestly made him resemble a cartoon character. 

He waved with a wide smile, introduced himself as 'Evie' and promptly turned back to the game that he was playing on a handheld device.

"See? We're gonna be fine," Jaxson assured, tilting his head in a way that made Corey’s heart do a quick Olympic backflip. "Now, go do your thing so I can get back to teaching Theon how to become a legend."

‘Jaxson was right. It was time to go. Time to go. Time to go.’ 

Corey repeated the phrase a few more times. 

Around the fifteenth or so time, his feet finally decided to unstick from the hardwood and head out of the front door.

The air was a little chillier now, the fall breeze shifting the branches of trees whose leaves were beginning their shift from green to yellows and oranges.

This was the Head Warrior’s favorite time of year, when the browned-out colors of the world reminded him of book pages and it was warm enough for light layers but still cool enough to make you crave a cup of something hot.

And just like the leaves, it was a perfect time for change. 

For transformation.

His talk with Alpha Oasis Amador had gone well. 

After presenting his wish to begin his own pack, to rebuild on the land that his Parents once owned, he found that the Alpha also shared similar desires. 

Apparently, Alpha Oasis had long been looking for a way to pay tribute to the wrongs that his father had committed upon Corey’s Parents' Pack.

So the plan was immediately greenlit, the title on the land signed into Corey’s name along with a promise from Alpha Oasis to support them in whatever ways they needed as they established their family name once more.

They would be two packs but one in heart.

There was only one issue, which was that, as of yet, Jaxson was not exactly... aware of Corey’s plans.

The Head Warrior knew that he needed to tell his Mate and he certainly planned to. 

After all, if Jaxson said no, then Corey would not think twice about staying right where they are now. 

But fear weighed Alpha Corey Cahill down as he wished with everything in himself that the Crescent Moon Beta would want to share this dream with him, that his lover would stay by his side as both his Mate and his Beta.

Fallen leaves crunched underneath his heavy, black boots as he continued his trek. 

He had long since entered the backwoods, stepping over various logs and ducking under low-hanging branches on the way. 

He could have easily driven to his destination in a quarter of the time but for some reason that felt wrong. 

At least, for this particular occasion.

Regardless, he needed a little time alone to slow his steadily racing heart.

Squeezing the object in his left jacket pocket in a tight fist, Corey thought of Jaxson.

It was almost surreal to think about how he was provided with privilege enough to love and be loved by the most beautifully resilient man to ever exist within the boundless confines of this universe. 

Every morning that he woke up to a face full of those soft, springy curls, Corey immediately thanked the Goddess for her generosity with a ferocity enough to drive me to tears.

Jaxson Ortiz was it for him.

The Pack Beta had always been and always would be, from the very first moment that the Head Warrior’s soul made recognition of his transcendentally bewitching yet delicately vulnerable existence. 

Corey would walk through the gates of hell, fight the world until his knuckles bled and even give up his own life if it meant ensuring his Mate’s happiness.

The ground beneath his feet gave way to softer soil when a large pond finally revealed itself from behind a thick cover of red and brown foliage. 

The water was uncharacteristically calm, with barely a ripple to be glimpsed along its clear surface and Corey approached it’s bank with mindful steps.

This pond was one that he often found Jaxson lingering around during his patrols. 

It only took a few instances of noticing his behavior for the Warrior to finally give in to curiosity and inquire into the Beta’s preference for this particular body of water.

Jaxson’s answer made Corey’s soul ache.

"Mom used to bring me here," Jaxson explained, arms wrapped around his own waist in a self-soothing gesture as his lips pulled into a tight line that was initially intended to be a smile. "When things got really bad... We would come here and count the tadpoles," he recalled the memory with an aching fondness, the volume of his voice lowering to a whisper. "Some of her ashes rest here, too."

Corey settled down onto a smooth, dry boulder just to the right side of the bank.

He had always prided himself in his uncanny ability to handle difficult situations. 

After all, he was an Alpha, he was quite literally genetically built to do such a job. 

But now, sitting here and staring out into the water, he was suddenly face-to-face with the most esoteric, nerve-wracking challenge of his life.

All of the romance novels in the world couldn't have prepared him for this. 

But there was only one way to get to the other side and that was through it.

So, he sucked in a deep breath of leafy, fall air and held it for a few seconds. 

Then, he released it all in one go... and began... But when he opened his mouth to speak, he instead found himself flushed when no words formed upon the nervous apex of his lips.

It should have felt strange, his sudden lack of reconnaissance to words that usually flowed through him like a calm river. 

But this time, his inability to create meaning from the depths of his never ending well of emotions made complete sense.

Corey’s love for Jaxson was not one that could be accurately described through the trivial confines of any language. 

It was so much more than that, a force that would continue on far past the time that they both were rendered to ash and returned to the earth.

His Mate’s radiance was timeless, reflected in so much more than his physical beauty alone. 

Jaxson was resilient, he was determined and he was so delightfully and unapologetically himself in every moment of every day.

Corey admired his lover’s outlook on the world, seeking to imprint every little moment that they spent together into the empty gallery spaces of his heart and fill them with his glittering sort of light.

His Mate’s existence fit together with his like the most talented pianist's fingers fit to keys. 

And together, they were a symphony.

The object in Corey’s pocket sizzled against his calloused palm in the best way, a reminder of the weight of it all, of the importance of what he was about to do.

He just had to do it.

He could do it.

With a square jaw and a bite back at the nervousness that threatened to shake him down, Corey Cahill finally spoke.

"Hola..." he paused, hesitating as he contemplated the best way to begin this conversation. 

He ran a hand through his hair, acknowledging the way that his hand trembled in the process. 

"Ms. Evita. I am your son's Mate. It is beyond a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." he finally finished his greeting, using the name that Jaxson had confided him with only a few months back.

There was no script for this, no speech that he had planned. 

He needed her to know that his devotion was true, that it came from a place of truth, a truth that rendered his voice to a tremor, the slightest of quakes noticeable in its vulnerable tone.

"My entire life I have waited for my destined, Ms. Evita. And your Jax... It's unexplainable. He just makes me feel so at peace while also somehow setting my soul aflame." 

Corey squeezed the object in his palm, drawing strength from the profoundness of its meaning. 

The water remained calm at his feet, only disturbed by the faintest ripple from the shifting of the wind. 

He could only pray that Ms Evita would hear him as he unearthed himself.

"Jaxson is the definition of everything that I could ever desire. He is all that my soul has ever prayed for. I dream of him even when I am awake..." 

It was then that Corey broke, suddenly aware of the blur in his vision and the tears that had begun to form a pond of their own along the sharp line of his jaw. 

He tried wiping them away with the sleeve of his jacket, only to find another fresh wave of wetness assuming their place.

He rubbed at his chest where it tightened and before he could stop himself, a strangled sob tore its way out of his chest.

"I... I..." Corey forced out through the sudden flash flood of tears, taking in jagged breaths in an effort to soothe his suddenly spasming lungs. "I love him forever. I love him madly. I have waited lifetimes for him, Ms. Evita..."

The object finally became too scorching to bare within the downy confines of his jacket pocket, so he pulled it out, running his fingers gently across it’s smooth exterior. 

He didn't dare look yet, though. 

Not until he had finished his vow.

“I promise to show him how much he means to me every day, ma'am. I promise to uplift him always. I promise to ease his burdens, to shower him with all of the endless, unbounded adoration that he deserves," Corey sealed his worlds with the most powerful vow, the kind that one made to oneself. 

It was only then that his thumb flicked up and he finally glanced down at the uncovered object that he clenched in his palm so tightly that his knuckles were rendered a pale white.

The ring was perfect, the golden band adorned with an emerald gemstone so bright and enrapturing that it almost held a light to Corey’s beloved's own irises. 

It rested within a glass box, one that was custom fitted to the jewelry inside.

The Head Warrior’s hand shook violently but he still held it tight, determined not to let his sweaty palms fumble such a precious item.

His breath caught somewhere on the way down to his lungs and he could only hope that Jaxson's mother was there with him and that she approved.

"So, Ms. Evita... I pray that I will be granted the honor of receiving your blessing." 

Corey stalled, running the back of his palm across his eyes once more to wipe at the never ending waterfall of tears that had taken up a seemingly permanent tenure there. 

"Just as I pray that I will be bestowed with the honor of calling your son, my husband."

[saeraas]

Yeah, people forget that Three Hopes Claude doesn't learn what Three Houses Claude did.

(Gonna start this by saying I do not know Hopes so I'm going to speak about Houses)

Yeah. It's like if we remember his supports, especially his earlier ones with Byleth, he mentions how he was always considered an outsider so he always had to come up with may different schemes for many different situations to survive.

He came to Fodlan expecting things to be different than how he grew up and realized real quick that they were very similar despite his belief that the people of Fodlan couldn't be cowards because his mother was no coward.

I think people forget how hostile Lorenz and some other non-Golden Deer Leicester Alliance people were to Claude when he arrived, not to mention how some of the ways people talked about Almyrans despite at this point Almyra was not being aggressive at Fodlan's locket. So, I think encountering a Claude who doesn't get to spend much time with his housemates/other people, learn more about Fodlan besides immediate experiences, or that doesn't have the chance nor time to snoop around the library then I think it's plausable that we'll see a different Claude who may make more harsh decisions because he didn't have the luxury he had in Three Houses to learn

[heyhihellowhatsup0]

Hooked On Your Feelings - Prologue (FWB! Tom x Reader)

Warnings: Some angst, language, eventual smut in future chapters, fluff

Word Count: 2570

Summary: After a bad breakup, making an agreement with your womanizing neighbor, Tom to be friends with added benefits and no strings attached seemed like the perfect idea. Until things become messy, emotions caused your agreement to crumble.

A/N:   So I’m starting a new series! I always wanted to do this trope for Tom and I’m realllllly excited for this series!  I’m not completely sure how long it will be as of right now, most likely between 8-10 chapters. So if you want to be added to the taglist, please DM me! I hope you all enjoy the prologue and can’t wait to hear your thoughts on it! (Also credit to @osterfield-holland-andcompany for this amazing ass mood board I made her too..I’m obsessed!) Thank you xx -N

“Get out!” you screamed as you shoved your now ex-boyfriend out the front door of your apartment. You knew the walls were thin but you didn’t care. You were so completely filled with rage and your body was vibrating as you flung his pants at him, “Get the hell out, Justin!” you shouted again.

    Justin flinched as the door swung open and he stumbled out the front door, still in his boxers. The anger in your eyes made your pupils black while he grabbed his pants and rolled his eyes at you, “Will you just let me explain, Y/N?” he tried to speak but you cut him off with a dry and sarcastic laugh.

    “No. The conversation is over,” you snapped at him, taking another deep breath to try and pull yourself together. You felt yourself fighting back the tears because you didn’t want him to see you cry. Not again, anyway.

    Watching as Justin stumbled down the stairs, you stood at the top completely and utterly overcome with your anger you barely recognized your voice. But you knew you had every right to be mad. You couldn’t excuse his behavior and you were done defending him. You knew you deserved better than the shit he was putting you through. It was enough and now you were letting it all pour out as he was practically falling down the stairs.

    You grabbed the shoe he had dropped on his way out the door and aimed it right towards his head, missing and making a loud thud against the wall behind him. You probably just woke up the entire floor but you didn’t care right now. Forming a fist, you refrained from punching the door as you finally lost it, “Don’t call me! Don’t even walk down the same street as me anymore, do you hear me? You conniving son of a bitch!” your voice bounced off the walls with an echo as you watched Justin exit your life through the elevator, still with his pants in his hand.

    You couldn’t help yourself as you flipped off the closing doors while you let out the breath you were holding in. Your chin began to tremble as you tried to stop yourself immediately. He wasn’t worth it, you thought to yourself. You should be proud of getting rid of him. Especially after what he had done to you.

    Just as you were heading back into your apartment before anyone realized you were the cause for the commotion, your neighbor’s door flew open and made you jump when you saw his familiar face meet yours from across the hall. You saw his smile as he noticed you and you knew what that meant, you just weren’t in the mood right now to assist in his little escapade.

    “Y/N! Oh, I thought I heard your voice out here,” your neighbor from 3B made his way over to you with bare feet, brown curls a mess, with his grey sweatpants resting low on his hips as his bare chest was revealed to the entire floor, “Thank god! I need your help with this chick inside who is talking about meeting her family this weekend and I’ve known her for...three hours,” he cringed as he carefully tip-toed his way over towards you.

 You couldn’t help but roll your eyes because this was a regular thing for him, even if it wasn’t your business. But he was a friend of yours, in a neighborly way at least, so at some point you made it your business.

    “No,” you scolded him as you shook your head. You tried to hold in your laugh at the desperate look on his face but you couldn’t help, “Not tonight, Tom. No! C’mon, seriously? No!” you warned as he began to give you puppy dog eyes to try and convince you otherwise.

    Tom pressed his palms together and pressed them to his chest, praying for your assistance, “Please, Y/N! I owe you so much if you help me out and this is the last time, I swear,” he paused for a moment when he realized you were standing by your door this late at night and you looked as if you had gone through hell. His lips tightened as he suddenly grew concerned, “Wait, what are you doing out here right now?” he questioned.

    You sighed as you pinched the bridge of your nose, “Um...I sorta caught Justin sleeping with his co-worker so I was just kicking him out, sorry,” you don’t know why you apologized for it but you knew you didn’t want Tom or anyone for that matter to see you when you were this visibly upset.

    “He did what?! Fuck...Y/N, I’m so sorry,” Tom said as he offered you a hug, pulling you into his bare arms while he tried to make you feel a little bit better, “That guy was a fucking prick and I never really liked him anyway,” he told you, making you laugh through your tears while you pulled away with a small smile showing.

    Running a hand through his curls to smooth them over, Tom squeezed your shoulder playfully, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m probably a bigger mess than you right now,” he told you as he cringed at what was waiting for him back in his apartment.

    “No, you have a bigger mess than me,” you corrected with another eye roll. Quickly wiping your tears away you placed a hand on your hip while taking another breath towards Tom and his stupidity, “If I do this, you owe me big time,” you sighed.

    Tom was a good guy but the decisions he sometimes made were, to say the least, questionable. You didn’t know too much about his personal life but just enough to come to the realization that he couldn’t commit to much of anything. He was always bringing random girls home, roommates came and went, and he had a tendency to flake on tenant meetings at the last minute.

