#completely unrelated to everything but just wanted to throw that out there

[aesthetically-dying101]

how would the reader finds out that they were a bet (jjk men) but not only were they a bet but their entire friend group (the rest of the jjk group) knew about it and kept it from the reader?

I've fallen for a lie.

A/N: (inspired by: No time to die, my friend plays it on repeat) so... don't hate me, but personally, i think angst is HILARIOUS. ALSO, this is pure pain and suffering. fluff if you squint. Also i went overboard, like completely, i wrote way too much, my fav one is sukuna's.

DISCLAMER: i got this request 6 or so days ago, i've been working on this ever since, i did not copy retiredteabag (who did this post), someone just requested it on both our accounts. I wrote way too much just to throw this out so like.. yeah, proof (just in case, i just don't wanna start drama), but thank you to the anon that requested this!!!

Contents: pain. grovelling pathetic men. reader standing on bussiness bc i dislike the weepy y/n. yearning but like heartache. (im sorry for the choso/gojo/geto fans, this sucks for yall) nanami is perfect as always bc he's him. mostly angst.. toxic relationships.

Characters: Nanami, Toji, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Choso, Shiu, Higuruma. (in that order)

Three years.

Three years of laughter, memories, promises, and whispered secrets. Three years of holding his hand through everything, supporting him when the world felt like it was crumbling, believing that what you two had was real.

And it was all a lie.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone, the conversation with Haibara still ringing in your ears. Your heart pounded in your chest as each word replayed in your head like an unrelenting drumbeat.

“It was a dare. Nanami was dared to approach you that night at the bar. He didn’t even know who you were at first.”

It was a dare.

Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat as a cold sweat broke out along your neck. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. You must’ve misunderstood. Haibara had to be joking. That’s the only explanation. But why would he joke about something like that?

The pounding of your heart filled your ears, drowning out the sound of everything else. Nanami. The man you had come to love more than anyone else. The man who had asked you to marry him last month—last month—was a part of some sick bet? A dare?

You grabbed the edge of the table for support, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Three years… Was it all just some game to him? Every soft touch, every shared meal, every late-night conversation? Was it all just some joke? A cruel one at that?

Your hands moved before your mind could catch up, yanking open the closet, throwing your clothes into a suitcase in a frenzy. The pain in your chest was so sharp, so visceral, it felt like a thousand knives stabbing into your soul. This was not happening. Not to you. Not after everything.

Your thoughts spiraled. No, no, no... How could he do this? How could he stand in front of you, gaze so soft, and tell you he loved you, that he wanted to build a life with you? He’d proposed. He’d promised. And now, it was all just a lie.

A dare.

The door clicked open, and the sound of his voice made your heart freeze in your chest.

“(Y/N)?” Nanami called, his tone light but confused, as if nothing was wrong.

You froze mid-packing, every muscle in your body locking in place. You could feel the heat of tears pooling in your eyes, but you couldn’t let them fall. Not now. Not when your entire life felt like it was collapsing around you.

You didn’t turn to face him. You couldn’t.

“(Y/N)... What’s going on? You’re packing—” His voice trailed off as he stepped closer, the sound of his shoes against the hardwood floor making the room feel smaller, more suffocating.

“Stop. Just stop,” you said, the words barely leaving your throat before they cracked.

You turned to face him, your hands shaking, the sight of him making you feel dizzy with anger and betrayal. His eyes widened at the sight of your suitcase, your movements hurried, frantic.

“(Y/N)... What’s wrong?” His voice was calm, too calm, like he was still in control. The nerve.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” you repeated, your voice rising as the weight of the truth came crashing down on you. “You don’t get to ask that. You don’t get to play the innocent card here. You lied to me, Nanami. For three years, you lied to me. And so did they.”

His expression faltered. It didn’t take much—just a flicker of realization in his eyes, but it was enough- and the worse part? You had called him Nanami. His expression was enough to make your chest tighten painfully.

“Y-You don’t understand…” Nanami started, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let me explain—”

“Explain?” you interrupted, your voice rising to a dangerous pitch. “You want to explain? There’s nothing to explain, Nanami. You were dared to talk to me. That’s it. That’s where it all started. Everything else, everything, was just... just what? Some twisted joke?” Your fists clenched at your sides, the raw anger and hurt making it hard to breathe.

His face shifted from confusion to guilt, then to desperation.

“I— Yes. It started as a dare, but everything after that was real. I never—”

“You never what?!” You couldn’t control your emotions any longer. “You never thought you’d fall for me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

The coldness in your voice made his face fall. But he still pushed forward, trying to fix the mess he’d made.

“I swear to you, after that night—after we started talking—I fell for you. I fell hard, and I’ve never once regretted it. I love you. I’ve loved you from the very first time we met, even if it started as a dare, even if it was a stupid game, it was real for me. Everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done for you... It’s been real. I swear on everything, it’s been real.”

“Really?” The bitter laugh that left your lips was sharp, cruel. “You want me to believe that after all of this? After you had the gall to propose to me last month? You think that now is when I should trust you?”

You took a deep breath, each word cutting through the air like a blade. “I’m done. I’m done, Nanami. You don’t get to treat me like I’m a fool. You don’t get to lie to me for three years, and then think you can fix it by saying ‘I love you.’”

You turned away from him, your movements deliberate as you grabbed the engagement ring from your finger. The diamond caught the light, flashing like a cruel reminder of everything that had been taken from you.

You slammed the ring down onto the table, the harsh sound echoing through the apartment. Nanami froze, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

The sight of his face made the sting in your chest even worse.

“I’m not your fucking bet, Nanami. I’m not your fucking game.” Your voice broke, but you forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t need your lies. I don’t need you.”

You could feel his presence behind you, his breath heavy with emotion. “Please, my love, don’t leave like this. We can fix this. I swear to you—”

You turned toward him, your eyes burning with fury and sorrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one? The one who’s so responsible? The one who’s always so calm and collected?” You stepped toward him, your voice full of venom. “But you’re just a liar.”

You couldn’t stay here. You couldn’t breathe in this suffocating space any longer.

You shoved past him, your heart racing as you grabbed your things and headed toward the door. You slammed it shut behind you with finality, the sound ringing in your ears.

Nanami was left standing there, frozen in the silence of his own regret, the weight of your departure heavy in the air.

And as you walked away, your mind couldn’t shake the image of him, his broken face, his pain.

*-*

Three days. It had only been three days since everything fell apart. Three days since the man you thought you’d spend your life with turned out to be nothing more than a liar—well, not just a liar. A liar who dared to approach you. The realization felt like a poison that had seeped into your bones, one you couldn’t shake. You spent those three days in a fog of confusion, anger, and heartbreak.

You hadn’t gone back to your apartment; hell, you couldn’t. There was nothing left for you there. No trace of the life you thought you were building. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you went to your parents.

They’d been kind, as they always were, but their words didn’t reach you. They didn’t fix the deep, hollow ache in your chest. They didn’t make you forget the way Nanami had lied to you. The way he had made you believe that everything was real… until it wasn’t.

Your mom had tried to rationalize, telling you that maybe Nanami made a mistake, that people do things they regret, that maybe he’d never intended for it to go this far. Your father had simply kept quiet, unsure of what to say, but you could tell by the way he watched you that he was worried.

But none of their words made it past the wall you’d built around yourself. They weren’t wrong. They were just trying to comfort you. But how could you be comforted by someone who had deceived you? You’d given him everything, and now, what did you have left? A broken heart. A destroyed future.

Your mind spiraled as you sat on your bed, staring blankly at the wall. You were so angry, but most of all… you just missed him. You missed his voice, the way his hand felt in yours, the calm that came with being in his presence.

Why did he have to lie? Why did he have to make me believe it was real?

A soft knock on your door startled you. You didn’t move, didn’t respond. The door creaked open anyway, and your mother’s voice gently filled the silence.

“Honey, I know you're angry right now, but maybe it’s time to—”

You didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want to hear anything about Nanami right now, especially not from her.

“Mom,” you said in a soft, tired voice, “please, just… just leave me alone. I don’t want to hear it.”

Your mother hesitated, as though weighing her words, but then she sighed. “I just… I want you to be happy again. I can’t see you like this.”

Before she could leave, she muttered something under her breath. It was so soft, almost like she was speaking to herself. “You were so happy with him, though. I could see it… We all could.”

You didn’t hear the door close.

You felt the sudden tension in the air before you even registered what was happening. Your heart skipped a beat when you heard footsteps coming toward the room. Your head snapped toward the doorway, and there, standing in the frame, was him.

Nanami.

Your breath caught in your throat. What the hell was he doing here?

Your mother gave you one last look, a silent apology in her eyes, before she turned and walked out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed was suffocating. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know if you even wanted to say anything to him. He didn’t deserve your words.

And then, in the stillness, you let out a frustrated screech. The emotion you’d been bottling up for days finally exploded. You stood, shoving the blanket off the bed, pacing the room. How dare he show up here? You were so fucking angry. You didn’t even care that he was standing there, looking like he was about to crumble to pieces himself.

“You don’t get to just show up here!” you snapped, your voice shaking. “You lied to me, Nanami! You fucking lied to me, and now you think you can just walk back in and pretend everything’s fine?”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stood there, his eyes dark with pain, his fists clenched at his sides. And then, without a word, he walked over to you, and before you could protest, he shoved something into your lap.

You looked down.

A stack of printed screenshots. What the hell was this?

You picked them up hesitantly, your fingers trembling as you stared at the words on the page. You saw his name. Haibara’s. You saw group messages, text conversations, timestamps. You felt a sickening pang in your chest as the realization began to sink in.

These were from the night you first met.

These were from the weeks after that night.

“I… I don’t understand.” You glanced up at him, your voice shaking. “What is this? What the hell is this supposed to prove?”

He swallowed hard, clearly trying to gather his composure. “Look at the messages. Read them.”

You flipped through the pages. The first few were from that night. They were screenshots of Haibara daring him to approach you, followed by Nanami’s messages in the group chat—messages about how nervous he was, how much he wanted to make a good impression, how he thought he might’ve met the love of his life.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You felt like you were suffocating. Why didn’t he just tell me this?

His eyes softened, and he took a shaky breath. “I wanted to, but… I didn’t know how to. I didn’t know how to say it without you thinking it was all a lie. I was terrified you’d leave me. But I couldn’t stop falling for you, (Y/N). I swear to you, everything after that night… it was real. I never thought this would happen. I never thought I would fall in love with you, but I did.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you stared at the messages in disbelief. They were real. He hadn’t edited them. You looked up at him, the pain in your chest intensifying.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you just say something? I spent three years thinking it was all a lie. You could have told me.”

“I should have,” Nanami whispered. He took a step closer to you, his hands shaking. “I should have told you sooner. I was stupid. I was so scared that if you knew, you’d leave. But I… I love you. And I’ve loved you from the very start.”

You could feel the weight of his words, but your heart was still so raw, so broken. “This doesn’t just go away, Nanami. You can’t just… fix this.”

His face fell. “I know. I know I can’t. But I’m willing to do anything. I’ll go to marriage counseling. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. Please, [Y/N]. Please.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the tears from falling. “I can’t just go back to being with you. It’s not that easy.”

He nodded, stepping closer to you. His voice was raw, almost pleading now. “I know. I’m not asking for that. I just need you to know that I’m sorry. And that I love you. And I’ll keep fighting for you… for us.”

The words you wanted to say caught in your throat. You couldn’t decide if you should scream at him or pull him close. You were so angry, but you were also so fucking heartbroken.

But maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the villain in this story. He was just a man who had made the most terrible mistake of his life. And you had been his greatest love all along.

Could you forgive him?

You didn’t know. But maybe… maybe there was a way.

It started like any other day, or at least it felt that way.

Megumi was at school, leaving you with the quiet hum of your and Toji's house. You cleaned, you cooked, you settled into the role you had grown to love. Step-mom. You could never have imagined you'd be so attached to that boy, but there you were. Caring for him, nurturing him like he was your own flesh and blood, even when it felt impossible.

The bond was real, undeniable.

And then… the phone call came. It was innocent at first—a quick check-in from Shiu. But it wasn’t the usual chat about Megumi’s progress at school or the latest movie you all wanted to see. It was different.

It was calculated.

The words hit you like a slap.

"It was a bet, Y/N. From the start. You were never meant to be anything more than that..."

You blinked. You heard him, but your mind couldn't fully grasp it. Your heart tried to deny it.

"A bet?" you whispered to yourself, voice quivering, feeling the blood drain from your face. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Toji and I, we made a bet. You were never meant to be the one. You were just… entertainment."

His words were sharp, laced with a smugness that made you sick. It felt like your entire world—no, your very identity—was just ripped from you in a moment of cruel reality.

You didn’t even hang up. You didn’t even need to. Your thoughts were spinning, dizzy with disbelief and betrayal. How could they? They—your friends, Toji’s closest allies—all knew. They knew, and not one of them bothered to tell you. Not one of them had the decency to warn you.

You weren’t even a person to them. You were a game, a pawn. A prize that Toji had to win.

Tears welled in your eyes. Your heart cracked open like a fragile shell. The life you thought you had built—Megumi, Toji, this family, this home—crumbled. You were just a tool, an object in their bet.

"No." The word broke through the veil of shock, raw and bitter. "No. I can’t—I can’t stay here. I need to leave."

You jumped up from the couch, grabbing your purse with trembling hands. It was like you were on autopilot, moving solely on the instinct to escape. The door. You just needed to get to the door. Leave. Go anywhere. But as you moved to turn the handle, it wouldn't budge.

You shook the knob harder, panic seizing your chest. It was locked. You turned to the windows, but they were all shut tight, reinforced. The walls felt like they were closing in on you.

"Toji," you whispered his name, the desperation in your voice clear.

The footsteps behind you weren’t subtle. You felt his presence before he spoke.

"Where do you think you’re going?" His voice was low, almost soothing, but you knew better. You knew the danger behind the calmness.

You spun around, anger bubbling up, fighting through the layers of hurt. "You locked the door?"

"Not just the door, sweetheart," he said, his smile sickeningly sweet, like it could erase everything he'd just shattered. "You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here. With me."

The tears you had been holding back finally fell, hot and painful. "You think I’ll just stay after this?"

Toji didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and intense, never left you as he took a slow step forward.

"You’ve been good to Megumi," he said, his voice soft but laced with something darker. "You’ve been like a real mom to him. And now, you think you’ll just throw that away? Just like that?" He clicked his tongue, a disappointed shake of his head. "You’re too important to him."

The way he said it… It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t even a question. It was a claim. A manipulation.

"What are you talking about?"

"You think Megumi won’t miss you?" Toji’s smile widened, and there was something almost predatory in his eyes. "You think he won’t notice? After everything you’ve done for him, after how you’ve helped him… You’re too good to leave."

His hands reached for you then, slow and deliberate, like he was reaching for something fragile, something precious. You backed away, but he was faster, gripping your arms and pulling you into his chest.

"No. No," you said, your voice shaking with the weight of all the lies. "You’re a fucking monster."

"You don’t mean that," Toji cooed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his breath hot against your skin. "I know you’re angry. I get it. I really do. But this? This isn’t something we can just walk away from. You’ve got a place here now. A real place, with me and Megumi."

You pushed against his chest, but his grip only tightened, unyielding. "You think you can just control me like this?"