 There was no question that he wasn’t looking to settle down, you never once saw him with the same girl more than once and that was none of your business nor concern. Tom was a good neighbor to you. He watered your plants for you while you were out of town visiting your family, he kept his music down to an appropriate volume, he would even bring you pizza on occasion to eat together while you gossiped about the other tenants on your floor. And sometimes in return, he would ask for favors like bailing him out of sticky situations that you tried not to judge too harshly.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Tom gave you another hug with a kiss against your cheek, “I will owe you for fucking life, Y/N,” he thanked you as he waited for you to head into his apartment to do what he clearly was too afraid to do himself. Letting girls off bluntly was something he was never good at. Then again, that was a whole other issue he didn’t want to think about.

Tom followed you into his place as you glared at him when you saw all of the clothes strewn across the living room floor. Making a face at the boxers on the ground you shuddered at the thought of what the hell went down in this apartment as you watched Tom nod towards his bedroom signaling that she was in there.

Nodding your head you rolled your eyes before you got yourself into your character. Seconds later, you whipped around and channeled your anger towards Tom as you slammed his door shut, “Save it, Tom! I won’t hear it! I come home after taking a double shift for us and this is what I come home to?!”

 Tom gave you a thumbs up that you were doing a good job as you slammed your fist against the nearby counter, “I just spent fourteen hours stripping to pay your way through law school so we could afford a better place to live and this is the thanks that I get? You fucking some random girl?!” you shouted while you shook your head towards Tom with a shrug.

“Woah, nice touch. I love the story line this time,” Tom whispered with an approving smile as he pointed towards the bedroom door, signaling for you to go and get rid of her.

You stormed into the bedroom, already seeing the girl scurrying to find her shoes, “Oh god! Please, I’m so sorry,” she pleaded as her red hair swung back and forth while she adjusted her sequin cocktail dress. Limping through the threshold of the door she couldn’t even look at you or Tom as her face grew red, “I had no idea that he-”

“That he what? Was married? Was cheating on his wife of seven years? You still want this son of a bitch?” you asked the girl who shook her head ‘no’ nervously, “The both of you need to leave! Get out!” you pointed towards the door as you focused on Tom.

Tom apologized to the girl as she practically ran out the door before he turned to you, “Darling, please let me explain! Think of the children!” he begged you as he still noticed the girl was in earshot.

“I want a divorce and I’m taking both the kids! You won’t have two pennies to rub together by the time I’m done, Thomas! Do you hear me? I can’t believe you would-”

“She’s gone,” Tom cheered silently as his door finally closed with a sigh of relief. He rushed to the fridge to grab two beers as he made his way over to you, “Both the kids? Really?” he teased while he clinked his bottle up against yours.

Giving him a shrug, you brought the beer to your lips as you collapsed onto his couch, “Well if you kept your dick in your pants for once maybe you wouldn’t have to ask your neighbor to make up such elaborate lies on the fly to kick girls out of your apartment,” you teased right back as Tom took a seat right next to you with a pout on his face, “Am I wrong?” you questioned him with a giggle.

“Well, technically, no. But then, where’s the fun in that?” he laughed as he took another sip. Trying to figure out why he even did half of the shit he did anymore. He knew there wasn’t any fun in any of it. Not anymore, anyway.  It made no sense, especially if he wasn’t getting anything out of these situations except drama. And he hated the drama of it all.

You made a face at Tom, “I guess no more fun than watching the guy you were in love with make out with his co-worker,” you stare at the bottom of your bottle, letting the alcohol swirl around your brain as you tried to push away those thoughts. You didn’t want to think about Justin again. It was still fresh but you weren’t ready to move on just yet.

“Guess we both should be alone for a while, huh?” Tom stated as he slumped further into the couch. Downing his beer as he set it aside on the table. This feeling was beginning to come more often than not with Tom after he dismissed one of his...conquests. He didn’t like it anymore because it was suddenly beginning to make him feel like this but he kept doing it anyway in hopes it would go away. But so far it only got worse as the nights rolled in and you came by to kick out more of them. He was lucky you were here because he didn’t feel like being alone right now.

The room fell still as the two of you remained on the couch in silence for a bit. Trying to blur out the events that had taken place earlier with Justin, you finished your drink and placed it beside Tom’s. You knew you wanted something serious and Justin was not that, even though you knew he was going to be trouble from the get go. You knew perfectly well what you needed but maybe you just needed some time for you right now and not to jump in to things that were going to be messy. You wanted numbness but at the same time you wanted to feel something that you hadn’t yet.

Turning your head to face Tom, your eyes met his in the dimly lit living room. The muted TV gave off the only illumination while you both remained there in your tipsy states, trying to figure out where both of your nights had gone wrong.

“I really don’t want to be alone,” you finally broke the silence as you stared into his eyes before they flickered towards his bare chest, back to his eyes slowly.

Tom swallowed as he shook his head, “Me either,” he agreed in the same tone. He noticed you were looking at him and more importantly the way you were looking, but he found himself not minding at all as his eyebrows raised up a bit when your lips crashed into his.

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[irrelevantwriter]

Embracing Misery

Pairing: Rio (Good Girls) x Female Reader/You

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Warnings: Language, unprotected vaginal sex, mention of bodily fluids, funny Rio (he got jokes), secret feelings (bc I love to torture my characters)

Word Count: 3.6K

Summary: Part 3. Rio returns and you decide to take some initiative. 

A/N: Thank you guys so much for all the love and support on these Rio fics! It truly means so much and I am so glad you’re enjoying them. I now bring you part three of a saga that was not at all planned, but has somehow happened anyway. I blame the Rio haze I’m still very much in and my zero chill tendencies. If you guys haven't read parts one and two, then I recommend doing so, for plot purposes. I have some more things planned for this duo so we’ll see what my muse brings. Until then, I hope you guys like it. Feedback is that good shit. 💗

*Read Part 1 here

*Read Part 2 here

*Read Part 4 here

*Give and Take series masterlist

*Masterlist in bio.

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It was early.

The house was blessedly quiet while your children stayed at their father’s house for the weekend. You soaked up the stillness of the early morning sun rays and crisp, cool air. They washed over you, as if cleansing what the previous night’s sleep hadn’t. You missed your kids like crazy while they were away, but the mornings alone were priceless. It was a time for you to prepare for the day. A luxury you hadn’t been afforded since before the kids were born. But now...now you got to take it all in. Enjoy the serenity.

Or so you thought.

You tied the sash of your robe as you opened the front door, preparing to grab the morning paper, but as soon as you turned the knob you knew what would be waiting on the other side. Something told you he was there. You didn’t need to look out onto the street to see the familiar sleekness of a dark tinted luxury car. You could feel him. Feel his eyes on you as you bent down to get the paper and turned, leaving the front door wide open.

Rio had been gone for nearly two months. You hadn’t seen or spoken to the man in that long. Not even a text message, though the thought had crossed your mind on more than one occasion. You had no idea where he’d been or what he’d been doing while he was away, but you’d had no choice but to conduct business as usual. Mick had been your contact, times and places for drop-offs exactly as Rio had set them up. It was as if he was still running things from wherever he was. As if he could somehow see you without actually seeing you.

During his time away you’d done nothing but think of when he’d return. You teetered on the edge of worry and longing as your thoughts raced between concern for your boss slash lover to outright arousal. You’d spent more than one night thinking about his hands on your body while yours tried desperately to replicate his touch. It would get the job done, but it was nothing compared to that gentle slide of hand or gravelly voice that sent literal shivers up your spine. Your body had missed him. And you had come to the realization that you did too.

You walked into your kitchen, hearing the click of the front door as he passed through the threshold. You went straight for the humming coffee pot, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

“Coffee?” You asked over your shoulder, not at all surprised to hear the shakiness in your voice.

“Sure.”

Your entire body thrummed to life at that solitary sound. You hadn’t even laid eyes on him yet and already your thighs were clenching together. Your nipples hardened against the thin fabric of your tank top, your black robe barely concealing the reaction. You poured the coffee with unsteady hands, preparing yourself to face him once again.

When you turned around, you were greeted with a familiar smirk and a magnificent throat tattoo. A tattoo that you’d missed. He looked exactly the same. Same dark button-up. Same dark jeans. Same intense eyes. Same addictive swagger. It all came together to seduce you into a trance. A trance you’d fallen victim to in the past. It was a fog of uncertainty and lust. It was powerful. Merciless. And you couldn’t stop it from taking you hostage if you tried. So...you embraced it.

You slid the mug of coffee across the kitchen island towards him, a gesture that had you experiencing déjà vu. He accepted it and the sugar you offered. You watched as he dressed his beverage. Two spoonfuls of sugar. No milk or cream. He stirred it and then sipped, nodding in approval at the taste. The entire display was odd...domestic even.

His eyes trailed over your body before coming to rest on your face.

“Did you miss me, mama?” He asked cheekily, white teeth on display. They bit sensually into his bottom lip, the action making warmth seep deep into your bones.

You laughed. You’d missed the banter. Missed his blatant want for you. It was a cruel punishment to take away someone’s drug of choice. Rio just so happened to be yours. And you’d been experiencing withdrawals for the last two months. You desperately needed a hit. Needed something to take the edge off.

“Hardly.” You quipped, smiling so that he could see the lie clearly written on your face.

He only stared back. The action was still unnerving.

You turned to pour your own cup of coffee, feeling his gaze ghost across your back. You busied yourself with adding cream and sugar, the clang of the spoon against ceramic the only sound reverberating throughout the house. You took a few cursory sips, testing the temperature of the liquid. It was hot. Too hot. But you drank it anyway.

Turning around to face Rio once again, you were surprised to find the spot across the island empty. Your eyes darted around the immediate area, catching a glimpse of him lounging on your sofa. The same sofa he’d fucked you against. Along with the kitchen island.

You left your drink behind, bare feet walking with a purpose across the cold wood floors. You rounded the sofa and took him in. One leg was crossed over the other, his mug resting against his knee as he steadied it with one hand. His free arm extended along the back of the couch, taking up a fair amount of space on the piece of furniture.

He was a picture of comfort and ease. Looking as if he belonged there. You supposed in that moment, he did.

You observed him for a long time. Long enough for his face to grow serious as he stared up at you. A myriad of emotions swirled within you. All of them seemed to be conflicting. They pushed and pulled in various directions, telling you what you should do while others persuaded you to do what you wanted to do. In the end none of it mattered. You’d already sold your soul to the devil long before you got into bed with him. It was time to accept that.

You wordlessly reached for his drink, moving the mug onto the coffee table. He let you, uncrossing his legs and watching you with a sharp eye. You grasped for the knot that held your robe together and pulled the two ends apart, feeling the material start to give way. It fell open to reveal the tank top and shorts you wore underneath. It was a far cry from lingerie, but it sent the same message. You wore no bra, an obvious fact as his eyes hungrily took you in. Your shorts were cut high, practically underwear and exposing more leg than you would’ve normally felt comfortable with. The robe fell from your shoulders and into a heap at your feet.

You swallowed, feeling the butterflies in your stomach begin to take flight. You focused on him. You focused on the way he looked at you. And how he made you feel. You let that be your guide as you pulled your top up and over your head. The garment joined the robe on the floor as you moved on to your shorts, pulling them down and letting them slide along your thighs. You were left in your demure cotton panties. You were only slightly embarrassed by their modesty, but Rio showed no inclination that he was put off. In fact, his mouth twitched, his lower half shifting against the couch.

You looped your fingers into the waistband of the cotton and pushed them down, baring yourself completely. He’d never seen you naked. Your previous trysts had been rushed with clothes shifted aside and out of the way in frenzied yearning. It’d never been thought out before. And now, here you were standing naked in your own living room, seducing the man you were sure wanted to kill you about as much as he wanted to fuck you.

It was exhilarating.

“What’re you doing?” Rio rasped, gaze locked with yours. His voice was low and tinged with desire. He looked equal parts amused and perplexed, and the thought of him trying to be a gentleman in your current state of undress only made your need for him strengthen.

“Sshh...” You soothed, stepping between his spread legs and straddling his lap.

His hands immediately gripped around your waist, the touch of his bare flesh against yours sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You kissed him, hands sliding up his chest and resting on the buttons of his shirt. He reciprocated your eagerness, lips moving with yours. Your tongue reached out to taste him and he accepted, his hands kneading the flesh of your ass in approval. Your lower body writhed in his lap, feeling the firm muscle resting beyond his zipper.

You longed to feel his skin against yours. To feel the proof of life beat against your own chest. To feel close to him in a way you hadn’t thus far. Your fingers moved swiftly to grant you the sensation you craved. You unfastened each button, pulling his shirt apart and gliding your palms over the smooth muscle of his chest. His hips thrust up into yours restlessly as you explored his upper body. Your lips had yet to detach from each other, completely lost in reuniting. Your nails lightly grazed down his chest and abdomen, feeling him reciprocate the action by nibbling your lip.

His touch scorched your skin, roaming freely. He cupped your heaving breasts, mouth moving to your neck as he attacked your skin with kisses. You threw your head back in blessed relief and pleasure, finally feeling as if you could breathe again. You maneuvered your hands between your bodies, aiming for his belt buckle. You were impatient. Unable to wait for him to fill you. You’d waited long enough. The abundance of slickness that slid from your walls could attest to that.

“Mmmm...” He growled against your neck when you finally pulled him free, your palm easily smoothing over the hard length. His hips rutted into your touch, his own impatience showing.

You moaned when his lips attached to a nipple and sucked. He tortured you with sensations, bouncing between gentle and unyielding. His mouth was hot and wet against your flesh, encouraging your arousal to new heights. You craved more.

Again you took the initiative and lifted your hips, angling his length to fit against your weeping slit. He pulled away from your chest and took you in, watching as you slowly impaled yourself on his cock. Your lips parted as you engulfed him, your breathing accelerating with every inch he filled you. It’d been too long and your body was taut, clenching around him in such a way that let him know just how much you’d missed his touch.

“Fuck…” He groaned when you finally bottomed out, your thighs flush with his. His fingers gripped your hips, his body completely still and waiting for you to move. His brow was furrowed, his lips pouted as he took in measured breaths. He almost looked in pain as you sat unmoving atop him. The notion pleased you.

You moaned when he shifted, his cock nudging your womb. You couldn’t prolong the torture anymore and began to swirl your hips, your palms flat against his chest. It was a new dynamic for you both. Being able to control the moment with him was not something you were used to. His demanding nature was something you secretly loved, but having him at your mercy like this was so much better. You could see every pass of ecstasy on his face. Feel it in the way he twitched inside you. It was addicting.

His calloused hands massaged your breasts as you rode him, his dark eyes glazed over with lust but still holding you captive. He slid along your walls, stretching and filling you to capacity. You only got wetter at the feel of him, the slickness so overwhelming that he almost fell from your tight clutches. You used his shoulders for leverage as you moved, your pace increasing, desperate to come undone with him.

“Damn...yeah, just like that.” Rio exhaled, hands encouraging your hips to keep their speed.