"You were a bet," he whispered, his voice rough now, but his grip still unshaken. "But you’re more than that now. You’re mine. And you’re not going anywhere."

Your heart broke all over again as you realized the depth of his control over you, the twisted grip he had on your life. You didn’t know if you hated him more for what he had done, or for what he had become.

"Please," you choked out, voice breaking. "Please let me go. I can’t do this anymore."

But even as you begged, you knew it was useless. The door was locked, and your heart had been sealed shut behind it.

He pulled you closer, almost tender now, pressing his lips to your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine. "Don’t worry, baby." His words were dark, possessive. "You’ll understand. You’re gonna stay here. You’ll stay for me. For Megumi. And you’re gonna love it."

And as you stood there, helpless in his arms, the room spinning with the weight of everything you had lost, you knew one painful truth: you would never leave. Because Toji wouldn’t let you.

And that was worse than any bet.

The world felt softer when Gojo was around.

The way his laughter filled the room, buoyant and unapologetic, made the edges of your anxiety blur. You were tucked away in a corner booth at your favorite cafe, his long legs brushing yours under the table as he speared your last bite of cake with his fork. You swatted at him, mock-offended, but his grin was so wide, so annoyingly genuine, that you couldn’t help but laugh. Gojo had this way of making you feel like the center of his universe, and after four months, you were hopelessly, undeniably in love.

“I’m telling you,” he drawled, tilting his head back dramatically, “you’re the only person who doesn’t find my charm overwhelming.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Oh, believe me, you’re overwhelming. Just not in the way you think.”

It was easy, being with him. Too easy. You excused yourself to the bathroom, still smiling, still warm, still thinking about the way his thumb had grazed yours when he handed your the cup of tea earlier. But when you returned, you froze just outside the booth.

“...I can’t believe she still hasn’t figured it out.”

“That’s the point of a bet, idiot,” another voice chimed in, one you recognized as Geto’s.

“Yeah, but four months? That’s dedication,” someone else snickered.

Your stomach dropped.

“It’s Gojo. He always has to win,” Geto said, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “I mean, she’s cute, but still... a bet’s a bet.”

The air seemed to suck out of the room. Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag as your chest constricted, bile rising in your throat.

Bet? Bet?

Your feet felt like lead as you forced yourself forward. You didn’t look at any of them, didn’t dare meet Gojo’s eyes as you muttered something about not feeling well and left. He texted you an hour later, asking where you'd gone. You stared at his message for ten minutes before replying,

-“Period cramps. Really bad.”

His response came almost immediately: “You should’ve said something! Want me to come over?”

You stared at your phone, fingers trembling as you typed out, “No. I’m fine.”

Dry. Short. Controlled. Your heart wasn’t in it.

When you finally made it back to your apartment, you collapsed onto the couch and screamed into the cushions until your throat was raw. How could he? How could they? The whole group—your friends—had known and said nothing. Your tears burned, but fury burned hotter. Your mind replayed every moment, every kiss, every laugh. How much of it had been real?

The week that followed was suffocating. Gojo’s texts came in, as lively and obnoxious as always, but you gave him nothing in return.

-“Morning! Did you sleep okay?” -“Fine.” -“Want to grab dinner tonight? My treat 😉” -“Busy.”

He called once. You let it ring until it stopped.

At work, you barely acknowledged him. He’d saunter up to your desk, his usual grin plastered on his face, but your responses were curt, your eyes glued to your screen.

“Hey, you good? You’ve been acting weird.”

You looked up at him, expression blank. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.

The next group hangout was unbearable. They were all there, laughing and joking like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t all played you for a fool. You were quiet, cold, your presence an icicle in their usual warmth.

“Hey, let’s grab a drink,” Gojo said, nudging your arm.

You stared at him, your jaw tight, before jerking your head toward a quiet corner. “We need to talk.”

He blinked but followed you, his usual confidence faltering under your glare. “What’s—”

“I’m done,” you said, loud enough that the others turned to look-god you wanted to humiliate him. “I don’t have time for your bullshit, Gojo. Your childish, manipulative, disgusting behavior.”

His eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. The bet.” Your voice cracked on the word, but you pressed on, relentless. “Four months of my life, and it was a goddamn bet? Was it worth it, Satoru? Did you win?”

The color drained from his face. “Wait—how—”

“And you,” you snapped, turning to the rest of them. “All of you knew, didn’t you? You’re all assholes. Every single one of you. I trusted you, and you laughed behind my back.”

“Wait, it wasn’t—” Geto started, you cut him off with a glare that could shatter glass.

“I’m done,” you repeated, voice trembling with rage. “Have a nice life.”

You didn’t wait for a response, didn’t look back as you stormed out. Your chest felt like it was caving in, but for the first time in days, you could breathe.

Blocking them was the first thing she did when she got home. Every single one of them. Instagram, Twitter, Facebook (who even uses that anymore??), WhatsApp, even Spotify—gone. You didn’t want any trace of them in your life. No drunken messages. No half-assed apologies. No reminders of what you'd lost, what they’d taken from you.

Your phone buzzed relentlessly for the first few hours. Calls, texts, notifications from burner accounts, and even an email with the subject line, "Please, just talk to me." You deleted it without opening it. You didn’t owe him—any of them—anything.

The silence that followed was both a relief and a weight. Days stretched into a week, then two, and while you were still raw, still angry, you were learning how to exist in the emptiness they left behind.

Gojo, on the other hand, was unraveling.

At first, he was sure it was a misunderstanding. You'd cool off, he thought. You'd always had a fiery temper, but you weren't cruel. You wouldn’t just cut him off.

Except you did.

When he showed up at your apartment with a bouquet of sunflowers—the kind you loved—you didn’t answer the door. He stood there for half an hour, knocking and calling your name until a neighbor threatened to call the cops. He left the flowers on your doorstep, only to find them in the trash the next day, petals wilting, stems bent.

His texts became desperate.

"I messed up. Please, just let me explain." "I know you're mad, but I swear, it wasn’t like that." "I… I miss you. Can we just talk? Please?"

You read them all. Deleted every single one without replying.

At work, he tried to corner you in the break room, but you turned on your heel and walked out without a word. During a meeting, he sat across from you, staring holes into you as if his gaze alone could break your silence. But you didn’t look at him once.

One evening, he left a note on your desk: "Meet me on the rooftop after work. I just want to talk." You crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash right in front of him.

The rest of their friend group tried to intervene. Geto texted you a half-hearted, "I know we messed up. Can we talk? I’ll explain." You blocked him immediately.

Shoko showed up at her apartment unannounced, knocking softly and saying through the door, “Hey, I just want to say I’m sorry. We didn’t mean for it to go this far—”

“Go away.” Your voice was cold, flat. You didn’t wait to hear Shoko’s reply before turning up your music to drown her out.

Gojo hit his breaking point one night when he sent her a long, rambling voice note. His voice was rough, almost frantic.

“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. The bet—it wasn’t supposed to mean anything! I wasn’t supposed to… to feel this way about you. But I do. God, I do. And now I’ve ruined it. I ruined us. I know I can’t fix it, but please, just… just tell me how to make it right. I’ll do anything.”

You listened to it exactly once. Not to feel anything, but to make sure you weren't imagining the crack in his voice, the sound of him breaking- you almost thought about answering. Maybe there was a valid excuse- no.

It should’ve satisfied you. It didn’t. You deleted it.

Weeks turned into months, and Gojo still couldn’t let go. He went through every stage of grief, cycling between anger, guilt, and desperation. He replayed every moment they’d shared, trying to pinpoint where he’d gone wrong, where he could’ve fixed it before it fell apart.

But you had moved on—or at least, you made it look like you had. Your Instagram was private now, your profile picture replaced with something generic. Your Spotify playlists—once filled with songs you'd joked were about him—were gone. You were a ghost, haunting him in your absence.

And of course, at their next group hangout, you weren't there.

“She’s done with us,” Shoko said quietly, picking at the label on her beer.

Gojo didn’t respond. He was staring at his phone, scrolling through their old messages, reading your words over and over again like they were the only pieces of you he had left.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit.” “I trusted you.” “Have a nice life.”

He wasn’t sure which hurt more: the words you'd said or the ones you never would again.

You were not built for betrayal.

Not this kind, anyway.

The world felt as if it had been turned upside down. Each breath dragged its weight through your ribs, and your skin burned with the realization, a gnawing, buzzing kind of agony that spread like wildfire.

Suguru had been laughing.

Laughing.

“Come on, don’t look so upset,” he’d said the day before, his honeyed voice sweet with mockery. “You’ve been fun. More fun than I thought you’d be.”

The room had frozen. Everyone had frozen. Satoru, with his cocky grin faltering but still plastered in place. Shoko, lips pressed so tightly they’d gone pale. Even Nanami had avoided your eyes. They all knew.

The truth clawed its way into your mind, carving a jagged wound: you were a bet. An experiment. Entertainment. The words replayed themselves in your head over and over, drilling into the cracks of your soul. More fun than I thought you’d be.

And Suguru had led the charge. The man whose quiet kindness, whose quiet smiles, you’d clung to like a lifeline. Who’d called you “special” in the dim quiet of late-night conversations. Who’d made you feel seen.

It was nothing. You were nothing.

*-*

That night, you hadn’t cried. Tears would’ve been too easy, too human. Instead, you’d locked yourself in your dorm, let the cold silence settle into your bones, and stared at the ceiling until the walls blurred into one endless void.

What had been the point? Of everything? Every joke, every shared drink, every time Suguru had rested his chin on his hand and watched you with that glimmer of something in his dark eyes—what had it all been for?

The cruelest part wasn’t even the lie. It was the tiny seed of hope buried deep in your chest, stubbornly whispering: he didn’t mean it. Not entirely. Maybe they made him do it.

You hated that hope.

Hated it almost as much as you hated Suguru himself.

You couldn’t face them the next day. You hadn’t slept. You barely remembered dragging yourself to a bar off-campus, ordering drink after drink until everything blurred.

You hadn’t even noticed the curse until it was too late.

It was stupid, really. They taught you this in your first year: never wander drunk. Never let your guard down, no matter where you were. But you’d been so hollow, so angry. Maybe some part of you had wanted to stumble onto something. Wanted it to hurt.

The curse had been waiting, a writhing, monstrous thing. You were too slow, too uncoordinated to summon even the faintest spark of your cursed energy.

Its claws ripped through your chest. Its teeth found your neck. And all you could think about, in those last agonizing seconds, was Suguru. His face when he’d laughed. The way his eyes had gleamed with amusement.

You didn’t scream.

*-*

They found your body the next morning.

Shoko identified it first. She didn’t speak, didn’t flinch, just stared at the mangled ruin of what you’d been. Suguru didn’t understand at first—didn’t want to understand.

“Who is it?” His voice was calm, sharp. Detached.

When Shoko turned to him, her expression empty, he knew.

His body moved on its own, shoulders tense, hands trembling. He fell to his knees beside you, eyes wide and unseeing as they traced the jagged edges of torn flesh and drying blood.

It didn’t feel real. You were so…still. So quiet.

Suguru thought about the night before, about your face when he’d laughed, the hurt in your eyes that he’d ignored. A hand pressed against his chest, his cursed energy stuttering with each ragged breath.

“You’re lying,” he whispered. “It’s not her.”

No one answered.

*-*

The funeral was quiet.

Closed casket. Your body too mangled to be seen.

Suguru didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He didn’t do anything, really, except sit and stare at the ground, arms folded tight over his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

Satoru tried to talk to him afterward, but Suguru didn’t hear him. Didn’t hear anything beyond the blood pounding in his ears. You were gone. Gone.

He remembered your laugh. Your voice, soft but steady. The way you’d touched his arm when you thought he wasn’t listening.

The grief hit him in waves. Slow at first, then all at once, crashing over him in an endless tide.

And when it was too much—when the weight of it crushed the air from his lungs—something inside him snapped.

The laughter from that night wouldn’t stop echoing in his head. His laughter.

You’d deserved better than this.

Better than him.

Better than all of them.

That was the day Suguru Geto stopped being human.

The regret ate him alive, twisted and burned inside him until all that was left was rage. At the world. At himself. At everything.

He’d find a way to fix it. To burn it all down and rebuild something where people like you wouldn’t exist just to be broken.

But no matter what he built, he knew one thing:

Your laughter would never fill the silence again.

The room was alive with celebration—the sweet burn of sake, raucous laughter of Sukuna’s inner circle, the murmurs of passing servants. You stepped in, the familiar ache in your chest softened by the sight of him. Sukuna, draped in the loose elegance of his kimono, surrounded by his boisterous companions. His crimson eyes caught yours briefly, and his grin sharpened—wolfish, commanding.

He had always been a man of many faces: a conqueror, a husband, a god in flesh. And yet, for all his unyielding power, you believed there was a version of him that had chosen you. The one who watched you in the quiet mornings with a gaze softer than his cruel reputation allowed. The one who, when alone with you, could almost seem human.

You believed in that man.

Until tonight.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t figured it out yet,” one of the men drawled, drunk on his own amusement.

“Patience,” another snickered. “It’s more fun this way.”

Laughter rippled through the group, but the words fell like stone in your chest.

Figured it out?

The haze of the room blurred. Your hand trembled as you gripped the edge of the screen door. Sukuna’s voice cut through the noise, the resonance of it always unmistakable.

“She’s sharp, though. Too sharp to not catch on soon. You’ve already cost me enough sake with your doubts, Ryota.”

Another bout of laughter.

The world stilled. Your heart was a drumbeat, steady but deafening. Each word he spoke was a dagger slicing through the fabric of your reality.

A bet.

Your knees threatened to buckle as the pieces began falling into place, sharp and unforgiving. The glances exchanged when you entered a room. The veiled smirks. The lingering silence whenever you asked too many questions.

They all knew.

Every. Single. One.

You stepped forward, the warmth of the room no longer reaching you. “What is this?”

The laughter stopped abruptly. Heads turned in your direction. Sukuna, ever the commanding presence, leaned back lazily against the wall, his lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Ah, my little wife,” he said, voice like honey over steel. “What brings you here?”

You ignored the question. Your voice was a whisper, sharp as a blade. “What bet?”

The silence was suffocating. Even the drunken fools who moments ago were basking in their audacity now had the decency to look away.

“Tell me,” you demanded, stepping closer, your voice breaking on the edges.

Sukuna tilted his head, as if considering you, weighing whether you deserved the truth.

When he spoke, it was almost casual. “A simple wager, nothing more. They doubted I could make you mine.” His eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t name—amusement? Pride? Indifference? “I proved them wrong.”

The room swayed. You thought you might vomit.

“All of you…” You turned, your gaze sweeping over the room, locking on each face. The betrayal carved deeper with every averted glance. “You all knew.”

No one spoke.

Your breath hitched as you turned back to Sukuna. “You let me believe this was real,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

He rose slowly, deliberately, towering over you as he always did. “Careful, wife,” he said, his tone low, a warning wrapped in silk. “You are in my favor now, but that can change.”

The anger burned bright, but something colder seeped in beneath it. A numbness, hollow and vast.

You stepped back, shoulders straightening, the fire in your eyes extinguished. “Of course, my lord,” you said, bowing your head. “My apologies for the outburst.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “What—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. With the grace and composure befitting a lady of your station, you turned and walked away.