He licked his lips as you bounced, flesh slapping as you fucked yourself. You watched with heavy-lidded eyes as he sucked his thumb into his mouth and then attached it to your clit, rubbing the swollen flesh in sensual circles. You arched your back and whimpered, feeling the tendrils of climax begin to latch on.

“I’m gonna cum.” You confessed, feeling your skin slicken with perspiration. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he continued his assault on your clit, your teeth biting into your bottom lip to keep the moans at bay.

“Do it, mama.” He throatily demanded, leaving no room for argument.

“C-cum...with me.” You pleaded between breaths. He nipped at the underside of your chin and you swore you could feel his smirk against your flesh.

He didn’t waste another second.

You held on as Rio’s hips met yours, his cock hitting your cervix with a brutality that had you seeing stars. Your muscles spasmed from the inside out, your limbs locking as you came. Your walls clamped around him in stuttering patterns, giving him no other option but to feel it all. You held him to you as you shook, feeling yourself dripping down your thighs and his length. He continued to fuck you through it, his control now waning. He buried his face into your chest and neck, holding you just as tightly as he repeatedly thrust up into you.

“Inside me...please.” You found yourself begging, exhausted from your own euphoria but still wanting to feel him release deep within you. It was a sensation you thrived on. It meant he was real. That he wasn’t a figure in the night or a lone man with a gun. He’d been inside you. Painted your walls in him. Claimed you. And you wanted to feel that for as long as you could.

“You want it?” He grunted against your neck, hands digging so hard into your ass that the area would surely be sore afterwards. It was welcomed after his prolonged absence. Just another clue that he’d been there.

“Please…” You whimpered, uncaring that you sounded so desperate.

He said nothing in return. Only thrust harder as he finally came. He held you still against him, ensuring not a drop of his cum left your joined bodies. You reveled in the warmth that suddenly filled you, spreading your thighs wider across his lap. His teeth dragged along your collarbone, eliciting a shiver from you.

It was quiet for a moment, your labored breathing slowly steadying with the beating of your heart. You were pressed against his bare chest, his hands now smoothing across your flesh rather than gripping it. The sensation nearly put you to sleep.

“So you missed me then?” Rio teased, his voice raspier than normal.

You sat up straight, looking down into his eyes that were glinting back at you with boyish arrogance. You cracked a smile and shook your head.

“I’m not answering that.”

“You didn’t have to, darling.” He whispered, face growing serious as he tenderly shifted the few strands of hair that stuck to your forehead.

Laughter bubbled in your throat suddenly, effectively cutting through the moment. His fingers drifted to your lips, tracing them as you broke into a smile.

“Somethin’ funny?” He asked, an eyebrow raised. His own lips quirked up at the sound of your tired giggles, your body shaking above him.

“We haven’t made it to a bed yet.” You said between laughs, pulling his hand from your mouth and resting it on your cheek instead. You held onto his forearm, the sinewy muscle feeling sturdy under your touch.

“There’s still time.” He retorted with a sly smile, his eyes taking in your face in a careful study. The intensity of it was almost enough to make you feel bashful.

You were lost in the moment, ready to let him take you again when a knock at the front door sounded. You scrambled up, hearing a key in the knob.

“Fucking Paul.” You cursed as you grabbed your discarded robe and hastily tied the sash. “Get dressed.” You ordered Rio, that smug smirk still planted firmly on his lips.

You moved past him and through the dining room to the front door, seeing your ex shuffle through the door with a baseball bag thrown over his shoulder. Your son’s bag. He must’ve forgotten something for his game today.

“You mind?” You snapped at him, throwing a quick glance behind you to ensure he couldn’t see Rio through the entryway.

“Well, I called but you didn’t answer. Figured you were still asleep.” Paul supplied with a nonchalant shrug.

“You couldn’t wait until I actually answered the door instead of using a key? A key I was sure I got back from you.”

He rolled his eyes, not making any move to return the item.

Bastard.

“What’re you doing here, Paul?”

“Anthony forgot his mitt. Needs it for the game today.”

You inwardly rolled your eyes, both at your ex and your son. They were mirror images of each other and that extended to their forgetfulness.

You walked to the entryway bench and lifted the pillow, knowing it would be stuck there because that’s where Anthony always left his gear after a game.

“Here.” You said shortly, thrusting the glove over to him. The sooner he got it, the sooner he’d be gone.

The universe was a cruel bitch though.

A shuffling from behind you pulled both yours and Paul’s attention. You tensed as Rio rounded the corner, clothes neatly tucked back into place. He eyed your ex for a long moment, making both you and Paul uncomfortable.

“I-uh...this-,” You stumbled over your words, at a loss for how to proceed. “He was just checking on some things around the house.” You lamely offered.

“What things?” Paul threw back with a raised brow, obviously not buying your answer.

“Just taking a look at her pipes.” Rio quipped, making you cough.

The air was awkward and tense as the two men sized each other up. You could see the suspicion in Paul’s eyes as he took in Rio’s very notable tattoo. Paul’s gaze flicked to yours, attempting to read your face. You opened your mouth to cut through the silence, but Rio beat you to it.

“I gotta go. I’ll be in touch.” He said, facing you and biting his lip. The action was purposeful. A signal of sorts.

You nodded and crossed your arms, watching with bated breath as he walked past Paul. He stared at the man as if he was a nuisance, giving him a quick once over before chuckling and exiting out the door. You released a sigh of relief once the door latched, your shoulders easing now that he’d left. A wave of disappointment followed. You were hoping to spend more time with him before he ultimately disappeared again. You were sure you’d see him at your next drop off now that he was back, but that was still days away. And you’d be damned if you reached out to the man for anything other than business-related topics.

You’d just have to wait.

“Friend of yours?” Paul interrupted your thoughts, face twisted in disapproval.

“He was here to check the pipes. They were making a weird noise. Wanted to make sure they didn’t freeze over.” You explained, your attitude back in full force.

“Sure.” He replied flatly, eyes belatedly taking in your state of undress. “You should put some decent clothes on when you have strange men in the house.”

The chastising tone of his voice made you see red. It was one of the reasons you’d divorced him. Along with the infidelity. And his tendency to be an egotistical piece of shit. Your reaction was a completely different reaction to Rio’s reprimands. Rio made you feel alive...desired. Paul’s goal was to always control and make you feel less than. He’d lost that fight throughout your marriage, but that didn’t stop him from continuing to do so long after it’d ended.

“You need to go.” You demanded between clenched teeth, opening the door for him and gesturing him out.

He took the hint and walked outside to the porch, shaking his head as he did.

“The kids wanted all of us to go out to dinner. Including Erica.” He said as he turned to face you, hand held to the door that you were ready to slam in his face.

You fought the urge to scoff at the mention of his fiancé and instead nodded, a pleasant smile on your lips and pure hate in your heart.

“Sure. Text me details. I’ve gotta go before this cum running down my leg stains the carpet.”

Paul’s face was priceless. And you had the pleasure of slamming the door in it. You smiled victoriously to yourself. The unexpected visit wasn’t so bad after all.

Your two worlds were getting harder to keep separated. That was apparent after the debacle that just took place. Rio was a significant presence in your life. And it was in more than just a working relationship way. That was obvious now. But were you really ready to let that happen? To let him in? The answer was still no. It would always be no. But sleeping with your boss had to have some benefits. And you were willing to find out exactly what those were. Misery and all.

[cuddlesslut]

Part FOUR : Chance Encounters

Atsumu x fem reader, Suna x fem reader, Hinata x fem reader

Tags: slight NSFW, Heavy Angst.

A/N: so this will NOT be the last chapter there will be more. Just like there are more choices now lol, don’t be shy to tell me who you route for. Also let me know if y’all want more NSFW I’m chill with writing it . ALSO slight canon divergence the timing on when Hinata comes back from Brazil is different, obviously in the Manga he’s only gone for two years. In this story it is longer. Hinata isn’t on MSBY yet. Also we are only caught up on 5 months since the dreaded birthday.

Part Three: Memories

Part Five: Friends

You spent your birthday in some hotel room. Sitting on the plush bed still in your dress not bothering to change your curl in to a fetal position as sobs raked through you. Your whole world crashed down on you everything you knew was a lie. Your phone lit up with one last birthday message from some distant relative. You see the time it’s now one in the morning you’ve been laying here for hours you can’t understand how you have any liquid in your body left to cry but still tears trail down your cheeks as you look at your lock screen. It’s a photo from three Christmas’s ago. Atsumu held you close from behind as you pose in front of a festive Christmas tree. Your eyes are shut tight from laughter as the setter places a kiss to your cheek bone, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. This was your favorite photo of the two of you, it always showed the realness in this candid shot. You remember laughing so hard from some cheesy joke he had just whispered in your ear. Your heart twists at the photo, a moment of anger slices through you. Was any of it real? You fling your phone at the wall effectively shattering the screen. You scream into the pillow. You wish you could feel numb to all of the emotions. But no ones that lucky. You aren’t sure when you feel asleep but you wake to find the remnants of tears stuck to your face. You move to the bathroom. You look like death. Your face is pale and eyes swollen and red. Your body aches from the fitful sleep you had. You grab a quick shower before putting on your comfiest pajamas and lay back down. All the energy is drained you look for your phone before remembering your fit of rage last night groan. You switch on the TV for some form of distraction but the gods must really hate you as it opens to a sports channel and you see him in all of his intensity standing on the volleyball court. Part of your brain pleads to change the channel but you must be a masochist as you watch him in all his usual glory. He commands the stadium as he goes up to serve. He looks perfectly fine like you hadn’t just walked out of his life. Like he hadn’t just ripped your world to shreds. You're finally turning the television off sitting in the silence thinking of the memories of your home. You ordered some takeout trying to settle the ache in your stomach. The food tasted bland, everything has lost its edge. The bed offers no comfort. The sunlight offers no warmth. It’s not long before you fall into another depression nap.

Waking up late in the evening you can’t stop your mind from making a stupid decision. But you miss him. You just want to see him. That’s how you end up outside of the door that leads to the home you shared with him. Trying to work up the courage to enter. His car was in his usual spot so you know he's here. A bitter thought run through you at the thought that while you were here he couldn’t be bothered to be home before two am at the earliest, yet the first night gone and here he is at home at ten o’clock. Silently you open the door. It was a mistake. You don’t make it even completely through the threshold before you hear the obnoxious moan and grunts, the sound of skin slapping. It makes you sick “OH Miya-San!” You hear some woman bellow out. You feel nauseous. You hurry out the door trying you best not to cause any noise to interrupt the activities in the house. You bend over you feel as though you’ll throw up right there on the spot. After calming yourself you make a way to a convenience store picking up a bottle of wine before heading back to you hotel room. There’s no way you’ll make it through the night sober.

The next morning you clean your self up before heading to the bank and clear out your joint account. Normally you’d feel bad taking the money but this cash was saved for your wedding and that would never happen now. You stopped by the phone store getting your own account not wanting anymore strings attached to the player. You spend the rest of your morning looking for a small affordable apartment. Luckily you were able to find one with in distance of your school and a reasonable price. It’s now the afternoon and you have to rush not wanting to be late for your class. Although it probably wouldn’t have made a difference if you had missed today, you barely pay attention. You find yourself back with the hotel walls.

You feel completely and utterly alone. You want nothing more to call your best friend or stop by Samu’s shop and cry on his shoulder while you eat some comfort food. But there is hesitation Suna was Atsumu's friend before he was yours, and you'll probably break down in tears just looking at Osamu he was his damn twin for heavens sake. What were you to them you wonder. You only got close to them because of the setter. Part of you wanted to believe that they cared about you and all of those friendships would still be there but you couldn’t. How could they want you around. You really question your place in their lives. It’s hard to trust in anything you had also believed Atsumu loved you and would never hurt you, yet that much was proven untrue. It's hard to trust in anything you feel or know. Another reason is your afraid of all of the memories you shared with them Atsumu ever present in those moments. You don’t want to think about him any more. You don’t want any remnants of that man In your life. While you want to believe Suna would be there for you, that he’d choose you. It was not a risk you were ready to take. You don’t think you could survive another heartbreak. It’s better to leave things as is, to cherish the good memories and not risk tainting them with pain.

It’s been two months since your birthday. You’ve moved into a quaint apartment. You got a job working at a little cafe to pay for rent. Between work and studying for your degree you try to keep yourself busy. It’s hard being on your own. You try to distract yourself with the things that brought you joy. Some days are better than others but all in all everything still hurts. Graduation is only a couple of months away so at least there’s something to look forward too. There are moments that come quite often that you miss your friends but you can’t bring yourself to reach out still untrusting. You look back sometimes and wonder where the lies stopped. You avoid everything that has to do his Atsumu Miya. Even the sight of a simple volleyball brings distress.

Three and half months later the cosmos played another prank on you. It was just another Friday afternoon and you were working in the cafe. You had just helped a young beautiful woman at the counter. She seemed so familiar but you couldn’t quit place it. You could see a puzzled look on her face. Then it hit you. You knew exactly who this woman was. She was the one with your ex fiancé at the restaurant that fateful night. The realization must have struck her too. Her eyes grew wide with worry. Although you weren’t expecting what she did next.

“I AM SO SORRY,” she basically yelling as she bows in front of you. “ I’m so sorry for the part I played in your pain.” She continues. You can tell she is really distressed. You coworkers and a few costumers look at the spectacle. Hating all of the attention now directed toward the both, you beg her to please stand.

“I need you to understand I had no idea, I would never have gone for a taken man.”

You sighed and sent a look to your coworker that you were going to take a quick break. “Would you like a cup of coffee,” you ask her. You never thought That you’d be sitting having coffee with the mistress of the only man you ever loved yet here you are. There’s an awkward silence for a moment. You don’t rush things you can see she’s also having a hard time trying to figure out where to start. You take a sip of your coffee as she finally speaks.

“My names Yuki,” she states.

“YN ,” you offer back.

“Well, umm YN I just want to say I am so sorry for wh-” you cut her off holding up your hand.

“You said you didn’t know, correct?” You send a glance at her raising your eyebrow. She nods.

“Are you still with him?” She sits up straight.

“Absolutely not,” she states with conviction “after you left I asked him what just happed and he explained who you were and I left.. well not with out dumping my drink in face" she gave a little giggle.

“Ha! Oh I wish I could have seen that,” you laughed picturing him drenched in the restaurant. “In that case you have nothing to apologize for, you are a victim of Atsumu’s selfishness as well. I’m sorry he put you through that.” She gave a sad smile you could see she was hurt too. The two of you spent a few more moments in each other’s comfort discussing the facts of his affair. It hurts to know that he had a legitimate relationship with Yuki but a part of you was glad to know. It was a small piece of closure to know how deep his transgressions ran, knowing it wasn’t just sex hurt even more. But it furthered your stance that he didn’t love you and if he had at one point the love had faded on his part some time ago. You spent the rest of your shift plagued with thoughts of you past.