*-*

The days that followed were excruciating in their monotony. You became a ghost of yourself—a woman of duty, of decorum, of practiced neutrality.

Sukuna, in all his arrogance, thought little of it at first. He smirked when you would rise from a conversation and leave the room upon his arrival. He found amusement in the way your laughter would fall silent the moment his shadow crossed the threshold.

But over time, the smirk faded.

He began to notice the absence of something he hadn’t realized he craved. The warmth of your smile, the brightness in your eyes when you looked at him—it was gone. Replaced by a cold civility that made his jaw tighten and his fists clench.

Servants whispered of the change. You, who had once breathed life into the grand halls of his estate, now walked its corridors like a specter. Even when he tried to corner you, to draw out the spark that had once burned so fiercely, you evaded him with polite indifference.

“Stop,” he growled one evening, grabbing your wrist as you turned to leave the dining room.

You froze, the contact sending a shiver up your spine. Slowly, you turned to face him, your expression unreadable.

“Yes, my lord?”

The words, spoken so softly, so devoid of the fire he had come to expect, made his chest tighten.

“Enough of this,” he snapped, his grip tightening. “Speak your mind.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “There is nothing to say, my lord. I am your wife. I will fulfill my duties as such. Beyond that…” You gently pulled your wrist from his grasp. “There is nothing more.”

It was a lie, of course.

There was anger, still, buried deep within the hollowed-out space where your love for him had once lived. There was pain, sharp and unyielding. There was betrayal, an ache so profound you feared it would consume you if you let it.

But you would not give him the satisfaction of seeing any of it.

And so, you walked away, leaving Sukuna in the silence of his own making.

The house grew colder with every passing day. And though he would never admit it, not even to himself, Sukuna found that he missed the warmth.

*-*

The nights at Sukuna’s estate were long, oppressive, and heavy with silence. It gnawed at him like a dull blade, chipping away at his carefully crafted veneer of control.

He had thought the hunts would help. The thrill of the chase, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his blade.

But the emptiness followed him, relentless and mocking.

Her absence haunted him. Not in the physical sense—she was still here, still his wife, still dutiful in the way she moved through the estate. But she had become untouchable, locked away behind that maddening neutrality. No matter how he raged, no matter how he tried to provoke her, she gave him nothing.

Sukuna was many things—a tyrant, a god, a king—but patient was not one of them.

So, when the sun dipped low and the moon bathed his estate in its cold light, Sukuna had finally had enough.

*-*

You were in your chambers, the night air cool against your skin as you slipped your arms out of the sleeves of your kimono. The day had been uneventful, like all the others since that night. You had perfected the art of existing without feeling, moving through life as if the pieces of your shattered heart hadn’t left jagged edges that threatened to cut you open from the inside.

You were pulling the fabric down from your shoulders when the door slammed open, the force rattling the delicate wooden frame.

You gasped, clutching your half-discarded kimono to your chest as Sukuna stormed in, his crimson eyes blazing with fury.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, your voice trembling as you scrambled to cover yourself.

He didn’t answer. In an instant, he was on you, his four arms grabbing hold of your shoulders, your waist, your wrists. His grip wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was desperate.

You froze, your mind racing. Was this it? Had your quiet defiance finally pushed him too far?

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

He barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Kill you? Don’t tempt me, woman.” He shook you, his claws biting lightly into your skin. “What do you want from me? Tell me how to fix this!”

You blinked, caught off guard by the raw frustration in his voice. “Fix… this?”

“Yes!” he snarled, his face inches from yours. “I’ll kill them, every last one of those idiots if that’s what you want. I’ll burn this entire estate to the ground if it will bring you back. Just tell me what the hell you want!”

Your chest tightened, a whirlwind of emotions surging through you. Anger, disbelief, a flicker of something you refused to name.

“You think you can just—” your voice cracked, and you shook your head, trying to find the words. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? You made me a game, Sukuna. A bet. Do you know what that feels like? To be nothing more than a joke to the man who swore to protect me?”

His grip faltered for a moment, his gaze searching yours. “You were never a joke,” he said, his voice low, almost quiet.

You laughed bitterly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Don’t lie to me. Not again.”

“I’m not lying,” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. I don’t care how it started. I don’t care about those fools and their bets. I care about you.”

The words were a punch to the gut. You wanted to believe him, wanted so desperately to cling to the possibility that this wasn’t all a lie. But the wound was still fresh, and your pride was a shield you weren’t ready to lower.

“If I find out you’ve lied to me again,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute, “I’ll go where you can’t follow. You know where I mean.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Don’t.”

“I mean it,” you said, meeting his gaze with a fire you thought you’d lost. “I’ll end this. I’ll end me.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words hanging between you like a blade.

Then, suddenly, he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was rough and demanding, filled with the fury and desperation that had been building between you for weeks. You resisted at first, your hands pushing against his chest, but the dam inside you broke. Your fingers curled into his robes, pulling him closer as you poured every ounce of your anger, your heartbreak, your longing into that kiss.

It was messy and heated, a clash of tongues and teeth and raw emotion. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged, you could see the unspoken apology in his eyes.

“Never again,” you whispered, your voice shaky but firm. “I mean it, Sukuna.”

“Never,” he promised, his hands gripping you like you might vanish if he let go.

The tension between you snapped like a bowstring, giving way to something primal and all-consuming. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the futon in the corner of the room. The anger and betrayal still simmered beneath the surface, but for now, it was drowned out by the sheer intensity of your connection.

*-*

Later, as you lay tangled in the sheets, your head resting against his chest, you broke the silence.

“I want them all dead,” you said softly.

He didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

You tilted your head to look at him, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “You’ll regret this, you know. I’ll never let you live it down.”

His lips curved into a smirk of his own, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

And though the wounds between you were far from healed, for the first time in weeks, the room didn’t feel so cold.

It hits like a slap, sudden and cold, pulling the breath right from your lungs.

Choso is staring at you, his eyes wide with that hollow, pitiful look you once thought was endearing. His voice is shaky as he tries to say something, anything, but you can barely hear it over the roar in your ears, the rush of blood pounding in your head. The betrayal tastes bitter in your mouth—sharp, metallic, and sour.

“Y/N, listen to me. It was just—” he starts, but you cut him off, your voice trembling but loud, louder than you ever thought it could be.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, taking a step back from him. Every inch of space between you and him feels like a mile, a chasm too deep to ever cross. “Don’t you dare tell me it was just some stupid bet.”

Choso's eyes flicker with confusion, the subtle tremor in his hands betraying the calm he tries to project. “It’s not— it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

You take a slow, trembling breath, staring at him, trying to ground yourself in the mess of emotions that are tearing you apart. Your mind is a whirlwind, flashes of memories twisting like knives in your chest. The late-night talks, the stolen kisses, the way he’d smile when he thought you weren’t looking. It was all so real, so pure.

But it wasn’t.

Your throat feels tight, your hands trembling at your sides as you finally piece it together. You’d been a bet. A joke, a wager. A way to pass the time. And worse? Everyone you called your friends—everyone you thought you knew, all those warm, intimate moments you shared—knew about it. Knew, and never once told you.

It’s impossible to swallow, the truth. How could they? How could he?

The pieces fall into place with a sickening clarity, sharp shards of realization that lodge deep in your chest. The subtle tension in the air every time you were around them. The way they’d glance at each other when you walked into the room, their smiles too tight. Too practiced.

Your stomach churns, bile rising as your thoughts spiral, the images of them—the rest of the group, the ones you thought had your back—flash before you. Megumi’s quiet looks, Nobara’s silence, Yuji’s forced cheer—they all knew. They all stood by, playing their parts. Feeding you the lies, watching as you fell deeper and deeper into Choso’s world.

Choso. His name tastes like poison now. How could you have been so stupid? So blind?

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but his apology feels like acid against your skin. His hands are outstretched, as if he could reach you, as if he could fix what’s broken. But he can’t. He never could.

“You’re sorry?” The laughter bubbles up in your throat, but it’s not joyful, not even bitter—it’s hollow. Empty. “You’re sorry? Do you even understand what you did, Choso? Do you understand what you all did?”

His lips quiver as he tries to get the words out. “I never wanted it to go this far—”

“Then why didn’t you stop it?” Your voice cracks, and it’s like a scream trying to claw its way free. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

Choso’s face contorts, a flash of panic in his eyes as he steps closer to you. “I… I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“I hate you now.” You can’t even hear your own words, the weight of them crashing down on you, but it feels so good to say. So cathartic. The relief is sharp and cold as it spreads through you.

“But I love you,” he pleads, his voice breaking. There’s desperation in his eyes now, a frantic need, like he’s begging for you to just… fix it. But there’s no fixing this. Not anymore.

You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t you dare tell me you love me when you treated me like a fucking game. How could I ever trust you again?”

Choso’s face twists, the desperation morphing into something darker, almost wounded. “You don’t mean that. Please, Y/N, please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything—just—just don’t walk away.”

But you can’t stop walking. You turn, slowly, not sparing him another glance. Not sparing anyone another glance.

Because they all knew. Every last one of them.

And they didn’t care enough to stop it.

Your footsteps echo in the hollow silence, the air thick with the weight of everything that’s broken, everything that’s ruined. Your chest is tight, the ache in your heart gnawing at you like a thousand tiny daggers. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t feel.

You don’t know how you get home, don’t know how you fall into bed, curling in on yourself, as if the space could swallow you whole and take away all the hurt.

But it doesn’t. The hurt is there, with you, like a ghost haunting your every waking thought.

They all knew.

And it doesn’t matter that they’re sorry now. It doesn’t matter that Choso is sitting in front of your door, his voice trembling through the wood as he calls your name, begging you to open up.

He’s sorry. They’re all sorry.

But it’s too late. Because in the end, you were never the one. You were never anything more than the punchline to a joke you didn’t even know you were part of.

And no amount of sorrys can take that away.

A Bet. A Dare. A Life.

The room is suffocating. You can feel the heat in your chest, in your stomach—rising, boiling. It burns you like the sharpest ache, and you can’t stop the way your breath hitches every time you inhale. This is wrong. Everything is wrong.

You should have never trusted them. Never trusted him.

It started as a harmless fling. That’s what you thought, at least. But when you looked at him, when he looked at you with that grin—so open, so honest—you could’ve sworn that maybe, just maybe, it was something more. He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t like the rest of them, the men who flitted through your life with no real intention of staying, their interests as fickle as the seasons.

But Shiu Kong was different. He was soft in his brutal honesty. He was clever, kind in his own way—he made you feel special. That’s what you thought. That’s what you told yourself, over and over again.

And now... now you were nothing more than a joke.

The words come crashing down on you, hitting like a slap to the face. "It was a bet. A dare. You were a dare." Shiu’s voice, like poison, laced with something deeper, something far more disturbing than you ever imagined.

You couldn’t have heard that right. You must be misunderstanding. His eyes, dark and unreadable, bore into yours like they always had. But there was something more behind them now. Something that wasn't there before.

“A dare?” you whisper, too stunned to make it louder, though every cell in your body screams for you to scream. To shout. You force your hand to your mouth, to keep it together, to not let it slip.

“Yeah,” he responds with that same nonchalance, the way he always spoke to you—like it was just another casual thing. “Me and the guys? We... we made a bet. Whoever could get you to fall for them, win the challenge.” His gaze flickers to the side, like he’s waiting for something, some kind of reaction.

And that’s when it hits you. Every damn thing that ever felt real, every moment you shared with him, every laugh, every quiet, stolen glance, was just... staged. It wasn’t real.

He was playing you.

Your body goes cold, a chill taking over your skin. You look around the room, your pulse quickening, and there they are—the others. The rest of the group. They’re watching. Watching you. Watching him. Like it’s all some cruel game, and you’re the only one who didn’t get the memo.

How long? How long did they know? How long had they watched you stumble, watched you let yourself believe in a lie, and said nothing?

You hate them. You fucking hate them.

"Is this... is this what you wanted?" You can feel the venom in your voice, feel the anger pouring out of you like a slow burn. "You all knew, didn’t you? You knew and said nothing. You watched me fall for him, for you, and said nothing. You watched me trust you—trust all of you—and did nothing."

A heavy silence falls. Not a single one of them meets your gaze.

Shiu’s fingers twitch at his side, like he wants to say something, but he’s scared to move. You know him. You know him well enough to see that hesitation. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t care.

"You," you sneer at him, your hands shaking now, trembling with a fury that makes it hard to stay upright. "You were the one I trusted the most. You were supposed to be different."

You feel a lump in your throat, that sickening ache of betrayal tightening like a noose. “You used me.” The words feel like knives. “You all used me.”

His eyes darken even further, but he doesn’t speak. Not even when you let the words break out, shattering the calm, composed mask you’d tried to wear for so long.

“What is it?” You laugh, bitterly. “What’s so special about me, huh? Was I just a joke to you?” Your voice cracks, but you can’t stop it. You don’t want to stop. “Was this all just a fucking joke?!”

“Y/N,” Shiu finally speaks, and his voice cracks too. You can hear the guilt in it, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

“Don’t you dare try to make this sound like it’s anything other than what it is. You used me. You all used me. All for a damn bet.” The words taste like acid on your tongue. “You made me feel like... like I mattered. You made me feel like you cared. And for what? So you could laugh at me behind my back?"

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. The room spins.

But the most painful thing? The one thing that breaks you all over again, deeper than the betrayal, deeper than the lies, is the way Shiu won’t let you leave.

You know what he’s doing before he even takes a step forward. He’s blocking the door. Like a lion protecting its kill, but you’re not his prey.

You back away, your breath quickening. “Let me out.”

“No,” he says, his voice so quiet now, so broken that it almost makes you want to tear your ears off. “I won’t let you go.”

You stare at him, the desperation in his eyes more than you can bear. “What did you think would happen, Shiu? You think I’m just going to let you walk away with this? You think you can keep me here? Like I’m some... some thing you can possess? You’re out of your mind.”

He steps closer, and you want to push him away, scream, break down, but you won’t. Not now. Not ever.

But he’s already reached for you. His fingers brush your arm, and you shudder, your body recoiling from the contact.

“I didn’t want it to go like this.” His voice cracks again, quieter. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Y/N.”

“You already did.” Your chest tightens, the words coming out as a whisper, as soft and broken as you feel. “You already did.”

You should walk away. You should turn around, tear through the door, never look back. But your feet won’t move. Not now. Not anymore. Because somehow, you’re still here.

You feel the weight of it. Every word. Every lie. It settles on your chest like an unbearable pressure, and you wonder—if you had known, would you have walked away? Would you have let them all slip through your fingers before they did this to you?

You don’t know.

But you do know one thing for sure.

You are done.

It wasn’t just that Hiruguma had lied to you.

It wasn’t just that you had been deceived, manipulated, and toyed with for weeks. It was the realization that every single person you trusted—your friends, the people you leaned on, the ones you thought had your back—had known about it. They all knew about the bet.

The words echoed in your mind, ringing like a bell of betrayal.

“I was dared to date you.”

You stared at him, still trying to process what he had just confessed. Hiruguma stood there in front of you, hands clenched by his sides, gaze trained downward, avoiding yours. There was no defensiveness, no pride in his eyes—just guilt, guilt that sank deep into the pit of his stomach.

There was nothing in his face but honesty, and yet that was the one thing that made you feel even more sick.