After your shift you went home to change before heading out to your local bar. In your time alone you had taken solace in drinking with strangers. After dressing in an appealing yet comfortable outfit you headed out. You wanted to feel comfy and relaxed but that didn’t stop you from wanting to look nice. In your past visits it wasn’t uncommon for men to try and talk you up and while you did indulge in the compliments none had succeeded in getting you to return home with them. There had yet to be a guy who fully kept your attention away from your former lover.

You found your favorite spot at the bar, just far enough from the blaring music and smokers. You smiled at the bartender before ordering your usual. You sat there letting the liquor relax you as you listened to what music the DJ was playing tonight. Normally you stick to just drinks but after the day you had you need something to take the edge off. After downing a shot of tequila you notice a presence next to you.

“Is this seat taken,” the man smiled at you. You had never seen him here before and you know damn well you would have noticed him before. Although he wasn’t a giant like most of the men you knew in your life, he wasn’t excessively short either you could tell he’d still stand taller than you. You couldn’t lie the man was extremely defined and muscular, you swear his tanned thighs that you saw peeking from under his khaki shorts were bigger than your face. His skin was tanned you can tell from pleanty of time in the sun. He had strong jaw line but his most prominent feature was this bright mop of orange hair he tried to hide under a ball cap. He had a bright smile that reached his alluring brown eyes. It was safe to say he was very handsome. He tilts his head to the side a little smirk reaching his lips. It then you realized you had never responded and just been sitting here gawking.

“Um no it’s not uhh go ahead,” you stammered out feeling a blush creep on to your cheeks at your response. What is this feeling why are you acting like a school girl.

He takes the seat next to you ordering a beer then turning to you reaching out his hand. “ Shoyo Hinata,” he states.

You accept his hand giving it a light shake. “ YN LN,” you responded. “ I’ve never seen you here before Hinata-San,” you prod wanting to know about the stranger.

“Just Shoyo is fine,”he gives you another dazzling smile. “I actually just moved back to Japan,” he states “this is my first time at this bar , but with customers as beautiful as you I’ll definitely have to come more often.” Ohh hes smooth you think. You let out a light chuckle at his compliment although it’s fairly simple compared to some of lines you’ve heard it definitely has the desired affect on you.

“Well then Shoyo where are you traveling from?” Question not wanting the convo to stop.

“I just got back from Brazil,” he mused that signature smile never far from his face.

“Wow Brazil! That’s so far was it hard to be so far from home?”you questioned.

The conversation with Hinata flowed effortlessly. Pleanty of laughes shared as he told you countless stories of his time in South America. Being in conversation with him is like talking to the sun it’s so bright and happy. He does eventually mention playing beach volleyball and for a moment you mind thinks of your ex but it then you realized it was the first time since Sho made his appearance that you had thought of the setter. It felt nice to finally have your mind clearing from the twin. As of recent at any mention of volleyball you would have ended the convo making an excuse to leave, yet you didn’t want to, plus beach volleyball is completely different than regular volleyball you reason.

Time passes by as well do several drinks. You are by no means drunk just a little tipsy. Over the course of your talking the space between Hinata started to narrow. Right now you were so close you could smell his cologne and the slight minty scent of his breath. His hand caressed your elbow. Your breath hitched when he finally leaned in “do wanna get out of here?,” you can see his iris’s darken ever so slightly. “We can go back to my place,” he continued.

Several thoughts ran threw your mind in that moment. One, you were nervous, you hadnt been with anyone other than Atsumu. Two, you were sure you weren’t ready for a relationship but it was just sex it’s not like he’s asking on a romantic vacation. And three you wanted nothing more than to feel his lips against yours. “Absolutely.”

That’s how you got to where you are now. You barely made it through the threshold before Hinata had you pinned to the door. You were locked in a searing kiss. It was like he was stealing the air from your lungs. His hands roamed your figure before slipping under your blouse. “You are absolutely gorgeous,” he breaths before pressing a kiss under your jaw trailing down you neck. You place you hands on his shoulders trying to ground yourself. You let out a loud moan as he gives a bite to your shoulder while grabbing a hand full of you breast. He smiled into you neck with pleasure from the sounds you made. The two of you stumbled a bit as you started making your way to his room shedding clothes left and right. The door closed to the bedroom and you were ready for a mindblowing night.

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[sunjaesol]

jiara | drabble | post-s2 + john b is oblivious™ | title: changes // david bowie

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

John B had no clue when it happened, but suddenly he couldn't unsee it, and by then it was almost too embarrassing to ask.

Sarah has told him he was the biggest dreamer of all the Pogues (“And I love that about you! I swear!”), but that those tendencies usually made him understand the joke... last. Or apparently, how in the hell JJ and Kie got together.

He knew they were close — duh, P4L — but he had never made the connection that sharing a J would lead to Kie throwing her legs across JJ's lap and giggling in his shoulder. Yeah. Kie was giggling now.

It started when they were rescued from the island and resumed normal life, or as normal as a life for a Pogue good be. Sarah broke into her trust fund to afford an apartment for her and Cleo, Kie and Pope went home to their family, and JJ and John B found their way back to the Château. They all clung together, but he reckoned he'd been more focused on Sarah — they decided to lay off on the husband and wife thing for a bit — that he didn't notice JJ and Kie hanging out alone.

But Pope knew. Cleo knew. And Sarah definitely knew.

John B gawked at the pair from the threshold of the Château, perfectly able to see them snuggled up in the hammock. Sarah appeared behind him.

“What're you looking at?” she asked.

“Uh...” He scratched his cheek, confused. “JJ and Kiara... apparently.”

“Oh, yeah,” she breezily retorted, making him gaze at her in surprise. “They're cute, huh?”

“Whoa, you knew?!”

The girl chuckled and moved back inside. He followed her. “You didn't?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “Wha– what about Pope?”

“I mean... it doesn't seem like Pope really cares,” she shrugged. Rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, she found a bag of tortilla chips and then went searching for salsa. “How did you not know?”

“'Cause I'm focused on you!” His arms spread out, unsure why he was so shocked, or if he was maybe ashamed he didn't see that JJ was whipped for Kie.

It actually made sense. They were both super slow, smoked weed and made the same terrible jokes. He was bad, but the two of them together? Worst fucking comedy special.

Dumping the chips in a bowl, Sarah sent him a sweet smile. The bandana necklace laid comfortably on her skin. “You should talk to JJ, after Kie's gone home. They probably thought you were aware of it all.”

If he really thought about it, he guessed he always kind of knew. They all, at one point, had a crush on her, but he never considered her to be attainable. (“No Pogue on Pogue macking!”) But JJ? He always flirted. He always looked at her, went for her, sought her out. Of course JJ liked her.

And the fact that Kie allowed JJ to pursue her, meant that their relationship was a big fucking deal. This was no summer fling.

(Man, John B really needed to get his head out of the clouds.)

“How long have you known?” he eventually asked, when both were seated outside on the plastic chairs. The couple swung nearby, their voices hushed and their laughter chiming in the sweet, humid air.

Sarah pondered for a moment. Her head was tilted towards the sun, its light filtering through the trees, and he wondered if JJ had that moment as well — where he looked at Kie and felt that quiet awe washing over him; what he always felt around Sarah.

“Well, Kiara's hot, he'd be an idiot if he wasn't into her,” she began, causing him to chuckle. “but... I think on the lifeboat? When Kiara saved him?”

He frowned. “Anyone of us would've saved him.”

“It's what happened when he gained consciousness, John B,” she gently explained. “He looked at her like she was a literal goddess. Major heart-eyes.”

“Really?”

“You are so blind!” she laughed. Her hand reached out to graze beneath his eyes. “Do you need glasses?”

“Bro! John B needs fuckin' glasses!” JJ yelled, having caught the tail end of their conversation. Kie's bright face popped up beside him.

“He's always squinting at the board,” Kie added. “At first it's endearing, but now...”

“Thanks, guys,” John B deadpanned, “so supportive.”

The two crawled out the hammock at the sight of the chips and six-packs of beers.

“What were you guys talking about?” John B casually probed as they plopped down opposite of them. Cleo and Pope would probably be here soon.

They shared a look, something he couldn't read — oh, man, they had their own lingo already? — and then JJ uttered, “Surfing.”

“Surfing?”

“That's it?” Sarah mused.

“And beaches. And bunk beds,” JJ continued with a lazy drawl. Kiara rolled her eyes and mumbled seriously? at Sarah, to which the girl grinned and shrugged.

Slapping her hand over JJ's mouth, Kie said, “It's just a dream at this point, but, like, maybe going on a surf trip one day.” A wry smile ticked up her lips. “With the gold we don't have.”

“Fuckin' Cameron,” JJ grumbled. “No offense, Sarah.”

“None taken.”

John B smirked, “She's a Routledge now.”

Sarah grimaced. “Really?”

“Babe!”

“It's a very specific name, JB,” she tried, but her amusement gave her away. There it was, exposed: he had a shit last name.

After Pope and Cleo arrived, they all moved to the boat and went out for a relaxed day in the marsh; free of dead bodies for once. John B lived for these days — him and his family, forged in fire and blood and shit talking, lounging in the sun as Kie played Marley from her speaker and passed the J around the group. Salt pricked his tongue and the buzz of booze got him all competitive with the boys.

Carpe diem, or whatever.

And that was when he got a clear picture of them. Of Kie and JJ curled together, her giggling in his shoulder and his wide grin solely fixed on her, how she later snatched the trucker hat from his head and used it to hide a smooch.

Sarah whistled regardless, Cleo catcalling along as John B snuck a glance at Pope. He seemed fine, like Sarah had said. Smiling, laughing, his face tilted to the sun and completely unbothered.

Damn, he'd been so clueless.

He carefully approached the subject that night, the two standing side by side in the cramped bathroom brushing their teeth. “So... you and Kie.”

“Yup,” he quipped.

“Cool.”

JJ eyed him through the mirror. “You good, bro?”

John B smirked, leaning against the wall. “Yeah. I just thought that 'door was closed'.”

“You and me both,” the boy puffed. It could be the piss yellow lighting, but John B believed he spotted a slight flush on the boy's cheeks.

He kept pushing. “So? It's going well? Gimme something, JJ.”

He was gone when Kie and Pope were trying to make it work and JJ never had a legit girlfriend (Haley from second grade didn't count), so he felt like he had to make up for lost time. JJ was his fucking brother. If someone had to act like a little shit, it was him.

His blue eyes narrowed to slits. Spitting out the toothpaste, he wiped off his mouth and didn't lose his distinct JJ swagger as he said, “She drives me damn crazy, but it's worth it. That enough?”

John B grinned. That was more than enough. His thumb and index finger pressed together and mumbled a toothy goodnight, shouldering past the blonde to his bedroom.

Kiara and JJ together. Maybe the biggest twist of all.

[passivenovember]

And Everyday was Overcast.

Part One : Hammers and Nails

Billy needed someplace to go when the grave was desecrated.

When his eyes unglued themselves, peeling off eyelashes in their wake, when the earth was overturned, torn and left hanging like shreds of old fabric; Steve had been there. By some miracle he had been consumed like he always was, sat thinking by a plot that had grown yellow flowers to blanket Billy in his eternal sleep. And maybe it was those small visits sheltered between morning runs and eight hour shifts stocking the horror section that Billy had come back.

From the grave. From the brink.

The Earth started vibrating, spidery cracks turning volatile, and Steve was met with ocean blue. Red rimmed eyes locked on his face, hands reaching and gripping. Nails digging in as Steve wrapped Billy's grime covered shoulders in his own jacket. Rubbed the chilled skin of his arms, looked in his eyes, and took him home.

Someplace Billy could wash the day from his skin.

--

The blonde haired boy who had turned from human to creature and back again deserved something more than what he was left with. He deserved warm meals, and sunshine on his skin, and soft bed sheets that opened like a celestial sky when Billy felt like shelving the enormity of what he had discovered. What waited after death.

Steve wanted that for him.

Not happiness, not closure, exactly, but something close to it.

At the root of it all, Steve knew Billy should feel safe. Welcome and warm and comfortable, in the house that Steve’s father had built for his mother all those years ago when she was plump and round with child. Steve felt like his father that day as he carried the last box over the threshold and took in the rigid, tense line of Billy’s shoulders.

He let the moment rest. Let it breathe, as his father always instructed. “Do you think you could feel safe here, Billy?”

The air sat heavy. Cold and wet and warm, somehow, like the morning after a night of heavy rain. Billy sucked in a sharp breath and pivoted slowly, face reverent, as if standing barefoot in a cathedral among gods and heroes. Met with divinity.

Instead he got Steve.

Just Steve, trying not to stare at the lone curl hanging over Billy’s forehead when he offered a tight, controlled smile. “It’s fine.” Billy said, only.

Steve tore his eyes away. Focused on the second story banister to stop his gut from falling through the floor. ”Fine? As in, I would rather eat my own toenails than live here, fine or, like. It's okay, I don't mind it here, I might even like it someday, fine?"

Billy adjusted the strap across his shoulders. “It’s just what I expected it would be.”

Steve shook his head. “What’s that mean?”

"Relax, Harrington, it's." Billy turned again, eyebrows scrunched together. “Its. Pastel. And huge. Obscenely decorated—“

”My mom had it professionally done before they—“

”It was built for a happy family with lots of kids. Lots of love, but now it's. It feels. Lost.”

Billy had started saying things like that.

Heavy, saturated, impossible things that left Steve scrambling. Wishing for the intelligence to absorb the meaning rather than question it. Steve rested the box at the foot of the stairs and offered a smile to the second story. Runoff for the pools of blue that looked on.

"That's a lot of adjectives. I can get you a hotel, maybe. Or an apartment. I could cosign, I know they gave you a pretty penny and you could probably afford your own, but. I could. I would." Steve said harshly. "For you. I would."

"It's fine here. It's okay."

Steve felt like a science experiment. Egg boy with three heads and ten legs or something. Suckers on the tips of his thumbs, the way Billy studied him. Steve counted the freckles on Billy's nose--one, two, three, four--trying to stay afloat.

--

Dinner was made every night though Steve never saw it happen.

The cookbooks sat alphabetized over his mother's antique bar cart on that little periwinkle blue shelf. He'd come home, every night, at six on the dot, to a set table. The mixing bowls were always clean and put away, counters wiped and ingredients stored neatly on the shelves his pantry, but the wooden spoons spelled it out for Steve, still shifting from dark to light as they lay drying on the dish rack.

"You don't have to make dinner, you know." Steve took another bite of Salisbury steak, furious that it tasted so good. Like love soaking into his skin.

Billy shook his head. "I want to."

"I know, I'm saying it's okay if you decide not to, one day. Like if you get caught up reading. Or if you can get Max to drive you to the history museum, or if you--"

"It's the least I can do."

Steve hated that. He let his fork clatter to the table. "I'm not expecting repayment for this."

"I'm not a freeloader."

"And I'm not an asshole." Steve deadpanned, lifting a finger that sewed Billy's smug lips together. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you were thinking, with that clever glint in your stupid blue eyes."

Billy cracked his knuckles, clearly fighting a smile. "Never thought you noticed the color of my eyes, Harrington."

"Yeah, sure." Steve stood, gathering the plates and forks and knives from the table, his own eyes counting primary threads. "Can see those things from space, Jesus." He finally looked up, at Billy's curiously pink face.

Pink lips, cheeks, nose.

Steve gripped ceramic. Swallowed against a swell of guilt. "You don't owe me anything, Billy. I like having you here. I want you here."

Billy gave a simple, controlled nod.

Steve got used to it.

--

The shack wasn't built until the doctor told Billy that he'd probably wouldn't remember all of what happened. The big things would stick out, neon greens and blues against the forest head, but Billy shouldn't be too hard on himself if the important things got thrown away.

And some of those jagged little pieces were there. The bad things. Anger and hatred, both for self and world, left hanging on the cliff of who he was now. Everything that had formed Billy Hargrove--the person he was, the person Steve had pretended not to notice--were packed away. Soft, silky emotion covering knives left dull and rusted in their drawer.

Billy remembered like flashes of lightening across the summer sky--sudden and then gone. Here and away. He remembered Hawkins high and Max who'd grown six inches in three years. Dustin who had been wearing that stupid shirt when the mall burned down.

And Steve.

Always Steve, sat next to him. A foot away at first and then holding his hand, later, when Owens said Billy should be kind to himself. Gentle.

He wasn't.

And he didn't come out of his room for three days after that, after the wall was placed in front of him. The crack under Billy's door always keeping Steve at bay. Trapped behind the starting line. He paced around on the carpet, lifting his fist and letting it fall again, never breaking up the silence.

Billy was crying.

Billy never cried, anymore, but he cried that night and Steve felt helpless. Pathetic and stupid and useless, locking himself in his father's study and trying to formulate a plan, just like Owens had told him to when the sun fell on a world without Billy Hargrove and then suddenly rose again, set anew.

Set crooked when Billy stormed from the hospital room, slamming doors that echoed like rolls of thunder in his wake.

Figure out a way to help him.

Sterile, eerie white walls stared back at him as Steve shrugged his shoulders on the third day, aluminum hospital chair groaning beneath his weight.

I'm not sure how to do that.

You don't have to do anything. Owens said. Just help him get the emotion out. Let him write, draw, sing, dance, whatever he needs to assist in telling us his story.

--

Potato casserole and red wine bore witness to Steve's leap of faith. Billy turned away from the novel he had tucked under his arm when Steve got home from work that day, eyes curious. "Spit it out, Harrington."

"I'm not sure what you--"

"You've been giving me the side eye since you got home." Billy turned the page in his book, still managing to read both it and the room as he urged, "Tell me what's wrong."

And nothing was wrong, and.

Everything was wrong. Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Do you want to come with me to the art store tomorrow?"

Billy frowned. "I don't need anything from the art store."

"It's not always about what you need," Steve reasoned, patting his mouth with a napkin. "We could get stuff you want. That's all, just pretty things. Nice things. It could be a treat."

"Paper and scissors are considered a treat?" Billy cocked an eyebrow. "I do love touching shit, it's one of my favorite hobbies."

Steve scrubbed at his mouth, swallowing down against a big, fat, crooked smile dripping with affection. "C'mon, it'll be fun. We can get whatever you want; clay, oil pastels, acrylics--"

"I wanted to check out the library tomorrow."

"You go everyday, blue, you're a regular bookworm."

"So?" Billy demanded, taking another bite of casserole. "I like to read. Just 'cause you can't doesn't mean the rest of us have to hold back." He grinned, low and slow. "Don't let your jealousy turn you into a tyrannical landlord, pretty boy."

"God, you're the absolute worst."

Billy turned back to his novel. "The art store will just inspire me to paint nudies."

"So paint them." Steve challenged.

Bait. Hook and line.

"You gonna pose for me if I let you buy out the joint?"

Steve shrugged. "Maybe once, if you look at the easels while we're there."

"No shit?" Billy leaned forward, biceps flexing in his cutoff as he stuck a polaroid of a smiling blonde woman between the pages of his novel. "The fuck is this about, Harrington?"

"I'm worried."

"That you'll take me to a crafts store and I'll put you out of house and home? Reasonable concern, I guess."

"About the diagnosis, dipshit. About you." Steve gulped down the rest of his wine. Made sure every last drop had seasoned his words before any were said aloud, where they might do damage. He let the glass rest on the table between his fingertips, stem rolling from pad to pad. He took a deep, steadying breath. "You haven't been the same since--"

"I got hijacked by a space demon or crawled out of my own grave?" Billy shrugged, picking at something in his teeth. "Be more specific."

Steve fiddled with the handle of his fork. Hand picked his words. Refined the meaning. "Yes, and. Both."

Billy didn't say anything for a while and the room finally settled. Falling fast asleep, thick with inertia and silence until the book was opened once more and Steve went back to digging through his casserole, picking at the spring onions.

Letting the moment breathe.

Until, finally. "I feel like I could crawl out of my own skin."

Steve tripped over himself to get those blue eyes on him once more. "That's understandable--"

"I feel fucking useless." Billy snapped, voice cracking in two, and. Suddenly Steve couldn't look at him. Couldn't bare to see his face. "I'm trying to replay what happened. Every second, I'm trying to figure out why. Why me."

Steve counted the primary threads in the table cloth. One, two, three. "You can't go on asking yourself questions like that."

"I can do what I--"

"It wasn't your fault, Billy. Any of it."

"I'm not talking about the Fourth of July, I'm talking about. Death. I'm talk about what comes before and what comes after and how they're the same." Billy turned the page in his novel furiously, eyebrows scrunched together. "I never thought they'd be the same. It's like I've started over."

Steve couldn't possibly understand, but.

He watched pools of blue scan the page. Took measured breaths, never pushing until Billy was ready to share more. Until he tossed the book on the counter and sighed, head buried in his hands. "I don't understand how I got here."

"Easy," Steve whispered. "That's easy. You were born from love--"

"My parents aren't in love anymore."

"But they were, once." Steve shook his head. "When you were made. They loved each other, and they loved you, and your life was full of love that never made sound but it was still there." Steve willed Billy to look at him. Willed the skies to turn blue again.

They didn't.

Billy sighed, low and slow. "Did love bring me here again?"

"I guess so."

"Who's love?" Billy demanded, leaning forward into the table and crushing his novel where it lay against light oak tabletops. "Who loved me enough to bring me back here? To wish for me."

And.

There were a lot of things Steve wanted to say. Lines he wanted to map out, directions that lead from A to B and back again, but it didn't seem useful. Didn't rest important, as Steve took the novel from its place on the table and smoothed worn pages, tucking the polaroid in its place. "I'm sorry things feel weird for you." He said softly.

Billy grabbed the book, staring down at his casserole. "'S not so bad, I guess."

And, for Steve, that wasn't good enough.

--

Billy worked mostly in charcoal. He painted nightmares, and doorways into the past, delicate, swirling lines telling a story that made Steve's heart ache to see. To hear, with every drag of material across fruited canvas'.

Steve asked him about it, once. Over dinner, with the lights turned low. "Why do you paint such horrible things?"

And Billy had smiled. Bright and true. "How's that?"

"Y'know. Black scabs and eyeballs melting out of skulls and sliding down the ridge of people's faces, and--"

"It's what I see." Billy replied, voice soft. Measured. "It's what follows me around."

So Billy spent every hour locked in his shed, curls tucked over a growing body of work. Fingers turned rotten with charcoal soot as he made sense of what happened.

Steve liked to watch him work.

Liked to see the tension ease more and more from the strong shoulders that travelled beside him up the stairs each night. Steve felt the dig of each pencil in the crevice between his ribs when Billy finished masterpiece after masterpiece.

Still, it wasn't enough.

Along the ridges of creation, therapy lay half buried in the sand. It was state mandated, that Billy go and learn how to deal with the things charcoal couldn't straighten out for him. Like the nightmares, and the migraines that kept him from eating dinner at the table when June gave way to July.

Steve worried. Constantly, fervently, but Billy refused to go, always wiping his hands on the powder green apron Steve got for him at the art store, and insisting, "This is a form of therapy." Billy gestured around the room. To the mountains of loose sketch papers and half finished canvases that lay strewn across every surface. "This is how I cope."

And it was.

And it happened the same way every time.

Things got bad for him and Billy would disappear into his shed. Steve would come home from the office to find that his mother's prized Thomas Kincaid collection had been replaced by Billy's work. It was haunting. Sick and twisted and so, so beautiful.

He found himself standing and staring at it for hours, eyes tracing over the swirling lines of purgatory.

It made Steve feel helpless, but.

Still, Billy refused to go. Still, he buried himself in his work. Still, he painted himself into a hole.

The path toward recovery was littered with charcoal drawings until it wasn't.

Until Steve came home one afternoon to find Billy talking with a little boy who had his throat cut open.

[ddarker-dreams]

hiraeth (i).

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

yandere! don! giorno giovanna x f! reader. collab with @dear-yandere​. read part two here! do not re-upload or use our writing without permission. › warnings: isolation, detailed panic attack, emotional manipulation, and implied sexual relation. › word count: 10k. › art credit: spearthymint.

“You can come out, you know.” 

Giorno’s words are meant as a small but necessary push, but at the moment, his encouragements just come off as chiding and impatient. You know that’s far from the case, as he’s always been tolerant of your missteps and reluctancy when it came to anything involving him, but your nerves on edge right now. This goes against all you’ve been forced to learn, all you’ve been forced to adapt to during your time on this island. Time has always been at a standstill behind these walls, with countless doors you cannot cross and an expanse of ocean that reveals to you nothing for countless miles. In such a situation, most people wouldn’t be standing before their closets in dismay, scolding themselves over what outfit to wear for a date with their captor; but, you supposed you aren’t most people, considering the Don of Passione has taken such a liking to you as to keep you to himself. It’d become commonplace, and looking through the expansive closet almost felt normal, designer outfits tailored perfectly to your measurements, awaiting to be picked. Growing up in a country renowned for its exquisite tastes in fashions and its constant supply of talented designers, you’ve seen clothing like this in fashion magazines or in the windows of boutiques you could never hope to afford; but now, these pieces are entirely yours, free for your choosing whenever you so desire. Under different circumstances, you would’ve felt like a successful model, one that would make your younger self proud with your fine jewelry and expensive makeup.

What would she think of you now?

Giorno has reassured you that you’re welcome to help yourself to everything here, that it’s all meant for you anyways, that your happiness is his. You know he meant it as something romantic, more akin to saying that your happiness would make him happy by extension, but considering your unwillingness to be here in the first place, his sentiment made it seem as if your happiness is something to be taken, something you cannot control. His actions are no different, despite his solemn assertions that keeping you here is in your best interest.

You don’t bring that up to him. It’d… it’d break his heart, considering how far your ‘relationship’ has come. You used to hate him with every fibre of your being. Now, you feel almost giddy to have a rare moment alone with him. A morning date by the beach, something romantic, something personal. This is a first for you both. There was a time you’d dread being alone with him; that time is long past, it seems.

You’re not sure if it’s for the better.

Running your hands over extravagant fabric, you wonder if the day will come when you feel comfortable enough to try these outfits on. It’s a world that goes beyond your limited understanding, too luxurious to feel real. Out of everything in this walk-in closet, you’re drawn to the plain outfits, clothing entirely unbefitting a woman who lives on an island villa with her influential husband. Turtlenecks and long skirts or pants used to be your first choices whenever he’d visit, wanting nothing more than to keep his eyes off of you. You thought it’d make him want you less, view you as undesirable of his money and affections, but Giorno isn’t so easily swayed. He does love you, you can tell that much from everything he does, from the way he touches you like fine art to the way he puts your happiness and safety first, even at the expense of your freedom. Even still, the inclusion of such plain outfits in your wardrobe shows Giorno’s thoughtfulness towards you, considering the little things. While he wants nothing more than to shower you in expensive gifts, your comfort comes first. He loves that about you, how you can find happiness and comfort in the simpler things life has to offer.

But… will he be disappointed at your lackluster selection? You almost chuckle at your own worries, at how natural it all feels and at how foreign it feels at the same time. Choosing a proper outfit is what someone on their first date would be concerned about, not someone stolen from their life and thrown into lavish isolation. He hasn’t gotten under your skin that far, has he? And, do you even mind anymore? 

Shaking your head at the thought, you chastise yourself. Now’s not the time to be thinking about such hurtful things, you’ve had plenty of time to wallow in self pity. Too much time, when he isn’t here. It’s gotten to the point where his presence is enough to quell your lonely thoughts — you no longer dread being at his side. Not nearly as much as before, anyways. Because now, you want to move forward. One step at a time. It’s the only way to live right now, the only option he’s presented to you.

“Is everything alright, amore mio? Do you need help?” He calls out past the foyer, breaking you from your self-deprecating and conflicting thoughts. 

“Y-yeah, just a moment.” You clear your throat, heart racing at his concern. Even the way he speaks… the worry in his voice that shows even in the smallest of actions, you can tell he’s trying. He’s been trying to make your stay a comfortable one, even if it’s always been against your will. What frustrated you at the start now elicits fluttering within your heart, his care borderline touching. Every detail of your daily life has been considered, intended to make you feel at home, going so far as to be mindful of the way he conducts himself around you. He must think you haven’t noticed, but isolation has taught you to be observant. Observant of where he keeps the keys, observant of the pattern in which he visits, observant of what information he’ll let slip when you lower his guard just enough. These thoughts used to plague you day in and day out; they’d become your only hobby, at some point. And yet, beneath it all, he’d found a crack to seep through, someplace just wide enough to make himself at home.

His voice no longer brings dread.

“Sorry, I’m fine. I... I just don’t know.” You continue, aware of how much time has already passed. You’re still hidden in the closet of your chambers, so your voice is muffled, and he hums in response, perplexed by how long you’ve been taking to doll yourself up. You’ve never taken this long before, not with him; you’ve always been content to throw on whatever catches your fancy, even if it hardly matches, and leave your hair undone and your face natural. He never once minded, but the difference in your behavior is stark. It’d be concerning if you weren’t so easy to read, so he settles against the banister with a small, knowing smile. 