"You’re telling me," you whispered, a venomous laugh escaping from your throat, "that you were a bet? That everything we’ve done... that everything I’ve felt... was just some joke to you?"

Hiruguma swallowed hard, his throat constricting at your words. His voice was soft but steady when he answered. "I was dared. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you. I didn’t think I would. But… I did. It became real."

You could hear the sincerity in his voice, but it made your skin crawl. It felt like nails on a chalkboard.

A part of you, somewhere deep inside, wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that maybe this wasn’t all just some sick joke. That maybe he hadn’t done it because of the dare. That maybe, somehow, this could still work. But the other part of you, the part that still couldn’t breathe properly, the part that felt like you were drowning in an ocean of betrayal, knew better.

You’ve been played.

You clutched the hem of your shirt, fighting the tears that had already started to well up in your eyes. You had to hold it together—just a little longer. You didn’t want him to see how much he’d hurt you. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep the knife had cut. But as the anger and betrayal boiled up inside you, the words started pouring out before you could stop them.

“Are you kidding me? And what about them?” You gestured violently toward the group of friends that had always been around you—Yuji, Megumi, Nobara. You couldn’t even look at them now. “They all knew, didn’t they?”

Hiruguma’s silence said everything. He didn’t need to speak; his lowered eyes were enough to confirm what you already knew. The rest of the group had kept it from you. They all knew. They all watched. They all let you fall for this, and they did nothing.

They’re complicit.

They lied to you, too.

"Why?!" Your voice cracked. "Why would they do this? Why would you do this to me?"

You could feel the tears beginning to fall despite your best efforts to hold them back. But no matter how hard you tried, they came, and soon enough you couldn’t breathe properly. It was the worst feeling in the world—the overwhelming sensation of being so utterly deceived that you couldn’t even trust your own mind anymore.

Hiruguma stepped closer, but you backed away instinctively, your chest tightening. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I’ve always wanted you. I wanted to be with you... not because of a dare, but because I—"

“Shut up!" You snapped, your voice harsh, sharp. "Don’t you dare make this about you now. Don’t you dare."

His shoulders slumped, and his face contorted with remorse. He looked like he was physically crumbling, but it did nothing for you. All you could feel was the weight of the betrayal, pushing you deeper into the ground with every breath.

You squeezed your eyes shut, holding back the floodgates. You couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not when everything about him felt like a lie. Your thoughts were a mess—a tornado of anger, hurt, confusion, and disbelief. It felt like everything you had been living was ripped away in a single moment.

"You should’ve just left," you muttered bitterly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "You should’ve told me the truth from the start. Then maybe I wouldn’t have—" You paused, your voice breaking before you could say it. "Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen for you."

Hiruguma looked stricken, his face pale. He stepped forward again, but you didn’t budge. You weren’t sure if you wanted him to be closer or farther away. His presence was a paradox now—both a comfort and a source of pain.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything," he whispered. "But I swear, this... the bet—it doesn’t matter anymore. I want you. I love you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did, and I’m sorry for that. I’ll do anything... anything to make it right.”

You could feel him watching you, could feel his eyes on you like a weight that wouldn’t lift. But you couldn’t face him—not now. Not when everything you thought you knew had been shattered. Your thoughts screamed for clarity, but all you could do was stand there, numb, overwhelmed by the quiet ache in your chest. The emptiness where love once lived.

“You can’t just take back what you did,” you finally whispered, the words coming out hoarse. “You can’t just undo all the lies. All the people who knew—who watched me fall and did nothing.”

His eyes went wide, and he immediately looked to the others, your friends, who had been standing off to the side, lingering like ghosts in the background. “I know,” he said, voice low and broken. “I know they were wrong, too. They should have told you. I should’ve told you.”

You wiped your face again, taking a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I need time. I need space," you said, a trembling note in your voice. You were shaking all over, your emotions a storm you couldn’t control.

But deep down, as much as it hurt, as much as you hated everything that had happened, there was a part of you—small, fragile—that couldn’t completely let go. Not yet. Not when everything had been so real between you. Not when the love you felt for him had meant something, had been real for you.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, voice so quiet you almost missed it.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you closed your eyes, taking in a shaky breath.

“No,” you said after a long pause, finally looking up at him with wet eyes. “I don’t want you to leave. But we... we have to start over. From scratch. Like we’ve never met before. If we’re going to do this, it has to be all the way. No lies. No more games.”

His expression softened, and there was something in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t relief, not exactly. But it was an acknowledgment. A silent promise.

"I swear. No more games," he said, his voice steady and firm. "I’ll do whatever it takes. No more bets. Just us."

And with that, the first fragile seed of hope began to take root inside you, despite everything. You weren’t sure how long it would take for things to heal, or even if they would—but for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something real to begin.

A/N: this was wayyyyy too long, anyways yuhhh, i loved writing this! Thank you to the lovely anon who requested, i mean it, thank you to every anon who's sent me requests, y'all are too cute

Masterlist.

:)

[unauthorized-author]

i'm fairly neutral on the use of ai

[konveeart]

Summary of Art 2024 before NY's?! Crazy!! Happy Holidays~

For the last 4 years (more mindfully and successfully the last two), instead of yearly goals/ resolutions I've been setting "mindsets". Making art is a process of expressing my soul burning bright, with whatever fuels it at the time, so taking care of my body and mind has been essential in keeping the relationship healthy, happy and on the dance floor. I am pretty sure I've noted somewhere what I wanted to do this year project wise (or it was so intense it got printed on my brain), which was finish at least one project and find my answers on what it means to me to "want" and "have to". The latter is still a wip, but more on that on the DW entry under the cut, hehe~

::Quick Summary

January, February, March: Mostly messing around doodling and half-jokingly working on skull-anatomy because I was busy out of my mind studying & working on a long project || April: Project working, moved to my village to focus, played The Sims2 after over a decade, paperwork hell, streaming nights~ || May: Major win!! project finish, Convention Time! || June: Moved out & patiently building energy lvls again.. 🐚 || July: Picked up the pencil & drew a bunch of Sephiroths in my sketchbook, read books, physio </3 || August: Going on a skull-spree!! (also still a wip but I'll learn to draw faces no matter what!!) || September: Chaniartoon Fest, sketches, paintings, wips, making buttons for the first time and as if all weren't enough-- baked banana bread(s) and went off to get the Open Water cert. after so many years (／ˍ・、) || October: drawing for my friends gives me life and is the best thing I've done this month ♥ || November: con prep, back to class while simultaneously working, zine work, dog-sitting!! || December: work, zine, homework, loads loads LOADS of music?! ♥ (((*°▽°*)八(*°▽°*)))

Thank you for a "do-it-scared" year 🌱 Some kind of leap-of-faith on it's own.. ✸ Wishing everyone health & strength to overcome any challenge 2025 has in its sleeve. May you indulge in what makes you happy ♥

Fun facts:

Started reading literature this year. Had a blast (and got blasted, in multiple ways).

In one of my dives (scuba) I threw up in the sea in front of a tourist boat, those that have glass bottoms. No one will forget that at the centre. I got the reputation now.

David Wojciechowski & Victor Fritzsche - Gato was the album that carried me through January - February and you should absolutely give it a listen if you haven't yet, and if you have, listen to it again!!

I wrote a dreamwidth entry with everything I think is relevant (but also might not be). It can be be relatable though, so I'm happy to leave it out there.

[thatrandombystander]

Day 3 of I Am So Fucking Stressed.

[flwrkid14]

Love, in All its Impossible Forms

Tim Drake loves with everything he has. He always has. And maybe that’s his fatal flaw—he doesn’t know how to hold back. He throws himself into it the way he throws himself into everything else: completely, recklessly, without a second thought for his own safety.

But love, for Tim, is never simple. It comes in forms that twist and tangle, leaving scars even as it gives him something to hold onto. And if you ask him, he could probably tell you exactly what kinds of love he’s experienced.

There’s love that is doomed.

Steph was chaos, energy, and unrelenting determination wrapped in a bright smile. She was Tim’s equal and his opposite all at once, and when he loved her, he did so fiercely, wholeheartedly. She didn’t just step into his world—she tore through it, unapologetic and unstoppable, showing Tim a version of himself that didn’t have to be so calculated, so controlled.

But their lives were chaos, a whirlwind of masks and missions, and when the dust settled, there was never enough left of them to make it last. Tim loves her in a way that feels like holding sand; no matter how tightly he grips, she keeps slipping through his fingers. And maybe that’s why he held on so hard—because he knew she’d never stay. Steph was never meant to be tamed, and Tim loved her too much to try.

Even when it ends, there’s no anger, no resentment. They don’t blame each other for the way things fall apart. They don’t have to. They always knew, deep down, that no matter how much they wanted to hold on, it was never meant to last. It wasn’t about a lack of love—it was about the world they lived in, the lives they led, and the way they could never quite fit together the way they needed to.

Steph was the love that burned brightly but couldn’t last, no matter how much either of them wanted it to. She was the fire he couldn’t hold onto, the storm he couldn’t contain, and the one who left her mark on him in ways he’d never forget. They were love, doomed from the start.

Then there's love that dooms them.

Kon wasn't just Tim's best friend—he was everything. A partner in every sense of the word. Loving Kon felt like second nature, so easy and so effortless that Tim didn't realize how deeply it ran until it was too late. Until Kon was gone.

When Kon died, it destroyed Tim. Grief didn't come in waves-it came in obsessions.

Tim couldn't let go, so he didn't. He turned to stolen data and secret labs, creating clone after clone in a desperate attempt to fill the void Kon left behind

It wasn't about moving on. It wasn't about closure. It was about holding on to the only person who ever made Tim feel like he could breathe, even when it was killing him to do so.

When Kon returned, whole and alive, it should have been everything Tim had dreamed of. But the shadows of what Tim had done lingered between them. The lengths he went to, the obsession that fueled him—it left cracks in the foundation of what they once were. Kon loved Tim, he always would, but part of him wondered if he'd ever been loved for who he was, or for what Tim couldn't let himself lose.

And Tim, for all his brilliance, couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap he'd created. He oved Kon with everything he had, but love born out of desperation carried its own weight, and he wasn't sure how to lay it down.

So they stayed in the gray space between what they were and what they could have been, bound by love so fierce it hurt, but too fractured to fully mend. They were doomed by their love.

Finally, there’s love that dooms anybody else.

Danny is chaos, but not the kind that breaks Tim—it’s the kind that grounds him. Danny exists between worlds, between life and death, and yet he’s more alive than anyone Tim has ever met. He doesn’t fit neatly into any box, doesn’t follow any rules, and yet there’s something about him that feels inevitable, like gravity or the pull of the tide.

Danny doesn’t ask for Tim’s sacrifices. He doesn’t need to be saved, doesn’t want Tim to burn himself out in the name of love. Instead, Danny challenges Tim to slow down, to stop trying so hard to hold the world together and just be. With Danny, Tim learns how to live in the moment, how to breathe without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It isn’t an easy love, but it isn’t supposed to be. It’s a love that demands courage, the kind that doesn’t come from donning a cape or taking a hit for someone else. It’s the courage to be vulnerable, to stop hiding behind plans and strategies, and let someone see every cracked, raw piece of himself. Danny is relentless in breaking down Tim’s walls, not to fix him but to show him that he’s worthy of being whole.

Together, they are something untouchable. Their love is an anchor and a storm, a lighthouse and the waves crashing against the shore. It’s a love so big, so consuming, that it leaves no room for anything else.

And that’s where the doom lies.

They are the kind of love that consumes the world around them, leaving it scorched and battered in their wake. Not because they want to hurt anyone, but because their connection is so fierce, so all-encompassing, that nothing else can survive in its shadow. They are the eye of the hurricane, calm and steady, while everything outside is chaos.

It’s the kind of love that makes people ache to touch it, to understand it, even as it destroys them. The kind of love that people will write stories about and linger in though, long after the last page has turned. Love, that will echo through time in whispers and legends. But no one will ever truly understand it, because no one else could ever bear the weight of it.

Danny is the love that makes Tim believe he might deserve to be happy after all. Together, they are the love that dooms anybody else—unapologetic, overwhelming, and utterly unforgettable.

[starry-bi-sky]

mmmmmm read a disciple shen yuan/shizun luo binghe fanfic about two days ago where the first chapter was the Immortal Conference arc, and SQQ was the one who had to be pushed into the abyss (he was still the villain) except Luo Binghe was refusing and was like, lowkey losing his mind about SQQ being so close to the edge. SQQ ended up having to be the one to fall in himself because of the system's punishment system. The rest of the fic is leading up to that moment. But like, MMM i've been obsessively thinking about that first chapter for DAYS ever since.

now i've been in svsss for a grand total of *checks watch* a week. but god obsessed with that. I want to write/read a fic where disciple SQQ goes a little nuts down there. Like keep all of the things that make SQQ, SQQ, but just. Throw in a little bit more trauma in there. A little bit of a mental break. Let him go a little nuts as a treat. Just a tad unhinged. I wanna see him go, just a little, "god fuck it, i've tried so hard to change this shitty story's outcome and it feels like everything i've done has been for nothing. I'm going to die in this world no matter what I do, I've been doomed from the start, so might as well die the way I want to." and he just, breaks a little! Under all the stress.

He still retains the traits that makes shen yuan, shen yuan, like his overwhelming kindness. But he's just! yk. A little less patient. Paranoid. Jumpy. Colder. A little more aloof and closed off. A little more Shen Jiu. He's no asshole child abuser, but he was a Number One Hater in his past life and he's leaning into that old habit a little more now.

(On a totally coincidental not-at-all related note, there's not enough SJ-and-SY-are-the-same-people fics out there that i've found. This is totally unrelated...)

The Endless Abyss turns the mind into an over-sharpened blade, and SQQ is both fascinated and perhaps a little excited to explore a place that doesn't have a lot of info on it in the mortal realm, but still terrified out of his mind. And he's no Luo Binghe, he doesn't have the sheer brute strength and power to just bulldoze his way through, so he has to be a lot more sneaky and cunning if he wants to survive.

The fic itself role-swapped LBH and SQQ so that SQQ was the half-demon (which lowkey fucks) and LBH the human, but I'm equally-if-not-more obsessed with the idea that LBH remains the half-heavenly demon and SQQ the human. If only because I keep thinking about SQQ befriending some demons (particularly and specifically a group of succubi) and they grow very attached to this Human Cultivator so through magic plot stuff they create some kind of seal/illusion/talisman that makes SQQ appear as a demon because a human cultivator in the endless abyss may as well be the equivalent of putting a giant neon target on your back.

And iirc Shen Jiu was taught demonic cultivation by that one guy(?? i've only been here a week so im not caught up in ALL of the lore yet) so that could totally happen here.

(On the other end of the realms, poor Shizun Luo Binghe is just. losing his fucking mind over losing his most precious and beloved disciple. About .5 seconds from burning down the peaks himself. somebody sedate him.)

The Endless Abyss sucks and SQQ is having a really terrible time and can feel himself going lowkey mad, but also holy shit look at all this WORLD-BUILDING. look at all this flora and fauna, and oh if he had the equipment for it he'd be writing all of this down. ALL OF IT. He was kinda-sorta-already planning on never leaving the Abyss as some sort of fucked up self-exile and self-preservation thing, but now he might? actually just?? never leave if he can help it, like he lowkey likes it down here.

anyways the next time anyone ever sees SQQ again he's got hair so long its almost touching the ground and he's either in rags and half-feral or he's been completely dolled up by his adoptive succubi sisters and still about three seconds from biting anyone who tries to touch him. (he's also lowkey trying to book it back down to the abyss even if he has desperately missed all of his friends and shizun)

[24-7fandombrain]

A list of things I'd want to see in a possible Great Ace Attorney 3 (MAJOR spoilers for the first two games, especially Resolve):

A case based on The Final Problem (I imagine Sholmes being the victim and then dramatically bursting through the courtroom doors still alive just as a guilty verdict is about to be passed)

Related to ^, a TGAA version of Moriarty

UNrelated to ^, a TGAA version of Mrs. Hudson (genuinely if this is the only thing on my list that ever becomes canon I'll be happy)

A flashback case to Sholmes and Mikotoba's partnership where we also get to know Genshin and Klint (and younger designs for all of them (except Gregson, he should stay exactly the same von Karma-style))

Kazuma as a defendant (preferably in the final case to bring the trilogy full circle)

Van Zieks gets to actually use the sword he always carries (in my head it's either to dual Kazuma or protect Ryunosuke)

A dance of deduction where Sholmes actually gets everything right the first time and it genuinely upsets him that now Ryunosuke can't dance with him

Van Zieks being a good uncle to Iris

More backstory about Susato's mother

The return of Ryutaro Naruhodo (I think it would be funny if the first case is Ryunosuke getting arrested again and Susato ends up defending him)

Soseki gets arrested again

Kazuma and Van Zieks prosecute alternating cases

BRING HOSONAGA BACK AS A MAJOR CHARACTER PLEASE CAPCOM I'M LITERALLY BEGGING YOU

Susato gets arrested to complete the Maya parallel

Sholmes winds up having to testify in court. It does not go well

Ryunosuke walks away from what should be a life-threatening situation with a mild injury Phoenix-style

Ryunosuke wanting to but struggling to trust Kazuma again and wondering if he ever even really knew him in the aftermath of finding out he was an assassin

There's a murder on the SS Burya (for real this time) and Ryunosuke checks for the victim's pulse himself and Sholmes just throws his hands up in the air and yells, "It was one time!"

Attachment issues!Ryunosuke

Add more in the reblogs I'd love to hear other people's ideas for a third game

[bombuni]

contains: roommates!yungi x gn!reader, pre-poly (?), yes they r in love with u and each other yes they have no idea what to do about it

“They’re gonna be so mad,”

Yunho turns to Mingi, who’s all too casually chewing on his sandwich you made him, with a swiftness that causes his neck to jolt. He purses his lips in frustration and furrows his brow so Mingi gets the message that his input is not needed.

Mingi keeps chewing and watching Yunho fumble with your now bleach stained shirt. Your favorite shirt, to be exact. All he’d done was put your laundry to wash and now he feels like disaster is imminent. He’s kneeling on the floor of your guys’ living room-on the patterned rug you bought-completely distraught and still in his pajamas. He’s been dealing with this predicament all morning, suffering by himself and trying like hell to get rid of the big, ugly thing. He’s starting to think it’s taunting him.

Yunho turns back to the shirt he’s flattened out on the floor, “What do I do?”

Mingi sits back on the couch and turns the TV on to his current watch, humming whatever song he heard on the radio as if his roommate isn’t 2 feet away and practically breaking down. Yunho runs his hands over the front of your shirt again, like he’s been doing for the past hour, as if that’ll make the giant mark disappear. The clock ticks and he’s all too aware of the time of your arrival slowly inching closer and closer.

Mingi internally giggles at Yunho’s disheveled hair, “Serves you right for touching their stuff,”

Yunho pouts from the floor, “I was trying to help them out!”

“So why didn’t you do my laundry too?”

Yunho pauses for a few seconds before turning to scoop your shirt up in his arms, carefully as if it’s not already tainted by himself, “You’re useless,” he stands up quickly and exasperated, turning back around with an accusing finger, “and you haven’t been working overtime. That’s why I didn’t do your laundry.”

“Hey!” Mingi pouts and stands with purpose, just as irritated as Yunho now. He wants to poke fun at Yunho some more, but he spies your lit hot buttered rum candle out of the corner of his eye. The one you lit this morning before you left for work so the house would smell nice for your roommates. He spies the neatly organized coat rack by the door, the one where he always haphazardly throws his jacket on but finds it neatly back in its designated spot the next morning. He spies the second wrapped sandwich left on the counter, the one you made specifically for him.

Yunho’s already gone into the kitchen to try, for the millionth time, to wash out the stain once Mingi’s had the little revelation that he’s so endeared by everything you do for them, or just you in general. He figures Yunho’s already realized this a while ago, based on his unrelenting efforts to save your favorite shirt. God, you haven’t even told them outright that it’s your favorite shirt but they both just know because of how often they see you wearing it. Mingi’s just thinking over every little detail about you he’s subconsciously stored in his brain, shelved right next to every little detail about Yunho.

He stands next to the brown-haired panicked man by the sink, now ready to double his efforts and put his all into saving your shirt. He starts scrubbing like the stain owes him money. He gets a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach now, standing next to a pleading Yunho and your material under his fingers. Mingi feels fully at home, servicing both of you, but he doesn’t want to unpack that now. Yunho feels a softness blooming in him, watching how focused Mingi is getting, and the softness grows until he feels like it’s going to burst out of him like the cotton fluff in a teddy bear. A knock on the front door takes him out of it.

They both look at each other with wide eyes, panic rising as the lock keeps clicking and the door creaks open. Yunho shakes the shirt wildly in a last, stupid attempt to magically get the stain off and Mingi bites his fingernails in anxiousness. Waiting, guiltily, to let you find them both like kids caught stealing out of the cookie jar.

“Hey,” your voice echoes in the kitchen as you casually walk in and unpack your lunchbox. It’s eerie because of the out of character silence. Usually you’re hounded by Yunho asking how your day was and Mingi complaining to you about whatever he wants to that day. They’re turned away from you, standing at the sink and fiddling with a cloth in their hands. The guilt is hanging in the air, almost contaminating you too. It’s so clearly written on Mingi’s pouting face every time he looks at you out of the corner of his eye and you don’t really have to wait to have your suspicions confirmed.

You lean on the counter and cross your arms, “Ok, what did you two do?”

They slowly turn to you, “Nothing, we ju-“

“Yunho got a bleach stain on your favorite shirt.”

You both look at Mingi, Yunho turning with a betrayed look on his face, “What? You shouldn’t have done their laundry without permission,”

You walk in between where they stand at the sink, taking the shirt into your hands and unfolding it until you spy the splotch. Yunho twirls his hands and watches you with puppy dog eyes, curling in on himself as if he’s preparing for a scolding. Mingi thinks he’s adorably pathetic, falling for his wide eyes even though they aren’t directed at him.

You hum and shrug, “I’ll just use this as a sleep shirt from now on.”

Yunho splutters and stands tall, offense overtaking his features and once again making Mingi the scapegoat to all of his problems, “You said they’d be totally mad at me!”

Mingi has a dumb smile on his face as Yunho keeps blabbering and smacking his side. You blow out the hot buttered rum candle on the counter, watching as the two keep battling and calling to you to ‘join their side.’ It turns out like always, with Yunho pinning Mingi to the couch and their ‘fight’ dissolving into soft giggles. It’s quiet for a moment as they catch their breath, before you come crashing onto Yunho’s back and forcing him to topple over Mingi. The room is loud again, filled with complaints and grumbling but none of you move. Mingi shifts so you’re both comfortably on top of him. His arms hardly fit around two bodies and Yunho’s practically falling off the edge of the couch but he’d rather die than purposefully leave the feeling of Mingi’s chest rising and falling under him, the feeling of your gentle hand running over the spots on his face. It’s another Thursday night in your crowded home and you can find love in every nook and cranny.

bom note: love domesticity hope i can try it sometime

[stevesjockstrap]

Time After Time

@steddiemicrofic prompt ‘time’ wordcount 485

@steddiebingo square ‘help’

Rated T(?) • read on ao3 • OCD Steve, established relationship • skip if you’re sensitive to panic attacks

Eddie could tell the second he got into their apartment something was wrong.

There was always something playing, a record, a tape, a movie in the background. His boyfriend would even settle for the radio, but he said he needed the background noise, or his thoughts would spiral out of control.

Kicking off his shoes at the door, hurriedly placing them side by side next to Steve’s, he listened closely to the worrying silence.

“Babe?” He called, trying to suppress his shiver as it echoed through the space.

Quickly going from room to room, he finally found his partner crouched over, holding his head, breathing fast.

“Oh, Stevie,” he breathed. Even his low voice made Steve jump and he felt worse. “It’s alright, it’s only me. Can you tell me where you got stuck?”

Eddie had learned quickly as he’d courted the man that everything needed to be ‘just right,’ sometimes Steve himself didn’t know how it needed to be right, or more importantly why it would ‘feel wrong.’

“The stupid light. There’s not enough time between,” the words rushed out of him. “O-or it’s making the wrong noise, when I click it off. I just can’t do it any more times, Eddie,” he started sobbing into his chest.

Eddie could only nod, rubbing across his back with a flat hand. Even this worked up, he could feel Steve’s own fingers tapping against his arm, always in sets of three.

“I got you, darlin’. You want me to try? Or we can throw the whole lamp out the window,” he offered.

That at least pulled Steve away from his chest, his face red and tear stained. “No, I love this lamp. It’s just, I can’t-“

“Can’t get it just right. Well let me do it wrong for a second, yeah? You know how much I love being wrong. How many times did you do?”

Steve huffed a small laugh. “I did three, of course.” Things usually had to be in multiples of three, sometimes five worked but only occasionally. “It just didn’t click right, it didn’t feel done. I feel like I’ve been doing it for hours.”

“Okay my precious, let me give it whirl then.”

Steve watched warily as he went over to the lamp, as if it would turn and attack them. This was the worst he’d been lately. He wondered if something had set him off, something completely unrelated to this lamp debacle.

He twisted the lamp switch once, turning it off, then again to turn it on. Steve shook his head, so he did it two more times.

“Okay, let me try now,” Steve traded places with him, and he held him close, tucking his chin over his shoulder to watch.

Taking a slow deep breath, he finally reached out and spun the switch. Off on off. “There. You did it.”

“No, you did it. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

dividers credit @/cafekitsune

[goblinontour]

Consequences

is there such a thing as too much love?

warnings: dad!alex (well, not quite), fluff, smut, raw fucking, ya know

word count: 7k

He had his eyes closed. He should’ve been dreaming. Instead, he was thinking of you. Not just you, but the spaces you occupied, the way you breathed air and made it yours. He wasn’t sure if it was obsession or something softer, something quieter but more profound, something that stretches across the distance between the two of you and doesn’t snap. Either way, it kept him awake, even now, as the rest of the world surrendered to sleep.  

They told him not to wait for it. Don’t wait for the world to align itself, for the stars to blink their approval. Create it yourself, they’d said. Your world. Alone. Stand alone. Build it brick by brick, carve it out of the nothingness. Then the love will come to you. Then it will come. But they never warned him what it would feel like when it did. How it would crash into him, fierce and unrelenting, how it would unravel him piece by piece until he wasn’t sure which fragments of himself belonged anymore.  

The day you met, the wind howled like it had something to say. A storm was caught in its lungs, a promise in its teeth. It yanked at his coat, bit at his neck, and wrapped itself around the moment like a ribbon tied to a gift neither of you knew you were giving. Later, he’d wonder if it wasn’t the universe itself exhaling, breathing out its relief as he whispered, under his breath, finally.

You were like that — something that wasn’t supposed to be here but was. A misplaced star, maybe. Or a stray thread tugging at the edges of his life, unravelling him just to see if you could put him back together in a new way. And he let you. Every time. No questions asked. Somehow, you always did it right, reassembling him into something unfamiliar yet more whole. A new version of himself, one he didn’t know he’d been waiting to meet.  

He hadn’t expected it to be so easy for you. The way you looked at him — steady, like you weren’t afraid of what you might find — left him feeling exposed. But it didn’t stop him from leaning closer. You had this way of throwing things off balance. He let you throw him too.  

You wandered into his orbit with the kind of quiet that still felt loud and changed everything without saying a word. And suddenly, colors tasted better on his tongue just from the sight of them, without even taking a bite. The sound of rain became music, no rhythm, no melody, just noise, and yet it sang.  

He swore — God, he swore — he could fly. Not in the grand, sweeping sense of it, but in the way a bird feels the wind cradle its wings, like gravity might just loosen its grip if he asked nicely enough. That’s what it was like with you. Effortless. Dangerous, too, because he knew he was risking the fall every time.  

There was something about you that turned the ordinary into something else entirely. The way you looked at the world — curious, amused, like everything was both a puzzle and a punchline — made him want to see it the way you did. And sometimes he could.  

He noticed the little things because of you. The sound of a door creaking open, the way sunlight moved across a room, the way your hands spoke a language he didn’t know he understood. You taught him how to look, not just at the world but at himself. And he hated it, at first. How vulnerable it made him feel. How much it made him want to be better.  

But then there were moments when it felt worth it. Like when you smiled at him — not just with your mouth, but with your whole face, your whole being. Like the universe itself was bending toward him, just for a second, just for the briefest of moments.  

He wondered if you knew what you were doing to him. If you knew how completely you’d taken up residence in his thoughts, in the spaces between them, in the cracks he’d refused to acknowledge until you. You were there now, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to leave or if he wanted you to stay forever.  

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t need to know, that the knowing wouldn’t change anything. But the truth was, he wanted to understand it — this thing between you. This force that felt too big to name, too wild to tame, and yet somehow quiet enough to fit in the silence between his breaths.  

You threw him off balance. And he let you.  

Because somehow, in the chaos, you always managed to put him back. Differently, but perfectly. Each time. No exceptions.  

And if he had to fall apart a thousand times just to feel this way again, he’d do it. Without hesitation. Without regret.  

Because with you, even the falling felt like flying.

There was silence and peace and dreams. Dreams of possibly him or possibly something else entirely — though most probably him. It was always him, even if you couldn’t be sure when the dream dissolved into fragments the moment your eyes opened. You could never recall them when you woke, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. And this time, any hope of clinging to the memory of it was stolen by the sensation of something — someone — poking gently at your eyes.  

It was light, barely a touch, but the area was sensitive enough that it startled you awake. You blinked against the soft intrusion, vision blurry. But then you saw him, and suddenly, you didn’t mind.  

He was leaning over you, his face framed by soft curls and morning light. His smile was small but unmistakable, curling at the edges like it had nowhere else to go but wider. His finger was still hovering close to your face. Caught in the act.  

“You’re so cute when you sleep.” 

You frowned, not because you were upset, but because compliments always made you feel like you were being caught off guard, like a spotlight had been aimed directly at you. “Then why wake me up?” you murmured, your voice still heavy with sleep.  

“I didn’t mean to.” He tilted his head, and the way he said it was genuine but not regretful. Unapologetic in the way he always was. “You’re cute when you’re awake too.”  

Your nose scrunched instinctively, an automatic reaction you couldn’t control. You weren’t sure if it was because of the compliment or the sleepiness still clouding your mind, but either way, you turned your face slightly, almost embarrassed.  