You choke back the spit that had been pooling under your tongue in your daze. You’re keeping him waiting. You’re keeping the Don of Passione waiting. You used to relish in the thought, but today, it feels wrong. He’s waiting for you as patiently as he always does, but today is something special, something special to you for once. Today is the first time you’ll go outside, past the doors of this villa. Today is the first time you’ll go outside with him, willingly. Today is the first time you’ll enjoy it. 

You clear your throat, pushing those shameful thoughts asid. The fabric of your tailored sundress feels foreign against your skin, featherlight and airy. The silken skirts feel too short all of a sudden, now that you were one step closer to being under his gaze. He’ll…. he’ll like it, right? It’s a silly question, considering he likes whatever you wear, but you can’t help but dwell on it. You almost want to cancel this date and throw up instead, the butterflies in your stomach feeling more like a swarm than a gentle fluttering. You lean against the closet door and ashamedly sigh. “Giorno, this… this feels embarrassing.”

He always knows exactly what to say to make your heart flutter, so his answer is quick.“Amore, I’m sure you look lovely. You always do.”

His tone is lighthearted, amused even. To anyone overhearing, they might think this is a conversation between infatuated lovers. A husband assuring his wife she’s just as beautiful as the day he met her, as lovers would. No one would be none the wiser. No one would know that this is the first time you’ve been past your chambers in weeks. No one would know that he’s kept you here for months. No one would know.

The ring on your finger feels heavier than usual.

Moving on is such a tricky thing. A minefield you’re forced to navigate, stumbling and failing at times. You wish it was as simple as offering forgiveness, but both of you know it isn’t that easy. He upended your life entirely, turned it on its head, and no amount of remorse or forgiveness can bring back what was lost. All those months spent away from your family, your friends, your job. And yet, today, he’s extending a loving hand to you, giving a second chance. A chance at true happiness, or the closest thing to it in this situation. After all the suffering you’ve endured, it’s only natural to seek some form of solace. You’ve denied yourself long enough, having shed enough tears to last a lifetime within the span of a few months. Forgiveness won’t return what you’ve lost, it won’t excuse what’s been taken. Forgiveness won’t change anything, but neither will hatred.

Now, more than ever, you want to feel normal again. You don’t think of it as giving up, at least… you try not to. Instead, you like to think you’re making good out of a dire situation. Anyone would do the same, right?

You step past the threshold, back into what’s rightfully yours.

“Ah, amore. There you are.” He looks up from his little reverie, a soft smile gracing his features upon spotting you. He chuckles and pushes himself from the railing, setting himself straight to properly greet you. “I was right. You’re even lovelier than the last time I saw you.” He says, laying a gentle kiss atop your hand.

You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to draw attention away from your blush. “You’re too much, Giorno. You saw me just moments ago.” You’re grateful there’s no stutter this time. You’ve grown used to his suave mannerisms, kissing your hand being one of the most common, but it still sends your heart into a slamming against your chest. He has a way with charming you, despite everything he’s done. “And surely, you say that to every woman you meet.” Your eyes flicker away from his, a brief moment of jealousy upon realizing how many beautiful and intelligent women he must meet during trips abroad. It’s a silly presumption, really, considering he’s only kept you on an isolated island, to your knowledge, but the brief bout of jealousy refuses to subside.

“My words hold no such lie. You are lovelier than the last time I saw you, as you always are. Your beauty knows no bounds, amore mio.” He cants his head to the side, his smile knowing, and tilts your chin upward. You’re forced to look into his eyes as he says such sweet words as easily as breathing. “And, I assure you, I only have eyes for you. There is no one I love more in this world, not even myself.” His lips travel downward to place a gentle kiss against the ring on your finger. “And there is no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with, tesoro mio.”

The ring doesn’t feel nearly as heavy.

Gently, he places your hand back at your side and straightens himself. You give him a once over, secretly admiring his ethereal beauty. He’s well-dressed as usual, one of his many opulent and tailored suits hugging his figure in all the right places. The designs are immaculate and fine, grey pinstripes on darker grey fabric creating an elegant and put together look. It strikes you as odd to wear a suit for a beach date, but you don’t dwell on it. He’s a busy man, no doubt having had to clear his schedule just for a quick morning date with you. He’ll leave soon after, you’re sure, and for better or worse, the thought of being without him for another day hurts. You’re left without him for days at a time, and while you don’t always prefer his company, it’s been… comforting as of late. Nights spent by his side have become the norm, your head nestled against his chest as you sleep off the fine wine in your system. Pillow talk is something you never thought you’d indulge in with someone like him, but you’ve looked forward to it these past few weeks. At first, it was another tactic to gain information on him, but somewhere along the line, you began taking solace in his company. It’s all you have. He is all you have.

“That dress looks wonderful on you.” He compliments, enjoying the way the sunflower patterns on your sundress brighten your already-resplendent features. He extends his arm to you, which you accept without hesitation. The skin of your bare arms rubs against the coarse fabric of his suit, sending shivers down your spine. You must look like an odd couple, one dressed for an outing in the sun and the other dressed from a rendezvous at night; a reminder of how different your worlds truly are.

Once he feels you’re settled, Giorno begins leading you down long, empty halls decorated to the brim with tasteful vases, flowers, and paintings. You pay them no mind, their placements and features already burned into your mind from countless days wandering these very corridors, wishing for freedom. And now, what you’ve earned is starting to turn into a tangible reality. You’ve walked this path numerous times, having to stop when you reached a set of locked doors. Doors that lead to the outside world, doors you’ll finally walk past, hand in hand with someone you’re not quite sure you love just yet.

The pep in your step comes to a halt when you’re met with the familiar sight, the roadblock imposing. You almost forget that you’ll be walking past those double doors in a few moments, your body so accustomed to standing in this very spot and looking on in yearning. The shifting of fabric pulls you to reality as Giorno reaches into his suit, procuring a keycard and wordlessly unlocks the door. It’s a silent series of actions, the air growing heavy with tension. From how you tense, you assume he knows what you’re thinking, but doesn’t want to comment on it. If it’s for your sake or his own, you’re unsure.

Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you. The sunlight is blinding, your eyes squinting and arm rising to lessen the impact. It feels prickly against your skin now that there are no windows to block the bright rays. While your eyes adjust to the unfiltered light, Giorno patiently holds the door open. This has been the desire of your heart, coveting the freedom to experience nature as you used to. 

You look over at him, for once grateful for how well he can read you. Even if you had the words to ask what’s on your mind, your tongue would be unable to form them. He offers a slight nod, encouraging you to take your time as you anchor yourself, a bitter tug at his heart that he’s put you in a situation where you need to ask in the first place. Inhaling silently, you gingerly step out, the ground growing softer. When nothing happens, you take another step, as careful as the first. Testing. Praying that this is indeed real life and not a cruel dream that serves to taunt you. How often you’ve dreamt of leaving this place, and it’s become a reality within a few days… even if the path does not lead to your freedom.

Sensing your inner dilemma, he takes a hold of your hand. The touch is light, not meant to constrict you for his own purposes. Should you feel the need to pull away, as if you had been touched with fire, you’d be allowed to. Months ago, you would’ve done just that. To spite him, and for your own satisfaction. 

You intertwine your fingers with his. 

When your eyes flicker back to him, you notice how his soft lips part as if in shock. Did you manage to surprise him for once? He must have never once thought the day would come where you’d willingly touch him rather than flinch away from his touch. But any cracks in his composure are immediately melded, Giorno giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. Without thinking, you return his smile, your sincerity as clear as day. 

“If this is too much for you, then—” 

He cuts himself off when you shake your head firmly, lips set in a straight line. You’d never forgive yourself if you backed down now, not after all the effort it took to get here. Now it’s your turn to gently squeeze his hand back, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. “Let’s continue, okay?” 

Giorno doesn’t press the matter further. You allow him to lead you to a spot he mentioned earlier, though you can already guess where he’s going. The hypnotizing sound of the ocean draws you in, growing louder with each passing step. The loud calls of seagulls fill your ears along with the crashing of the waves against the shore, a sight you’ve missed from your time in Naples. You’ve seen it from locked windows, but it’s not the same. The gentle sea breeze, the tantalizing draw of an ocean without horizon; it’s a beautiful sight, even more so in person. 

Childlike glee fills you, nostalgia of trips to Italy’s many beaches flooding back. It’s different compared to then, no families enjoying their time together under umbrellas or vendors selling their goods. It’s far more private, as if the two of you are the only people left in this world. In your sheltered world, that sentiment holds some truth. Instead of filling you with the loneliness it normally does, you feel connected to him. Closer than you ever allowed yourself to be before, as if this small part of the world was carved out specifically to let you two meet. To let you two fall in love, a handcrafted Eden sealed off from the rest of society. 

Giorno watches, admires the way the sunlight hits your skin for the first time in weeks. You’re beautiful, the wind tousling your perfectly-styled hair, but you don’t seem to care. Your eyes are bright. You’re glowing, the same way you glow when you’re truly happy, the same light he’s grown addicted to over these past few weeks. You’re happier these days, more often at least. He’d begun doubting himself at some point, wondering if your sudden change of heart was a ploy to gain his trust or lower his guard. Countless nights spent watching you sleep after a few hours of intimate touches, wondering if what you feel for him is true. He knows he deserves none of it, not in any sense of the word, but the thought of betrayal hurts far worse than never receiving your love in kind.

But watching you now, he can’t seem to let those thoughts fester. Your happiness is genuine.

While you soak in the carefree atmosphere, Giorno bends down and picks a seashell from the sand, an idea forming. Imbuing the fossil with life, the texture changes to a softer one, bright yellow petals forming into a hibiscus flower. Gently, he nudges you toward him and places it behind your ear, admiring how it compliments your beauty. You blush, but don’t shy away as you normally would. Your eyes are still bright, curious and gleeful, and your lips upturn into a smile that rivals the ones you’d wear before he’d stolen you away.

“You should make one for yourself.” You speak, free of worries and with a hint of amusement at the thought of a great mafia don wearing flowers at your behest. “So we match.” You add teasingly, knowing full well how much of a sappy romantic he is. Matching with you should be sending his heart fluttering right now. Or at least, you hope you can ever have that effect on him.

Giorno chuckles at your suggestion. “I wouldn’t hold a candle to how you look.” 

Your face flushes further at how easily compliments flow from him, always from a true place in his heart. Any and all attempts to catch him off guard end like this, redirecting to praising you in some way. Not one to accept defeat so easily, you absentmindedly place your hand against the newly formed flower, thumbing the petals. The fibers feel so real against your skin, as if this flower was pulled naturally from the earth itself. 

“It’s a shame I didn’t get to see you do this… what else can you make, exactly?” You inquire, tucking your hairs around the petals to keep the flower in place. Giorno has always been keen on giving you vague explanations of his ability, likely so it’d be easier for you to understand. From what you can tell, his ability — a stand, as he’s briefly explained — is one of beauty, able to create life at the slightest touch. Gold Experience brought out curiosity from within you, one of the few reasons you started talking to him again. He’d turn random items into different creatures, earning your attention when you’d ignore him. Your favorites have always been things you can’t naturally find on this island, not without importing it from the mainland. Things like hibiscus, such as the one in your hair, or animals such as fireflies. Things you miss.

Before he can answer, you propose an idea. “Why not make like, a bunch of dolphins? Or great white sharks? Ooh, maybe even a blue whale?” Your voice rises near the end, like a child asking their parent for a new toy, and you collect your chin in your hand for further contemplation.“What else, what else...” 

His hand covers his mouth, hiding how his smile widens at your pondering. Giorno doesn’t stop you from thinking out loud, letting you ramble to your heart’s content. He’s never seen you this talkative before, the sight alone is too cute. Any thoughts about his work scheduled later that day are replaced solely and wholly with you. He’s never seen this side of you, yet, and he’s careful to take note of and admire your little mannerisms. How you talk with your hands excitedly, how your eyes light up and your smile reaches your eyes. It’s the first time he’s noticed you have a dimple, even, as he’s yet to see you truly smile. It dawns on him that there is a side of you he has yet to truly see. A side of you where you’re happy. But, does he deserve that sort of joy? Does he deserve you?

“What? Too much?” You smile and tilt your head innocently. “How about something smaller, more manageable? A... frog, maybe?”

He has his answer; he doesn’t deserve you at all. You’re too precious, too innocent. “A frog? Really?” He sputters out an indignant laugh. “I could make something much more interesting, you know. What about a butterfly? Some birds? Or...” He trails off, noticing the pleading gleam in your eyes.

“Please?” You whine. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen one. They’re so cute…”

“Frogs aren’t even native to this island, amore. Where would he go?”

“He can be my pet.” Your answer is so quick it nearly makes him burst out in laughter. You… you do have a point, actually. It’s not like you have any other company besides him, the rare occasions he does get to visit.

“Fine, but I’ll make it later. Something tells me you’ll be too preoccupied with him if I do so now…”, he laughs at the thought of you gushing at a small animal rather than him. It’s to be expected at this point, but he wants to be a bit selfish today. Just for a few hours.

You puff your cheeks out but eventually relent. The topic of a pet has been on your mind before, now seeming like the best time to approach it. You’ll hold him to his promise later, choosing to occupy yourself with possible names for your promised companion. It’ll remedy the loneliness you feel when he’s not around.

As he’s grown skilled in doing, Giorno redirects you. “Do you enjoy the ocean, amore?” 

Humming lowly at the question, you walk closer to the inviting waves, Giorno following close behind. “I mostly like the atmosphere. It’s fun in the moment when you’re swimming, but then I have to spend hours getting all the sand out of my hair.” You say, and he takes note that you’re quite rambunctious when it comes to beaches. Most people wouldn’t get that much sand in their hair, not unless they were practically rolling in the shallow. It’s a cute thought, but he doubts he’ll get to see you do so anytime soon. Maybe… on the next date, but he can only hope. It’s a miracle you agreed to this one.

As you approach the ocean, the sand slows you down, your feet sinking into it. When the water draws too near, you kick your flip flops off, embracing the grainy sensation under your feet. The sand is calming, a natural exfoliant against the soles of your feet and between your toes, sticking to your skin like sweat. It’s been so long since you’ve gone the length to take care of your hygiene past the basics, and coupled with the relaxing sound of waves hitting rocks, it’s calming. You feel at peace, finally. Your eyes close — content, the moment serene, as if you’re in a little paradise. You realize now is an opportunity to learn more about him, with his guard being lowered. 

Turning your head around, you mirror his earlier question. “What about you, GioGio?” 

He blinks at the unexpected usage of his nickname. You must’ve overheard Fugo calling him it sometime, but even that couldn’t compare. The way it sounded in your voice was intoxicating, compelling him to tell you more if only to hear you say his name again. He hopes you’ll say it again, his pulse quickening at the domestic implications. He gives some thought to your question before answering, pushing away the adoring thoughts. 