And he laughed — soft, breathy, like he couldn’t help himself. The sound of it filled the room, made the silence feel alive again. He reached out with that same finger, brushing against your scrunched nose as if to smooth it out.  

“Don’t do that.” he teased, but his voice had softened.  

You closed your eyes for a moment, scrunching them too, tightly shut as if to escape him, but you could feel him leaning closer. It was a subtle shift, but you noticed it immediately — the warmth of him inching toward you, the space between you shrinking with every second.  

And then he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin mixing with your own. Your eyes fluttered open just slightly, enough to catch the way his gaze softened, how he looked at you like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.  

Maybe this was better than any dream you could’ve had. 

His thoughts tangled and unraveled in waves as he watched you. Watched you like he was trying to memorize every detail — the way your eyelashes fanned across your cheek, the way the light kissed your skin before he could, the soft part of your lips as you exhaled in quiet breaths. There was a gentleness to you in that moment, the kind of softness that made his chest ache. It wasn’t just beauty, though there was plenty of that. It was something more, something that couldn’t be captured in words or paintings or songs. And then he thought of nothing at all, because the need — the want — was too loud, too consuming.  

The longer he looked, the more the thought rose in him. It wasn’t impulsive, exactly — it was inevitable, a truth he couldn’t hold back any longer.  

“Kiss me.” 

You hadn’t moved a bone, a muscle, hadn’t even flinched or twitched in surprise, and there was no hesitation in your eyes. No question. There was no other choice but yes. In the stillness of your body, there was an answer.  

And in that moment, his chest swelled. Delight, relief, something brighter and bigger than both. His gaze flicked down to your lips, his own puckered, and for a second, he looked younger, freer, like all the weight he carried with him had been set aside in favour of this one, perfect moment.  

When he kissed you, he moved slowly at first, his lips brushing yours, feather-light, testing, savoring, like he was afraid to rush and ruin it. But the hesitation didn’t last long. It melted away as soon as he felt you leaning into him, your warmth meeting his, your lips parting just enough to let him in. But then you responded, tilting just slightly toward him, and that was all the invitation he needed.  

He tilted his head, his hand rising to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against the curve of your cheek. Every second of this must be engraved somewhere in his memory — how you felt, how you tasted, how you leaned into him like you too were falling and he was the only one to catch you.  

How could humans possibly be solitary creatures? How could they bear to live untouched when the dip of every neck and the curve of every palm seemed sculpted for connection, for closeness? The hollow of his hand fit against your face as though it had been waiting for this, for you. And in the way your cheek softened against his palm, like you were surrendering, he felt the answer to a question he hadn’t even known he was asking.  

His fingers traced lightly along the edge of your jaw, as though mapping something sacred, and it occurred to him — suddenly, achingly — that this was what people were made for. To hold and be held. To press themselves into the spaces of someone else and find that they fit. That they belonged.  

And as he kissed you, he thought maybe you knew this too. Maybe you’d always known, and that’s why you leaned into him so naturally, like the world itself had softened and settled just to make room for this. 

For you and for him. Together.

“Mhm…” he murmured.  

You pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “What?” you whispered.  

He stayed close, his forehead brushing lightly against yours, his lips curved in a lazy, lopsided smile. “I woke up wanting to kiss you.” The simplest truth.  

And then he kissed you again, slower, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t want to stop. Like maybe, if he kept kissing you, he’d never have to.

Lips lingered on yours for a moment longer before he pulled back, just slightly. He couldn’t bear to move too far away. His fingers were still on your face, his thumb stroking gently along your cheekbone, a touch so light it felt more like a memory than a moment.  

“You once told me,” he murmured, quiet, like a secret being shared in the dark, “that the human eye is God’s loneliest creation.”  

You blinked slowly, still caught in the haze of sleep, of him, and his closeness. “Yeah.” you said softly, the word almost swallowed by the air between you.  

He tilted his head slightly, his lips grazing your temple, more instinct than intention, drawn there by some magnetic pull. “I don’t believe that.” he said, muffled against your skin.  

“God?” you asked.  

He laughed with a quiet exhale. “That too.” he admitted, brushing his nose against your hairline. You couldn’t help it — you laughed, and he smiled against you.  

“But…” His hand moved, slipping from your cheek to your jaw, his fingers tracing the curve there, trailing down your neck with the lightest pressure. “But…how so much of the world passes through the pupil, and it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, just as empty.”  

Words sank. And for a moment you couldn’t respond. He didn’t seem to notice, his lips brushing a kiss along the curve of your jaw, so gentle it almost tickled. His other hand found your waist, resting there with no real purpose except to feel you beneath his palm.  

You swallowed hard. “That’s…sad.”  

“Yeah.” he murmured,  grazing your skin again, this time at the edge of your collarbone where your shirt had slipped just slightly. “But I don’t think it has to be. Not when there’s this.”  

His hand tightened, just slightly, at your waist. A squeeze. His fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, pulling you just a fraction closer. His other hand stayed at your neck, thumb pressing gently at the hollow of your throat, like he could feel the rhythm of your pulse and was trying to match it with his own.  

Everywhere he touched felt like both too much and not enough. He seemed to be following some invisible thread that connected you both, pulling him closer, closer, closer. His lips pressed to your shoulder, his thumb brushed the curve of your rib, his fingers slipped to the back of your neck, tangling lightly in your hair.  

You felt his breath as he leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your bottom lip, soft and slow, trying to draw out the moment forever.  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t think the eye is lonely.” he said. “Not when it has this. Not when it has you.” And before you could answer, his lips found yours again, more sure this time. 

He pulled back just as slowly, resting his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns along the curve of your waist. You opened your eyes and you forgot what words even were. His eyes held you there, heavy and unmoving, and you felt it — something alive and raw and impossible to name. Staring into him might undo you completely.  

“Maybe if we stare into each other’s eyes long enough,” you murmured, “they’ll reflect into a supernova.”  

You said it to lighten the air, to make him smile, to pull him back into something playful and safe. But he didn’t laugh. There wasn’t even a flicker of amusement on his face. He blinked once, and when he looked at you again, there was something there that made your stomach flip.  

“Maybe.” he said softly, and he wasn’t joking. Not even a little. “You think I’m joking.” he said, his breath warm against your mouth. “I’m not.”  

The way he said it sent a shiver through you, not because it was absurd but because you believed him too. The quiet in his voice, the steadiness in his gaze, the way his hand slid from your waist to your jaw, holding you gently, made you feel like the impossible wasn’t so far out of reach.  

“I know.” 

His touch wandered everywhere and nowhere all at once. He didn’t know where to hold you because there wasn’t a single part of you he didn’t want to touch.  

“Maybe.” he murmured again, quieter this time, like the word was for him, not for you. “Maybe we already have.”  

Heavy and electric, and you couldn’t tell if it was the room spinning or just you. All you knew was the way he was looking at you — like the supernova had already started, like the light was already spilling out of both of you, unstoppable.

His eyes were hungry. Not the kind of hunger that could be sated with a kiss, or even a touch, but something deeper, raw and untamed. It wasn’t desperation — it was desire, pure and unfiltered, like he’d been holding himself back for too long and now the dam was cracking.  

His lips were still parted, flushed from the kisses you’d already given him, but there was something else there now. Something darker. Lust, thick and heavy, dripping from him like honey. You could feel it in the way his hands twitched against you, in the way his chest rose and fell faster, like he was trying to keep control but failing.  

So you starved him a bit longer.  

You leaned back just slightly, enough to create space, enough to make him feel the loss of you. His hands followed instinctively, one on your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck, but you didn’t let him close the distance. Not yet.  

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and pleading, but you held your ground, tilting your head just enough to make it clear this was your game. You watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, like he was preparing to speak but couldn’t find the words.  

“Please.” he murmured finally, his voice rough, hoarse, like it had been dragged through gravel.  

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t let it show. “Deprivation brings out our inner animal.” you said softly.  

His grip tightened on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you gasp. His gaze was molten now, his hunger bleeding.  

“Is that what you want?” he asked, low and dangerous, barely holding himself back. “To see me lose control?”  

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You leaned in just enough that your breath ghosted against his lips, close enough that he could almost taste you. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, his resolve cracking, but you pulled back before he could close the gap.  

You wanted him wild.  

And when he opened his eyes again, there it was — the animal, unleashed. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping you harder, pulling you flush against him. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so your neck was exposed to him.  

“You want wild?” he growled, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below your ear. His teeth grazed the spot lightly, enough to make your breath hitch, enough to send a spark shooting through you. “Careful what you ask for.”  

His mouth was on you then, hot and demanding, trailing along your jaw, your throat, down to the curve of your shoulder. Rougher. Needier. His lips and teeth and tongue marked you in ways that felt dangerous.  

You gasped, your hands finding their way to his chest, his shoulders, clawing at him without meaning to. He groaned at the sensation, a deep sound that rumbled through his chest and into yours.  

And when he finally kissed you again — fully, deeply — it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was everything he’d been holding back, all his hunger, all his need, pouring into you.  

It was wild. Exactly the way you wanted him.

Balance was easy. Everywhere else. In your day, in your mind, in your carefully crafted world where everything had its place. But not with him. Not with you. Together, you tipped the scales every time. Because balance required restraint, and restraint didn’t exist here.  

You both wanted all of it. All of him, all of you, all the time, every time. No measured doses, no patience. Just hunger, mutual and endless, spilling over like it had nowhere else to go but into each other.  

A hand cupped your cheek, firm but tender, grounding you even as it made you feel like you were floating. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, his fingers splaying out to cradle you. But the other hand — that was something else entirely.  

It slid down your side, slowly, before finding the curve of your breast. His palm was big, hot, and unrelenting as it pressed against you, his fingers dragging just so over the fabric covering your nipple. It was barely a touch, but it set you alight, your back arching instinctively into him.  

“You’re shaking.” he murmured, edged with satisfaction.  

“You’re irresistible.” you managed, breathy and uneven.  

He chuckled, low and quiet, his lips curving against your skin. “I know.”  

“Do you?” you said, trying to sound exasperated but failing when his thumb brushed over you again, teasing and firm all at once. “Because you-”  

“Did I tell you,” he interrupted, suddenly conversational, like you weren’t both teetering on the edge of something consuming, “that I had the weirdest dream last night?”  

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”  

“Dream.” he repeated, trailing maddeningly slow kisses down your neck. “I was on a beach. Except it wasn’t really a beach. There was no sand. Just water. Endless water. And fish, flying through the air.”  

You laughed despite yourself, your fingers curling into his shoulders. “Flying fish? Seriously?”  

“Yeah.” he said. “But they weren’t normal fish. They had wings. Big ones. Like hawks.”  

You shook your head, laughing softly. “I can’t tell if that’s poetic or just bizarre.”  

“Both…you know me.” he said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. His hand, still on your breast, gave a gentle squeeze, dragging your attention back to the moment. “But I woke up thinking about it. Wondering what it meant.”  

“Maybe it means you’re going insane.” you teased, trying to steady your breathing as his thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over the fabric.  

“Or maybe,” he said, his voice dropping again, “it means I was dreaming about you.”  

The sudden shift in his tone made your laughter catch in your throat. “Me?”  

“You.” he confirmed, leaning in again. “You’re the water. The endless part. The thing I can’t get enough of.”  

“That’s ridiculous.” you whispered.  

“Is it?” he murmured. “Why else would I wake up wanting to kiss you? Tell me it doesn’t make sense.”  

“I can’t.” you admitted, your voice barely audible.  

He smiled against your skin, his hand sliding from your breast to your waist, holding you. “Thought so.”  

There was silence for a moment, heavy and charged, before you broke it. “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t…you?”  

He paused, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you. “If I weren’t me?”  

“Yeah.” you said. “Like, if you weren’t…you know. This.”  

He laughed, fingers tightening on your waist. “I’d be a fisherman.”  

“A fisherman?” you repeated, incredulous.  

“Yeah.” he said, his grin widening. “Out at sea. Catching fish. Flying ones, obviously.”  

You rolled your eyes, your laughter bubbling up again. “You’re ridiculous.”  

“And yet,” he said as his lips found yours, “here you are. Laughing with me. Touching me. Wanting me.”  

“Don’t let it go to your head.” you muttered, but it was much too unconvincing.  

“Too late.” 

And just like that, you were back where you started — off balance, undone, completely at his mercy. But you didn’t mind. Not even a little.

He was the kind of man who understood the subtle difference between heat and warmth. He knew how to be both, how to burn without consuming, how to hold you close without smothering. His touch was calculated, precise, but it felt instinctive, natural, like he’d known your body long before he’d ever laid a hand on it.  

His hand moved on your breast again, his fingers tightening slightly, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Tell me how it feels.” he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.  

“It feels…” you started, your voice trailing off as he rolled your nipple gently between his fingers.  

“It feels?” he pressed.  

“Good.” you admitted, the word tumbling out of you. “Too good.”  

He smiled then, not just with his mouth but with his whole body, like he was basking in the effect he had on you. “That’s the point, baby.” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.  

And then his hand left your cheek, sliding down your neck, your shoulder, until it joined the other. He was everywhere again, his hands roaming, exploring, mapping out every inch of you with the kind of care that felt almost reverent. But it wasn’t gentle. Not entirely.  

“Look at me.” he said suddenly. Your eyes fluttered open, and when you met his gaze, it was like the air had been sucked out of the room. “I want all of you. Every part. Every thought. Every breath. Don’t hold anything back from me.”  

And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Because you wanted the same thing. All of him. All the time.

He took your shirt off, slow and unhurried. The fabric pooled somewhere behind you, forgotten, and he leaned in, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin.  

“I love breathing you.” he’d told you once, the words so simple yet so heavy they’d stayed with you. He was doing that now, his chest rising and falling against yours, his lips brushing your collarbone as though he was inhaling you, drawing you in, needing you to fill every corner of him.  

His hands moved with that same steady rhythm, skimming down your sides, tracing the curves, writing something only he and you could understand. He spoke to your body rhythmically, each touch a sentence, each kiss a line of poetry. He didn’t rush. He didn’t falter. It was with ease. He knew every word, every movement, by heart.  

“You’re beautiful.” 

“You’ve said that before.” you whispered, your voice barely audible.  

“I’ll say it again.” he said simply, grazing the hollow of your throat. “Every day, if you’ll let me.”  

You didn’t respond with words. You tilted your head back, giving him more space, more of you, and his lips followed the silent invitation, moving down, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin along your chest.  

He whispered something then, something you couldn’t catch. “What did you say?” you asked, your voice shaky.  

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. “I said,” he repeated, “you’re going to ruin me.”  

“Me? You’re the one-”  

His hands moved again, cutting you off, his fingers brushing the underside of your boob. “You.” he said again, his voice firm this time, like a declaration.  

He spoke to your body, and somehow his whispers made you scream — not with noise but with feeling, with the way your whole being seemed to vibrate, caught in the current of him. You never did understand how he did it, how his voice could unravel you with nothing but a murmur, a word, a sigh.  

You never cared to, either.  

So long as he’d — “Please” — keep talking.  

And he did. His words came in waves, washing over you, soft and relentless. Compliments, confessions, half-formed thoughts spilling from him like he couldn’t keep them in.  

“You feel like heaven.” 