“To be honest, I never visited the beach often.” 

Even with all his mysteries, you were expecting an answer like that. In the time you’ve known Giorno, he doesn’t take time to relax. His mind is full of burdens and expectations, jobs that need to be done and the best way to complete them. From what you gather, it’s paid off. You overheard him talking to one of his men before, someone you noticed to be close to him. The nickname “GioGio” rolling off the man’s tongue felt almost laughable in the moment had it not been coupled with reserved praise for how far Giorno had extended Passione’s reach in only six months. Still, you don’t know if pity is what you feel, but it’s an emotion close to that. The only time he’s taken for himself is when he’s with you, and even then, you’ve always given him a hard time. It must be a difficult path, but it’s one he chose nonetheless. 

“We’ll have to change that then,” you assert with a smile, appreciating how the breeze kisses your skin. “I’d… I’d like to come out here with you more often.” 

The confidence you were hoping would accompany the words wavers, unsure if you’re pushing your luck. It’s a miracle that Giorno saw it fitting to bestow this freedom upon you even a single time — asking for more might be too greedy. But your fears melt away when his turquoise eyes soften, not interpreting your plea in a negative light. It could have been your imagination, but you sense a hint of guilt in them. Perhaps, regretting how often he has to leave you alone to tend to his own matters.

“I’d love nothing more than to do that, if you’ll have me.” He slightly bows his head, as if in meek shame.

You eagerly nod your head, accepting the extended invitation. Anything is better than being cooped up for ages, like you’ve grown used to, and if you’re being honest, his company isn’t nearly as bad as you once thought it to be. In fact, it’s almost calming. You used to fear how much power and influence he holds, as if the world itself is in grasp; but now, you seek it out. His presence no longer incites paralyzing, but rather feels like a warm embrace, beneath the composed mask he dons. And even then, you’d hate to give up this newfound freedom, however minute it may be. The ocean feels divine against your warming skin, Italian summers renowned for their heat. Venturing further into the water, now up to your ankles, you look around for any pretty seashells. Giorno lets you do as you please, watching over you with a content air from the shore. 

Crouching down, your hand runs across the sand to continue your search. You hum to yourself as the cold waters splash against your ankles and up your thighs, the sensation welcoming in this heat. The waters are bright and crystal clear, a benefit to your search as you gingerly pick up the shells that stand out to you the most. Maybe you’ll ask him to make one of these into your future pet, the thought an exciting one. The best seashell will be the one you hand to him. Or maybe, you can convince him to turn all of these into frogs… 

You look over your shoulder to find him standing just nigh of the incoming waves. It’s a sweet sight, how he draws as close as his outfit allows him, just shy of the waves touching his expensive loafers. He really is an uptight fashionista at heart. At that, a mischievous idea pops into your mind, a plan rapidly forming to enact your vision. Acting as you normally do, your hands continue to brush against the ground, and you let a dramatic gasp leave your lips. Feigning hurt, you draw your hand close to your chest, a muffled whine pushing past your lips almost unnaturally. Your acting has never been the best, but you hope it’ll do...

Giorno’s eyebrows furrow at the pained noise, and he steps forward without care for his outfit. He’s by your side in record time, bending down and reaching to inspect your supposedly injured hand. “[First], are you—” 

You can’t help but snicker, your free hand brushing against the top of the water and splashing it towards him. It takes a moment for him to process the unfolding events, suit dripping from your playful assault. More giggles leave your lips at his miffed expression, having never seen him look like this before. Not towards you, at least. It feels far more human than how he normally acts around you, that stoic and knowing mask gone for once. You’ve caught him off guard — a feat in and of itself. Not even his enemies can accomplish that much. Then again, you have the advantage of never being on his bad side even when you do things like this.

Giorno lets out a long sigh, muttering quietly to himself as the uncomfortable sensation of salty seawater settles into his otherwise expensive suit. “Sei fortunato sei così carina.” (You’re lucky you’re so cute).

“Hm? What was that, GioGio?” You inquire, too preoccupied with snickering at his expense to notice his words. He can’t allow himself to be upset with you, not when he gets to hear the angelic sound of your laughter. When was the last time he heard it…? It must’ve been a time before, a time long past. Maybe when you were interacting with your friends, or looking at something entertaining on your phone. Not even his little flirtations and tricks using Gold Experience have elicited such a carefree response. If this suit going to the dry cleaners is the cost to pay for hearing it again, it will always be worth it. 

He shakes his head, freeing himself from the heavy burden these thoughts bring. “Nothing. You’re not hurt, are you?” He already knows the answer, at this point, but it’s become a habit to ensure your utmost safety and happiness.

You don’t respond immediately, instead looking over his shoulder in a dreamlike stupor. Giorno is about to repeat his question before it clicks what it is you’re looking at with raw wonder. In the heat of the moment, believing you were in danger, Gold Experience Requiem had been summoned subconsciously. The Stand represents himself, his care for you that seeps into every aspect of who he is. It makes sense why he’d summon his Stand, even if he didn’t realize it in the moment. 

That’s not the problem here though. You’re staring at the exact spot Gold Experience is, it’s no coincidence. 

You look at the Stand with wide eyes, lips parting as you stand up to inspect him closer. He’d be a horrifying sight if Giorno hadn’t told you about his power beforehand. So this is... the personification of his soul? He’s never summoned his Stand in its entirety around you, only using its ability to imbue things with life. The realization that you can actually see it makes him purse his lips, uncertain of what to make of the new information. That means that you’re...

“W-woah,” you stutter out, reaching out towards the floating creature in pure awe. Your hand goes through it, like fog in the air. The Stand looks at you, perplexed despite its lack of proper facial features or musculature, its eyes glued to you as if in similar awe. “What is this, Giorno?” 

Giorno clears his throat, suppressing his worries as to what this could potentially mean for later. A question he’ll have to pose to Jotaro or Polnareff, he’s sure…. 

“It’s what allows me to create life.” He explains carefully, still unsure about how much information to reveal. Gold Experience looks down at you with similar curiosity, inspecting your person thoroughly. You’d be lying if you said it isn’t intimidating, eyes wide blown and seemingly staring through your soul. For some reason, you feel like it wouldn’t dare harm you. 

It draws close to you, gathering some stray pebbles from the sea. Wordlessly, the lifeless rocks turn into an array of colorful flowers, a circular vine holding them together. The Stand places it atop your head almost gleefully, careful to not hurt a single hair on your head. You hear Giorno draw a sharp breath at the display, perhaps not realizing his stand was capable of acting on its own like this. Gold Experience’s gesture is meant to be an act of kindness, a display of love. There’s no denying the pure intentions, even despite how terrifying he looks. Now knowing you’re capable of seeing it, the Stand looks at you almost expectantly, like a child waiting to be praised. Still beside yourself at the unfolding events, you gather yourself enough to offer it a beaming smile and soft ‘thank you’. He seems content enough with your reaction, returning to its user. Its eyes never once leave you, looking at you as if you’re the center of the universe, before it disappears completely from sight.

“I think he likes you,” Giorno clears his throat and hums, calling his Stand back to him. It’s a pleasant display, if not a tad embarrassing. What takes priority now is answering the numerous questions this brings to the table. “Do you feel anything… out of the ordinary, [First]?” 

His inquiry feels out of place, like you’re missing a vital piece of the puzzle. He knows something you don’t. It’s not often he uses your first name either, preferring to praise you with affectionate nicknames. Assuming he must mean your hands, you hold them up for him to inspect, showing all sides are without injury. When his expression stays the same, you wonder if he meant something else. Any other possibilities escape you, so you make do with what little you know.

“Not really, no. I’m just hungry.” you answer in honesty, squirming under his unflinching gaze. Your answer feels out of place, hanging from the air like loose threads, unwoven from its source. Giorno takes a few more moments to consider you, looking for dishonesty and finding nothing but confusion. You swallow thickly at the tense atmosphere, hoping you didn’t mess up in some way. Anxiety captures your hammering heart, and you shrink under his piercing stare. Giorno, quickly sensing your concern, returns to his typical expression, a soft gaze with an equally soft smile, only ever reserved entirely for you. 

“Ah, of course. You haven’t had anything to eat today. Come, I have food prepared.” 

Grateful at the change in conversation, you rush over to his side, warm sea water sticking to your skin in droplets. You don’t know what he’s hiding from you, and at the moment, you don’t care to find out. Nothing could be a worse fate than being locked up again for a transgression you didn’t even mean to commit. As long as that’s not the case, it’ll be okay. Lower lip trembling, you subconsciously take a tight grip of his hand. He looks down at the desperate touch, seeing how your smaller hands fit perfectly into his. Sensing the nervous air in your actions, he gives your hand a light squeeze, calming your nerves ever so slightly. Smitten by your actions, how willingly you still choose to touch him, he lifts your hand up and places a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You’re relying on him. He’s not sure what spurred the sudden change, but he’s going to enjoy it. It’s a modest showing that soothes your distressed mind. 

He’s not upset with you. You won’t be left all alone again. You won’t have to go days without human contact, sobbing and pleading for anyone to save you, to talk to you, to notice you’re gone—

“[First]?”

You don’t notice the tears that sting your eyes until it’s too late. The force makes you choke on thin air, searching for breaths that won’t come. The walls of your lungs are constricting into itself, your heart hammering so hard against its rib cage that you fear it’ll break through the skin and bone. Giorno watches with wide eyes as you unravel in front of him, your hand shooting up to muffle your mouth, the other latching onto his chest like a desperate prayer, begging him to make it stop, to make the thoughts stop, to make your heart still for once. You try to call out for him, to call for help, but the words lodge in your throat like bile and vomit. You choke on each syllable.

The weight of the world is crushing atop your shoulders, its jaws closed around your heart. Something is wrong — this is wrong. Your fingers tighten against his chest, wanting to beat against it, to hurt him, to make him feel the pain you’ve felt. You’re so close. He’s let you get close to him, close to his walls — let you tear them down. Weeks ago, you would have rejoiced in this. Would’ve used his weakness against him, would’ve fought back. If you were stronger, if you just weren’t so weak, you would have been happier. You wouldn’t be in this situation, clinging to a man who took you from life, clinging to a man who makes you question your own sanity. Everything — he took everything from you, and he still can. No matter how slowly you forgive him, no matter how slowly you give into him, he will always have control over your life. There will always be a disparity, a power dynamic — you will always be weak. 

You will always be trapped here, always wondering if you’ve taken a wrong step. If you’ve angered or bothered him. If you’ll see your family again.

Will it always end like this? Whenever something goes wrong, something trivial, something most people wouldn’t dwell on for more than a few seconds… will this keep happening? Will you break down each time? Will you always be this fragile, like glass?

Will it always be like this?

“[F-First],” he nearly chokes, gripping your waist to keep you upright. His heart breaks at the pitiful sight of you, like the air is knocked from his lungs just watching you suffer. He doesn’t understand what caused this, and his stomach sinks at the realization that this must be the norm for you. An underlying fear that things will fall apart with the slightest misstep, an underlying paranoia that incites the bitter bite of anxiety — because of him. Is this how easy it was to break you? Have you always been this fragile? How… how many nights were spent buried against tear-ridden pillows, crying until you doze off and wake up to another day with him? The guilt is overwhelming, the thought of you curled in your bed, surrounded by material things and yet nothing at the same time.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore. Let me help you.”

For all the times he couldn’t before, he comforts you, holds you like a lost child, soothes you in a way only a monster can soothe its prey. And you let him, desperately clinging onto the validation that you haven’t messed up in some way.

His arms close around the small of your waist, holding your trembling form tightly, scared you’ll fall if he takes one wrong step, scared you’ll shatter if he doesn't hold you together. Your sobs are choked, muffled against his chest, but the time of silence lets you regain yourself, the ringing in your ears dying down only to be replaced by the gentle lull of the ocean you adore. Your head is resting against him, those atrocious and lonely thoughts dying down for the time being, lulled into a sense of dubious security. They will plague you again, as they always do, but for now… for now, you’re grateful. He’s the source of your pain, and yet, he’s become the only remedy. It’s only when you pull back, hesitantly, that he releases you, his hand cupping your face. The pads of his thumb wipe away your glistening tears, worry etched into his face.

“Are you okay?”

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur with a pathetic sniffle, eyes avoiding his own. “I didn’t mean to ruin our outing. I’m not sure what came over me… I just, the thought of—” 

He shushes your self deprecating tandem, lips ghosting over your forehead in a gentle, brief kiss, stalling there with momentary doubt that he of all people shouldn’t be comforting you. He’s always had the patience of a saint with you, now is no different. Even when you cursed and belittled him, throwing crashing objects at him, he remained unshaken. This unshakable composure is a part of who he is, and, as much as he hates watching you fall apart for his sake, he is meant to comfort you. To console you, to make this new life he’s given you something you’ll come to enjoy. Your mind has been full of thoughts, self-deprecating and hateful, no matter how close he gets to you. It’s to be expected….

“You’ll feel better once you eat.” He suggests, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

You’re grateful that he doesn’t press the sensitive subject, whether it be out of shame for his actions or pity for your current state. Slowly, he leads you to a shaded area surrounded by hand-crafted flora, set up the earlier in the morning by his own hands. On the ground is a blanket, a picnic basket set in the middle. He helps you sit down, and takes his place next to you. This serves as a welcome distraction from the embarrassing display earlier. 

Giorno opens the basket, pulling out sandwiches that look different than what you’ve had before. They’re put together with care, ingredients dribbling out over the edge. A rather simple selection compared to most of the gourmet food you have here. When asked about it once, Giorno told you that your food is prepared by fine chefs. The quality of the food you had on a daily basis confirmed the fact. This looks different, more intimate somehow. 

He picks up on how you eye it. “I’m not the best cook, but I wanted to try it. If it’s not to your tastes, I’ll have something else brought out.” 

Your fingers brush over his as you gratefully accept it, a quiet thank you leaving your lips. His tone can almost be described as sheepish, and you swear his face looks a tad flushed. Waiting to see your impression of his food, he gazes at you with expectant eyes, trying to play it cool. 

Biting into the sandwich, you’re met with the taste of tarte jelly and savory peanut butter intertwining on your tongue. In a few seconds, you finish it in its entirety, much to Giorno’s internal satisfaction. His shoulders relax at your acceptance, not realizing how much your opinion truly means to him. He had to take care of himself growing up, learning the basics of food preparation for that reason. Much of it had been forgotten now that it was no longer required from him. 

You can’t help but giggle at his serious expression, instantly earning his attention. To hear such a divine sound so many times on the same day, was God smiling down upon him? It’s the only plausible explanation at how well this outing has been going. It’s more than he ever allowed himself to hope for, more than he deserved. 

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he tries to get to the heart of your sudden carefree attitude. “Is something wrong?” 

“N-no, it’s not that,” you hold the back of your hand to your mouth, attempting to stifle the incoming bout of laughter. “It’s just… I was picturing you making this, looking all professional, with a chef’s hat and apron. Heh.” 

Another bout of faint giggles, your earlier panic slowly dying away with each laugh. Giorno’s never given much thought to such things, it falls more into the territory or something Mista would point out. He doesn’t mind being the object of your amusement, not when he gets to see you radiating joy like this. Is it too much to ask for this moment to never end? Duty will call him away eventually, the thought enough to threaten his moral. He knows he’s in deep when he starts debating whether or not the meetings today really require his presence. Unfortunately, they do, as much as he’d prefer your company over greedy and corrupt men.

There’s a lull in the conversation. Unlike him, your thoughts are much less hurried, your thoughts full of thoughts of him who sits beside you, content to stare at the sky and admire the shape of fluffy clouds. Pointing out the ones that remind you of animals or other silly things, explaining to Giorno how they might somehow be connected. A story of your own in the making. Every last drop of your arbitrary rambling, he soaks in as if it held the secrets to humanity’s existence. His intensity in stark contrast to your lackadaisical approach, hands intertwined by your side. A connection between light and darkness. Your head rests on his shoulder, the scent of his cologne mixed in with the ocean air intoxicating. 

Perhaps… perhaps this is what Heaven is like. No. This is better. Sitting here with you, the early morning sun shining down on you both, lifeless and still in the sky — he never wants this moment to end.

“I’m actually a pretty decent cook,” you pipe up, your thoughts still touched by the tasty picnic he’d put together himself. Your sentiment interrupts his thoughts, a proud gleam in your eyes as you toy with the plastic covering that used to hold your sandwich. “Or at least, I never gave myself food poisoning. That must mean something, right?” You giggle, brushing it off. 

The thought of you cooking sends his mind spiralling. Flour smeared against your cheek, hands messy with the remnants of eggs and spices, a cute apron tied around your torso… since when did he become so sappy? It’s unfitting of someone in his position, not that he cares all that much. His enemies don’t know that you’re his greatest weakness as much as you’re his greatest strength, and hopefully, they’ll never know. He’s always thought highly of you, your recent lack of resistance serving to amplify the feelings; he wants to know more, to learn more, naturally, without the need to check in on you through the countless cameras scattered around the estate.

“I’d offer to cook for you, but I think whoever already makes the food is better than me.” You blush and play it off, noticing how intently he’s looking at you. Biting your lip, you begin to wonder if divulging this information to him was for the best. He seems awfully curious now. “Surely you’d prefer meals made by a professional.”

Giorno doesn’t think before responding with unfiltered thoughts. “You’ve made me curious now, amore. I’d love to try your cooking.” 

You look down at the ground, playing with the frays on the edge of the blanket. The difficulties that would accompany cooking didn’t come to mind until he gave credence to your words.This feels too domestic, like a loving wife cooking for her husband after he returns from a long day at work. Would he enjoy your meals? What kind of dinners and breakfasts would he prefer? What kind of treats? Does he want you to make meals each time he visits? Does he have a favorite, something he’d prefer above all else? You said you were decent at cooking, but you don’t have many recipes under your arsenal, at least not from memory. Surely he’d get you some cookbooks at your soonest behest, but with the way he’s looking at you now, you’re certain he’s expecting something much more homemade, something made entirely on your own. He’s never tasted your cooking, after all…. and with how long it’s been since you’ve cooked for yourself, you’ve forgotten if it tastes as good as you remember.

Not to mention, how many tools would you be allowed to use? Giorno’s taking care in proofing the estate of anything you could use to harm him, like knives and forks, which are only provided to you during meals. All the complications alone give you a headache. It serves to showcase how impossible it can be to fully relax in Giorno’s presence, your mind always in fight or flight. A survival instinct to preserve yourself under extreme circumstances. You’d like to think those restrictions would be lessened considering how close you’ve gotten with him recently, but you know him better than that. Always calculating, always prepared, always composed...

Absorbed in your flurry of thoughts, you fail to notice Giorno is closer to you. He’s always given you appropriate distance, stuffing down his own desires in favor of keeping you comfortable. You must have made for a pitiful sight if he’s approaching you like this, brows knitting together in worry over your darkening expression. By the time you notice the stark lack of distance, you welp and nearly back away in fright, startled to find that he’s only an arm’s length away.

“I’m not… really that good, y’know.” you let out a humorless laugh, gnawing on your lower lip soon after. The words can be interpreted in a myriad of ways, far extending past the context of this situation. Your hands ball into tight fists by your side, self-deprecating emotions overflowing. Yet again, you’re on the brink of tears, in what should be a lighthearted outing. 

He doesn’t look down on you, offering nothing but an overflowing well of understanding. Giorno’s touch is light, so light you wonder if you’re imagining it in the first place. His pointer finger goes underneath your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles as he lifts your face up. His face is so close to your own, you feel his warm breath fan against you. Loose golden hair tickles your face, which flushes at his close proximity. His other hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the touch. Accepting any form of solace is your internal justification, but even that feels like a weak excuse now.

What this is… is starting to go beyond that. And it frightens you. 

“You speak so lowly of yourself,” he frowns, not chastising you but pointing it out nonetheless. “To me… I see all your potential, your strengths. You have weaknesses, yes, as do we all. Where others fall short in this regard, you excel. Bettering yourself.” His smile grows weaker by the moment as he recalls more bitter memories. “Even in a situation like this, you have the courage to smile and laugh, to see the beauty in things.” — to see the beauty in him.

He doesn’t mention that.

He takes a deep breath, not having intended to ramble this much. You’re in awe, having never heard words pour from his lips this fast. Giorno’s always given diligent thought and calculating into every aspect of his persona around you, actions and words alike. Everything was meant to higher your opinion on him or to lull you into a false sense of ease. This confession feels authentic, without ulterior motive. Like the confession a boy would stumble through toward his crush, not the love declaration of a man with power beyond your wildest imagination.

He speaks of what he believes, unfiltered or obscured by a hidden agenda. And, despite yourself, you accept it. You embrace it, having never been spoken to in such a way, not by someone who loves you so wholeheartedly. While you might not believe his sentiments on a fundamental level, it’s enough to still your weeping heart. The ache dulls under his words, pacifying you enough to steady your erratic breathing.

His lips hesitantly brush against yours, emerald eyes asking for your permission through golden lashes. When you don’t retaliate or relent, he closes the small gap between your bodies, lips fully pressed against yours. Despite allowing it, your eyes widen at the sudden contact as his flutter closed. Quickly, you melt into the gesture, tempted to bury your hands in his loose golden locks like you have time and time before. The feeling of your lips against his is still foreign despite having spent countless nights in each other’s arms. Those kisses have always been born from passion crafted by the heat of the moment, but this was genuine. This kiss is filled with love, with adoration, and with a sense of longing and belonging he’s never felt before. His composure unravels like loose threads, his hands tangled in your hair, urging your lips impossibly closer to his. 

You lose sight of yourself. Giorno is all that exists to you at this moment. His soft lips, delicate touch, and reassuring words. When your head starts to spin, lack of oxygen becoming apparent in the thralls of passion, you attempt to pull back. He seems hesitant at first, as if not wanting this sweet moment to ever end, but gives into your qualms. You always come first to him. 

Everything feels so warm and tingly. Subconsciously, the tips of your fingers touch your parted lips, in slight disbelief at the whirlwind of events. He kissed you so gently, so passionately, but your lips are reddened and throbbing with excitement and… trepidation. What… what is this feeling? What does this mean? The look in his eyes just now, the gentleness in his touch, the passion in that kiss… it was unlike the rest. Long, sweet nights spent in each other's arms had never been this serendipitous, this loving. Not… not on your end at least. Is that what changed? He looks at you the same way he always does, but has the way you look at him changed? And… to what?

Your head is spinning with the implication of it all. You know the answer; you know you know the answer, but you shoot up from the blanket, unraveling yourself from the embrace of his arms, and dig your feet into the sand. You need time to think.

“[First]? Is everything alright?” He pipes up from the ground. “I didn’t do anything, did I?”

“N-no!” The words lodge in your throat again. Did he do something? To make you feel this way… did he trick you somehow? Is this all a lie? It has to be. There’s no way you could be… “I just… i-it was sudden. I’m sorry, I just need time to think….”, you trail off, breathless. You see his eyebrows knit with worry, and a brief lapse of regret passes over his features, but you don’t stay long enough to dwell on it.

He watches as you start to pace the beach, never once throwing a glance in his direction. He knows better than to assume the worst, always having been patient with your frequent withdrawals whenever things get too… much. Today is a day of fresh starts, and it’s wishful thinking to believe months of trauma could be fixed in the span of a few hours. He’s willing to wait, as he always has, but the sensation of your lips against his is mind-numbing. He wants more, truthfully. He wants to feel that way again, to feel your lips melded against his, like they belong there. Like you belong here, with him. Seeing you react like this is jarring, a cacophonous jolt to the doubt he’d banished to the far shores of his mind. The betrayal and worry on your face is hard to miss despite your attempts to hide it behind a curtain of hair. You’re biting your lip, and even though he can’t hear it, you’re muttering to yourself, unquestionably reprimanding your actions and everything that led up to that moment. You shouldn’t have kissed him, you shouldn’t have let your guard down, you shouldn’t have given into him like that — sentiments you’re no doubt thinking.

And yet, he is happy. It’s a start… but he hasn’t the right to rush you into something you may never truly want. You have no options — to push or guilt you into a relationship, no matter how desperately he may want to, is unfair. So, he exhales inaudibly, stuffing those selfish thoughts to the back of his mind as he always does. Avarice has no place here, not when he’s already taken so much. Keeping his desires to himself, while never a simple task, has grown more difficult. Now that he’s indulged in you once, he wants to come back for more. To experience love as he’s heard described to him countless times. The kind where two souls grow old together, their love never once wavering; a concept he was never keen on believing, considering his childhood which left bitter feelings that tainted his views on love time and time again. All of that changed when he met you.

You are worth the wait.

[shadeswift99]

Oh! Apologies for asking for two but, Reflex headcannons?

Edit: I found this in drafts, from some time between Reflex and Nothing of Note. I could have sworn I had posted it...! No time like the present, I guess. For anyone who's still thinking about Reflex. :)

Hmmmmmmmm I don't want to say too much because spoilers...also doing headcanons for my own character is kind of just canon...so enjoy the extra content I guess!

Realistic:

Reflex does not enjoy combat. The risk involved always puts him on edge, and his plans tend to work better with more subtlety than a drawn sword can offer. However, he has the most powerful weapon of the three TIZ Team members, and is technically the most skilled at fighting, though Waltz enjoys it more and would argue that fact with the power of a thousand suns. So Reflex is the one that often ends up doing most of the dirty work when the group gets attacked. His fighting style boils down to "get the issue solved as quickly as possible one way or another", and so far he's got out of all confrontations with far less major scars than the other two, so in his opinion his strategy is working pretty well.

Funny:

In Hels, the TIZ Team (very begrudgingly) all share a bunker-like base embedded in a netherrack hill. Safety in numbers, as they say. Reflex will never object to a little extra security, but he would rather not have to deal with the roommates. In particular, Aadaph likes to annoy him by stealing his masks and wearing them around mockingly pretending to be him. He'll put on the grim yellow and black fabric and skulk around trying to be as cold and emotionless as possible, and always fail miserably, usually by laughing at some joke he invented himself. He looks like a fool and it annoys Reflex to no end, but Waltz seems to think it's hilarious. If this is what Reflex he has to put up with to get some half-decent help with a plan, sure. It's fine. He'll just work on his Waltz impression, for the day he can finally get his hands on one of those big dumb capes of his....

Heart-crushing:

Nothing I could say here would make what Reflex does okay. No sob story I could give would ever make him good. But there is one thing, one great weakness of his, that comes close to making him understandable.

If you have read his story, you will know that what Reflex fears most above all else is death. That fear is what drives every single one of his plans - not malice or wild ambition, no love of cruelty like the others, just the simple human fear of death and the burning need to evade it. It's the same drive that has a hold on the Impulse we know - the totem salesman, the experienced hardcore player, the cautious, overprepared hoarder. The one determined to do as much work as physically possible before his time is up. The only difference between Reflex and Impulse, really, is that Reflex doesn't care who he ruins in pursuit of his goals. He won't try to avoid causing pain; he won't even look back at those left bleeding in his wake. They are obstacles - no more, no less.

It is this uncaring drive that got him into trouble back in Hels. He had a project to complete, and in the process of making way for that project he casually tore down every last scrap of another person's life. He didn't take a single block for himself - just left it all lying neatly in hundreds of chests lining the place where once stood a base that took a decade to complete. Labs full of redstone that took twice that time to develop. Gone, in 24 hours. Reflex didn't stay to see the look on the doctor's face when he returned, but if he had, he would have seen a spirit break.

He overstepped, that day. He angered the wrong man.

Reflex is not really afraid of death. One simple, mildly painful demise means nothing to him. It is what will happen if he dies and his spawn defaults to his original spawn in Hels that really scares him. Reflex's spawn is a hell within hell. The machine that engulfs every possible block where he could appear is filled with tortures he tries his hardest not to imagine. Being simply torn apart would be a mercy, lava would be a kindness - what awaits him after but a singular second of possible carelessness is thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands of the most brutal, slow, crushing, vengeful...deserved...deaths he could ever picture. He will be torn apart atom by atom, he will be crushed back together again, he will be wracked by poison and withering and fire and rot, and when he finally gives up and dies, he will respawn right back there to experience it all over again.

It is a fate he knows will long exceed his thresholds of endurance. He has no doubt that he could break the machine from the inside eventually, find some way out...but by that point, who will he be? What will he be. A husk. An empty body, scarred beyond recognition. Irreversibly shattered. Lost.

He has no illusions of avoiding it forever. That twisted invention is where he is headed, and that is where he will end. But as long as he still draws breath, as long as there are still lives in this world or any other to sacrifice before he ever risks his own, he will chain himself to life in defiance of all who would challenge him. Above all else and at all cost, Reflex will survive.

Unrealistic Crossover, special just for you!:

If a Blood Moon occurs when Reflex is on the server, he is unable to disguise himself as Impulse. Not much else about him changes - he never got the same Wither magic that your Impulse did - but the sheer fact of him being forced to appear as himself is what makes him dangerous. If seen in the Overworld during a Blood Moon, he will attack on sight. No one who has seen his true form can live to tell the tail. He can't afford that kind of information being let out.