He murmured, his lips brushing your shoulder.  

“My little trouble.” 

He teased, his hands skimming down your sides.  

“You’re everything.” 

He whispered, his voice breaking just slightly. 

And each word, each syllable, sank into you, filling the spaces you hadn’t even known were empty. Arching into him, holding him closer, whispering back with every touch, every gasp, every shudder.  

You didn’t need words. He understood you just fine.

The routine of it never got boring. Same steps every time, same heat every time. The way his hands found your body, the way your body responded like it was made for this — for him. Never stale, never cold. It always took your breath away, the way his body would talk for him when words weren’t enough. Like it did now. Automatic, instinctive. Clothes off, parts touching, skin to skin, deeper than deep.  

Penetrating.  

“Oh…” you gasped, the sound escaping before you could catch it.  

“Oh…” he echoed, his voice vibrating against your ear.  

Just as good as the first time. Just as good as the best.  

His hands tangled with your pillow, gripping it because he just needed something to hold on to. Yours roamed over his back, your nails raking down his sensitive skin, leaving traces, marks, scratches. Little reminders that this happened, that you were here, that he was yours.  

“So tight.” he murmured. Agrowl, a confession, a prayer.  

“So big.” you praised, your words coming out breathless, like they’d been pulled from the depths of you.  

He moaned at that, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers through you. Without thought, your body responded, contracting around him, pulling him in, holding him there. It was heaven on earth, this give and take, this rhythm you’d perfected together.  

The pure, seductive nature of eye contact. The kind that never breaks.  

It was impossible to look away, impossible to do anything but drown in him. Your breath hitched, your hands clutching at him, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between you.  

People don’t say “the eyes are the doors to the soul” for nothing. You could see everything in his — the hunger, the devotion, the way he was completely lost in you, with you. And you knew he could see the same in yours.  

Your lovemaking was slow and patient, yet filled with an intensity that made your head spin. It wasn’t about chasing an ending — it was about this. About feeling. About being as close to him as humanly possible. About holding him and being held, about losing yourself and finding him in the process.  

It was the best way to start a day.  

The absolute best way to fuck.  

“Harder?” he asked.  

“Yeah.” you moaned.  

He shifted then, adjusting his angle, his pace, his intensity. His hips moved against yours with more force, more urgency, and the sound that tore from your throat was pure, unadulterated pleasure.  

“Harder?” he asked again.  

“Yes.” you whispered, then said it louder, breathier, “Yes, please.”  

Alex grinned, slow and cocky, the kind of grin that made you want to kiss him and slap him in equal measure. He didn’t make you wait long, though, shifting his hips and giving you exactly what you asked for. The first thrust had your head tipping back, and he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your exposed throat.  

“You’re so polite.” he teased, his breath hot against your skin. “Always asking so nicely.”  

“Shut up.” you countered, and his laugh turned into a groan as you clenched around him, just to make your point. “You’re cute.” you said, because you couldn’t help it.  

He rolled his eyes, but the grin didn’t leave his face. “Cute?”  

“The cutest.” you confirmed, teasing, but there was truth in it. He was the cutest thing you’d ever seen, and you were sure it would be the death of you one day.  

“Cute.” he repeated, as though testing the word. Then he shook his head, leaning down until your foreheads touched. 

And he kissed you again, slow and deep, and you sighed into it, your hands slipping around his neck to pull him closer. But impatience was building, a steady drumbeat in your veins that wouldn’t be ignored.  

“You feel…” he started, his voice breaking, his forehead pressing against yours as his thrusts slowed just slightly to drag out the moment. “My God, baby…you feel like everything.”  

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair. “Don’t stop.” you whispered against his lips.  

“Never.” he promised, his hands sliding under you, holding you tighter, pulling you closer. “Never.” 

“More.” you begged. Or demanded. Or pleaded. Or somewhere in between. The word came out broken, trembling, desperate. How much more of him could there possibly be? He was already everywhere. Over you, under you, inside you, wrapped around you in ways that felt almost cosmic. And yet, somehow, he delivered.  

He gave himself to you more.  

It felt illegal, this level of connection. Like there was some universal law being broken, some boundary being shattered, some line you weren’t supposed to cross. This is too much, you thought, even as your body cried for more, for everything. It was too much. And still not enough. Never enough.  

“Baby.” he groaned, his voice cracking. He was unraveling in your arms. “I’m gonna come.”  

“Do it.” you whispered, your voice shaking with anticipation, your legs tightening around him, holding him to you.  

“God-” he choked out, his hips stuttering as his movements became frenzied. “I’m gonna fill you up-”  

Heaven. The words were heaven to your ears, a promise and a plea all at once. It felt obscene to think it, but you felt it, and he felt it, and that was all you needed. No logic, no explanation. Just this.  

And then he was gone.  

His body stiffened, his head dropping to your shoulder as his breath hitched, caught in his throat. He groaned, vibrating through you as his hips pressed flush against yours, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could feel it, the way his body gave in, the way he let go, spilling into you with a force that felt like surrender.  

It was warm, searing, a flood that made you gasp, made your body tighten around him instinctively, pulling him in, holding him there. He cursed under his breath, his voice hoarse and raw.  

“Fuck…” he breathed, wrecked and shaky. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”  

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. Your mind was too hazy, your body too overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling you, completing you in a way that felt almost holy.  

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, all heavy-lidded and full of…disbelief. Like he couldn’t quite comprehend that this was real, that you were real, that you were his.  

“I love you.” he whispered. It carried his whole soul.  

“I love you.” you echoed, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, pulling him down for a quiet promise in the aftermath of the storm.  

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like enough.

He stayed there, pressed deep inside you. You thought he might speak, but for a moment, there was only the sound of your shared breaths.  

Then, finally, his voice came, quiet and raw. “What are you thinking?”  

“I’m thinking…” you trailed off, your lips curving into a small, tired smile. “I’m thinking I might actually melt into you.”  

His laugh was soft, but his eyes stayed serious, searching yours. “Good.” he murmured. “That’s good.”  

You shifted slightly beneath him, your body instinctively starting to move, to stretch, but his hands tightened on your hips, holding you still.  

“No, don’t move.” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Please.”  

You froze, your brows knitting together. “Why?”  

“Because,” he said, hesitant, “that way I can imagine we’re a single body.”  

Your breath caught at the way he said it, at the vulnerability in his tone. His hands softened their grip, but he didn’t let you pull away. His eyes stayed on yours, wide and unguarded.  

“That’s…” You swallowed hard, your voice faltering. “That’s beautiful.”  

He smiled, a small, almost shy thing, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure he should be smiling at all. “It’s true.” he said simply, his hands moving up to cradle your face again, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “I don’t want to lose this. Lose you. Not even for a second.”  

“You’re not losing me.” you whispered. “I’m right here.”  

“I know.” he said. “But I want more than that. I want…” He trailed off, his eyes closing as he took a shaky breath. “I want you to be a part of me. Like…physically, spiritually. All of it.”  

“You already have me.” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your own emotions. “Every part of me. You know that, right?”  

“I do.” he said softly. “But sometimes it feels like it’s not enough. Like I’ll never have enough…enough of you.”  

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you kissed him, pouring everything you couldn’t say into the way your lips moved against his. And he kissed you back like he was trying to do the same, his hands sliding down to hold you closer, to keep you there, connected, inseparable. 

And you knew, somewhere deep in the quiet corners of your mind, that one day you would awaken with the bitter taste of regret lingering on your lips where his kisses used to live.  

Because he wasn’t the kind of lover you could replace.  

He was that Sunday morning, stay in bed till noon kind of lover. The kind who made the world outside your bedroom feel like it didn’t exist, who made time irrelevant, who made you forget there was anything beyond the warmth of his skin and the weight of his body pressed against yours. That lose ourselves between the sheets, forget where you end and I begin kind of lover. The kind who could turn every sigh, every gasp, every moan into a symphony, who knew the exact rhythm of your body like he’d been born to play it. That double climax, let me taste you again kind of lover. The kind who never seemed satisfied, who always wanted more of you, who could spend hours tracing your skin with his mouth like it was the most sacred map he’d ever seen.  

“Don’t leave me.” you whispered suddenly.  

His head lifted, his eyes finding yours, wide and questioning. “What?”  

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. “I mean…don’t leave this.” you clarified, your voice softer now. “Don’t let this, us, fade. Promise me.”  

His expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.” he said, his voice steady, reassuring.  

“But what if-”  

“No.” he interrupted, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there. “No ‘what ifs.’ I’m here. I’m staying. With you.”  

You nodded, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift entirely. There was a part of you that knew nothing this good, this intense, this all-consuming could last forever.  

“Hey.” he murmured, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him and nowhere else. “You’re stuck with me, alright? No one else is ever going to make me feel like this. Like…” He hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched for the words. “Like I’m alive for the first time.”  

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. What could you possibly say to that?  

So you kissed again. And in that moment, you believed him. You believed in him, in this, in the impossible, fragile thing you’d built together.  

But somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew that someday you might wake up and realise it had all slipped through your fingers.  

And you would miss him like you’d miss air. 

But like everything touched by man, there would be consequences.  

Because now, you’re in that same bed, with that same man — your Alex, your same Alex — and she’s tugging on his hair with all the determination her tiny fists can muster. He’s wincing from the sting, his jaw tight, but he won’t pull away. He never does.  

She’s kicking him in the face with those minuscule  onesie-covered feet, relentless and uncoordinated, all raw energy and discovery. The kind of kicks that make you wonder how someone so small can have so much force behind them.  

And he’s tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your soul and refuses to let go. His eyes are heavy, the dark circles beneath them a testament to too many sleepless nights and too many early mornings.  

But he keeps them open.  

He keeps them open because every time he blinks, every time his lids lower even for a fraction of a second, she stops. And then she waits. She waits for him to look at her again, and when he does, when his eyes meet hers, her tiny face lights up with a smile so pure, so full of joy, it’s as if the entire world was made just for her.  

And you’re watching it all unfold.  

You’re watching your daughter fall in love with the same eyes you did.  

Consequences.  

They’re everywhere now — in the scattered toys on the floor, in the half-drunk cups of coffee that go cold before he can finish them, in the tiny socks that never seem to stay on her feet.  

But they’re also here, in this moment. In the way Alex leans into her, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, his hands gentle but steady as they cradle her wiggling body. In the way he whispers something soft to her, something you can’t hear, and she lets out a high-pitched giggle that fills the room like sunlight.  

“Did you hear that?” he asks, turning to you with wide, wonder-filled eyes, his voice hushed because he’s just witnessed a miracle. 

You nod, your chest tightening as you take it all in. “I heard.”  

“She’s perfect.” he says, his voice cracking slightly, and you know he means it with every fiber of his being.  

“She’s you.” you say softly, watching as his gaze shifts back to her, his expression so tender it makes your throat ache.  

“No.” he murmurs, shaking his head. “She’s…she’s us.”  

And in that moment, you know the consequences are worth it. Every sleepless night, every ache, every fleeting moment of doubt or fear. They are worth it for this — for the sight of your Alex, your same Alex, falling in love all over again, just like you did.  

Consequences.  

You wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

a/n: I think I’m getting a bit obsessed with the concept of him finishing inside. I went on about it for a bit too long in another thing you’ll see soon too. Ugh.

Also, adding this just because. I was scrolling through some old playlists and whatever, landed on this song randomly and it really gave me the vibe of this, like what I was tryna express in here.

[chalkscrub]

chalkrub stuns in new oc-tober prompts

it's a text-heavy update...i love rambling

day 11: symbolism/themes/visual metaphor i.e my favourite things in the world - eng lit nerds make some noise!!!!!

goin back to day 11 with my favourite thing in the world: an unfinished sketchy concept. and also SYMBOLISM and themes and metaphor…and also dark green

so mika and heidi's story is haunted by one time they happened upon a drowned fox and pheasant in a disused canal, something which came at a weird time in their lives and which heidi made weirder by making cryptic suggestions about the whole thing, especially playing on mika’s (former) religious beliefs about spirit connections. Over time, it’s infected mika with budding paranoia in the form of nightmares, hallucinations and latent aquaphobia, all of which she begins seeing as premonitory

shan’t overexplain the symbolism even though my brain wants me to, but this was all inspired by seeing literally the exact same thing on a walk with my great aunt when I was like 6 or 7. the canal water was all covered in algae/pondweed so i’m guessing the fox chased the pheasant, they both mistook the canal for grass, then fell in and drowned together. even as a little kid I was like wrow this is so poignant and tragic and heavy with the potential for on-the-nose symbolism….. or alternatively it just looked cool as hell and felt kind of rare and special. either way, like 15 years later I was developing a new direction for a couple of initially completely unrelated ocs, i.e mika and heidi, and at some point in their story development, I was like now wait a second….this is just like that one time I saw those animals who chased each other into an early shared fate and drowned together…… and it fit them really well and also made everything click into place for the main story, it was kind of uncanny. Thank you nature for showing me cool things every day, and rip to the fox and pheasant you live in my mind forever and always

day 12: future

BEAS!!! beas i love you beas. initial beasley flavour on the left and future flavour on the right. his whole deal is he wants to start a cult, so he ventures to The Big City to make a name for himself. then he realises imps like him are a dime a dozen in the city and nobody cares about him, so he has to scrape by working a minimum wage job as a cashier in a tiny corner shop. he’s from a comic I (partially) made for uni, idk how his story goes exactly but I guess it probably ends with the typical sappy message of being yourself for yourself and not for fame or fortune or whatever. he gets up to hijincks, feels sad and depressed, and goes through the torment of living with his own mediocrity in a world that demands greatness. imps grow with power, not with age, so at the start of the story, even though he’s an adult, he’s still as small as when he was born/summoned/spawned/whatever. he’s got some shapeshifting prowess, so his future form is more an example of the kinds of feats he can pull off when his powers stabilise, and also his cool badass flaming eyes.

day 14: inspiration.

here's a convoluted block of text explaining the heretic's main inspiration, which isn't very apparent in the design at ALL but nevertheless: they’re kind of inspired by the concept of a closet costume. like how you can throw a bedsheet over yourself and cut out some eyeballs and voila. You’re a ghost. Or put a big furry coat and a mask on and you’re a werewolf now. almost all of their design links back to this in a roundabout way: the fur is meant to look like a rug/coat/furry thing draped over something. I used to have a sheepskin rug when I was a kid and I’d always hide under it and crawl about and pretend to be a monster lmao…this is what i looked like in my head maybe. The normal shoes poking out are the human element – like how halloween costumes will sometimes be mostly themed but the shoes are just practical, or you see shoes poking out beneath one of those two-man horse costumes. The face is meant to look mask-like – the glassy unfocused eyes, the fixed toothy grin, the simple cone shape. The black eyelids are meant to be like those Halloween masks that have eyeholes above/below the eyes, covered with that black fabric to make it less obvious there's eyeholes. And the ears are floppy to be like socks or something; they have those two black lines because they remind me of loose stitching. Also just some animal influences thrown in – possums, goats and bulls…..none of the closet costume stuff is meant to be noticeable or apparent in the design, so why did I put so much thought into it? who know… but this thing is one of my favourite designs I’ve made so maybe it was all worth it

[rae-writes]

Sometimes...

Sigma || nsfw || 0.6k

Sigma isn’t always a gentle lover. 

He always tries to be, of course, because oh gods does he love you. He holds you even closer to his heart than he does the Sky Casino— you’re his everything. 

But sometimes…

Sometimes he gets stressed. His responsibilities as manager, all the extra procedures he takes to make sure the Casino is always as perfect as it can be, making a calm, picture-perfect appearance when he’s out on the main floor— it all gets too stressful sometimes. 

It makes him curl his fingers around your wrist desperately and drag you to a vacant corner of the Casino, or a bathroom stall, or anywhere he can have you to himself for even just a second. The harsh way he’s shoving you against whatever flat surface that’s nearby is a complete accident, and he is sorry, but the apology doesn’t even form on his tongue because he’s pushing it past your lips to tangle with yours instead. His hips thrust forcefully, clothed cock rutting right against your entrance; his grip on you is tight, unrelenting, and needy. He doesn’t even register how frantic or rough he’s being, not when you’re moaning in his ear and clawing at his back over his shirt. No, he doesn’t register anything other than the way he can feel his stomach tightening as he gets closer to cumming or the way you whine a breathy ‘’m gonna cum’. And only when you’re both panting with wet patches visible on his pants and your bottoms, does he finally utter that sweet ‘I’m sorry’. 

Sometimes he gets frustrated. Fyodor or Nikolai, or sometimes both at the same time, making him grit his teeth and bite his tongue in annoyance, the rare rude customer he has to go find and throw out, the moments where he finally has free time but you end up busy— it all gets too frustrating sometimes. 

It makes him throw you onto your shared bed and yank you closer by your ankles, fingers pressing into your thighs harshly as he places firm, open-mouthed kisses up your body. His soft toned praises are replaced by raspy growling, eyes sharp as he focuses on your expressions. This time, his rough actions are completely intentional; he wants you to see only him, to feel only him, to touch, to smell, to taste only him because only your touch, your taste, your smell, your sounds, your expressions can make him feel better right now. He kisses at your skin with teeth, marking the flesh with his bite and kisses your lips with his tongue, making sure to swap spit until he isn’t sure who’s is who’s. His fingers are at your back and thighs, pulling you into him and locking you against his embrace as he thrusts his cock in and out of you with deep, sharp, rough strokes, making sure you can feel every single inch of him, even when he pulls out for just the split second it takes to ram right back into you. Sigma is relentless, making you cum over and over, because he can’t get enough of the way you sound or the way your look; and when he’s finally ready to cum himself, his grip is absolutely bruising as he pulls you flush against him, hips stuttering frantically as he paints your insides white. He'll stay buried inside you as he trails his tongue down your neck and to your chest, re-biting all of the previous bite marks before he eats you out, licking up his own cum as he drills his tongue into your hole until you cum one more time. Then he’ll clean you both up and lay beside you, wrapping you in his arms to whisper his typical soft ‘I’m sorry’. 

No, Sigma isn’t always a gentle lover. 

But he loves you so. fucking. much— even when he’s being rough. 

And even though he apologizes after, because he’s always sorry about any bruises and aches he might’ve left, he can’t help the thrill he gets from seeing you give him a dazed smile with a ‘’s okay…I liked it..’

[peppermint-pearl]

Free will !!!

It has come to my attention that I can do literally whatever I want , so here’s a Mouthwashing OC !

Her name's Hope , she's another mechanic intern on the Tulpar (my justification for this is that an internship under Swansea was always part of the plan but Pony ended up saddling him with two--) .

She was in college for aerospace engineering but after tuition prices increased she was forced to drop out and find work , which lead her to the position at Pony Express . So she's decently qualified for the position but she's like . bitter about it because it's a mere shadow of the dreams she once had for it herself .

She acts pretty jaded / tries to be pessimistic about everything because she believes her life is over and she's afraid of further disappointment , but still holds a bit of that same naivety she thinks she stomped out of herself . I think maybe she tries to act a little like Swansea but it doesn't really land the same way because she's got literally none of the life experience to justify how completely over everything she is KASLHFJ - she's like . 'ah yes . kindred spirits' but still gets flustered at making little mistakes in a way that makes it obvious she really just wants to be liked and do a good job .

I think she's most comfortable around Anya partially because she'd be the only other girl on the ship , and partially because Hope sees her as an older woman (older than her at least SDKHJ) still working to achieve her dreams (getting into medical school!) and feels better knowing there's still time for her to do what she wants . Maybe also Hope had an older sister at home Anya reminds her of ? that one's a little up in the air but I'm thinking thoughtfully of it !!

I think she'd also be close with Daisuke because he's her age and she's able to see him more as a peer than an authority like she does everyone else on the ship (and what if they kissed . just a little bit . for my happiness .) . She probably tried very hard not to like him at first due to his general lack of ability with . internship things . but pretty quickly warmed up to him just because of how earnest and well-meaning he is . I think they'd speak to each other in niche pop culture references no one else on the ship knows ASFLHJ

Swansea and her would constantly be insulting each other but in a way that feels familiar if that makes sense ? I think she does get under Swansea's skin a lot but 'at least she can get the job done' . He definitely thinks it's funny to point out little imperfections in her work to get her a little panicked -- like 'ah , you scratched the reflection here , unacceptable . we'll need to throw you into space for this .' and then laugh at the split second Hope actually believes it ALSDJKF.

I think she holds some respect for Curly and Jimmy as authority figures , but would probably feel better being friendly with Curly just because Jimmy is . unfriendly . and horrible KLJHSD

When the crash happens , she probably slips deeper back into the doom spiral she'd been on before - if she thought her life was over before , it's suPER NOT LOOKING BETTER BY THIS POINT ,, Taking a leaf from Swansea's book , she'd probably try getting absolutely blasted off the 3498239478 Dragons Breath bottles they'd been transporting .

As for how she dies , I think . as pathetic as it is . she either drinks too much of the mouthwash or she chokes on her own vomit from it . Which also makes me think that if she was actually in the story she'd be maybe the first to die ? Like it's maybe the least directly violent / most unrelated to the final spiral of events that leads to everyone else's death but it IS also partially a result of negligence and another sign of what's to come . Jimmy would probably have tried to sweep it under the rug , saying it was her own fault , but it super would noT have helped tensions on the ship .

UHH YEAH that's all I have brainstormed , I might do some stuff with her later -- if you got this far thank you for humoring my brainrot ASDFLJH

[animasolaoriginal]

I n f a t u a t e d ♦️TEN

CHAPTER ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE TEN ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN◾TWENTY

Accidents happen, and it only takes one to make her question everything, throwing her into a deep well of doubts and misery - and he's not necessarily making it any easier for her. Or is he?

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dubcon elements. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Free use/power play. Vaginal sex. Squirting. Humiliation. Angst. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 6k

A/N: A little content warning/spoiler: I put squirting in the tags above, but there might also be other bodily fluids present in this chapter. But it's up to you how you want to interpret the following "accident". Just a heads-up.

NINE 🟥 TEN 🟥 ELEVEN

She feels full. Not only stuffed, plugged up, filled, but really full. Stirring in bed, she finds herself held by strong arms, his big body folded around hers, her rear pressed into his groin. Trying to slip from his grip, the urge to relieve herself only grows.

It's her little strained whine of effort that seems to wake him, and she's almost off the bed when he grabs her around the waist and pulls her back. Another wail falls from her lips.

“No, please...”

“Where're you going?” he mumbles, pressing her to his chest, the strength in his arms fear-provoking.

“I gotta p–”

The rest of her plea is muffled as he puts his hand over her mouth. She struggles in his hold, even more so when his other hand slips between her legs and unfastens the harness, before his fingers grip the base of the dildo and pull it out.

The sense of relief is only short-lived. She is still fixated on trying to control her bladder when he pushes her leg up and his cock against her now unoccupied cunt. Struggling, whining, she fights him, hands clawing at him, but he completely ignores her and proceeds to press into her.

She wails into his hand when he rolls his hips against her, hard and fast, no mercy, as he forces himself deeper into her tight warmth, and it's even worse when he shifts positions and rolls onto his back, pulling her with him.

Her legs fall open over his strong thighs, a pliant body molding to his as she can't do anything but lie on top of him, back pressed into his chest, one large hand holding her jaw, muffling her cries of protest, the other large and heavy on her stomach, pushing hard, while he starts to really pound up into her.

She feels her control slipping, his rapid rhythm, the constant in and out, hectic up and down, walls clinging to his shaft, it all adds to the growing vertigo inside her head. In this angle, he seems to hit spots she's had no idea were this sensitive, and the more he hammers into her, the more she struggles to fight the sensations.

His grunts are loud in her ear, his body working beneath her, muscles flexing and shifting, his hands unrelenting as they hold her down. Hot tears fall from her lashes, her head is spinning, body convulsing. She's clenching hard around him, her stomach tight and tense, that feeling of fullness so unbearable it hurts.

And suddenly, it's all gone. She comes hard, head thrashing against him, back arching, hips bucking up, thighs trembling, and it's all a rush of relief as everything falls off her. Her scream is muffled by his hand, the other pressing hard into her stomach as she spasms, completely losing control.

Something wet and warm forces its way out of her, it's a strange feeling, an uncontrollable twitch, and the even stranger splatter of something on the wooden floor barely registers in her hazy head. He keeps rutting into her, holding her, groaning into her ear. She's limp on top of him, sinking into herself. That horrible pressure is gone.

She barely notices how he accelerates his pace, frantically pushing up into her before he stills with a growl and comes deep inside of her. His warmth only adds to her own.

It's when he pulls out and loosens his grip on her, that she slowly regains her composure, trying to make sense of what happened. He sits her up, shifts her off him before he leans towards the bedside table, rummaging through the drawer.

And it's when he throws her a package of wet wipes that she truly realizes what happened. While he rolls onto his side, facing away from her, content enough to fall back asleep, she sits on the wet sheets and stares at the mess she's made.

Even in the semi-darkness of the room, she can see the stains, feel the wetness all around her, the puddle on the floor shimmering in the glow of the distant street lamps. To say she's mortified would be an understatement.

Gripping the wet wipes, she starts crying soundlessly, adding to the tears on her burning face, her body shaking. She somehow manages to get off the bed, almost slips in the warm liquid on the floor, makes it to the bathroom. As soon as she realizes she can skip the toilet, she heads straight to the shower, her sobs gaining in volume.

Her legs give way as soon as she turns on the water, and she sinks to her knees, and not even the already existing ache can distract her from the horror she feels. Hugging herself, she wails, bathing in self-pity and shame, so occupied with herself, she doesn't notice the footsteps approaching.

Suddenly he's there, picking her up, pulling her into a standing position as he presses her against his hard body, holding her. Despite the embarrassment burning through her, she wraps her arms around his midriff and embraces him tightly, burying her face in his warm chest. He rubs her back and sighs deeply.

“S'normal,” she hears him mutter as he leans his chin on top of her head. “Don't be ashamed...”

She shivers, swallowing hard, unable to fully stop the sobs slipping from between her quivering lips. He just holds her tighter, lets them both soak in the water raining down on them. While she's still stuck in her own head, he grabs the shower head and proceeds to clean first her, then himself. She's barely able to move, frozen in her own humiliation, that she lets him take over fully.

He dries her off, then walks her to the toilet and makes her sit down. “Take your time,” he says, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. She chews on the inside of her cheek as she watches him leave the bathroom.

Burying her hot face in her trembling hands, she succumbs to the urges of her body, trying not to think too hard about anything anymore.

She returns to the bedroom on shaking legs, wringing her hands. Her gaze falls to the floor, a cold shiver runs down her spine. He's cleaned up the mess, stripped the bed, the large pile of sheets lying on the edge of it next to where he's sitting, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when she walks a little closer, his face a stern mask, and she stiffens, bites her lip, feels her heart sinking.

But then he stands up, puts his phone down, and without another word or look or anything, scoops her up into his arms and carries her out of the bedroom. She's too stunned to react or protest even, she just watches him, focusing on him instead of the burning shame in her guts. He takes her to the guest bedroom, puts her down and proceeds to climb into the bed, then holds his hand out to her, watching her intently.

She follows, grabs his hand and lies down beside him. He turns her, wraps his arms around her body and pulls her against him, her rear pressed to his groin. She slowly relaxes in his embrace, closes her eyes, forces the thought carousel down. Eventually she is too exhausted to think and falls asleep again.

When she wakes up the next morning, she is alone. No warm body, no strong arms, no reassuring embrace. It's almost cold.

And it gets only worse as she realizes where she is. Guest bedroom. And the humiliation of last night comes back in full force. She can't even hide the sobs when they spill from her quivering lips. Pulling the covers over her head, she buries herself in the bed, hoping to sink into oblivion, hoping to forget what happened.

There are noises on the other side of the door, footsteps, muffled voices, shuffling of furniture. For a moment, she is distracted. What's going on?

Her eyes wander through the room. It's smaller than his bedroom, there's only one big window and the view is different, the layout is another as well, the two doors are on her left, both of them open, showing the rooms beyond. Bathroom, closet. The design is similar. Minimalist, dark, masculine.

Suddenly there's a click and then the door opens. Her heart beats faster. It's him, tall, dark, masculine. She only meets his eyes for a second before she looks away again and burrows back into her cocoon of sheets and covers, letting out an embarrassed little whine while her stomach clenches. The door clicks shut, his footsteps round the bed before it dips down slightly and his big, warm hand is on her back, fingers digging into the fabric.

“Get up,” he says in that neutral, demanding tone, and she shivers. Something inside her doesn't want to make him wait, something else wants to completely ignore him. She expects him to rip the covers away, expose her, force her to show herself and face the new day of whatever he has planned for her next, but he doesn't do anything. Just sits there, hand heavy on her hip.

She hears him exhaling loudly. A moment later, the bed dips again when he gets up and walks away, the clack of his shoes louder when he enters the bathroom. Biting her lip, she lowers the blanket enough to peek through a gap, and she gasps when she meets his gaze. He holds out a bathrobe in one hand, while beckoning her closer with the other. His face is a stoic mask, but his eyes seem warmer than before.

She inhales deeply, fights the warring emotions inside of her, before she slowly crawls out of her cocoon and climbs off the bed, trying to ignore that she's naked, that she's so much smaller than him when she approaches him with her head lowered. He wraps the robe around her shoulders, and she looks up hesitantly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

His hands are on her face, holding it up, thumbs brushing over her warm skin. “Good girl,” he says quietly, the corner of his lips twitching slightly. She blushes immediately, those strange shudders crashing through her instantly, her heart almost beating out of her chest. The throbbing is back. He looks at her for a moment, then lowers his hands and straightens up, tilting his head towards the bathroom. “Go on,” he tells her, and she nods, hugging the robe around her tiny frame and follows the hint.

The bathroom is smaller as well, though it has the same amenities, shower, bathtub, vanity, toilet, he even put some toiletries on the counter, and clothes that look all too familiar. It's her skirt and the top she'd been wearing on the night that he took her away. She's relieved to see her pale pink panties as well. Though there is something in the back of her mind that wonders why he makes her wear these things, and not the fancy underwear or dresses he bought her.

Inhaling deeply, she focuses on her morning routine, trying to forget about last night or the worries that come with thinking about her possibly lowest moment yet. As she brushes her teeth, she stares at her reflection, into her own eyes that seem so different, almost blank, defeated, reddened. She can't look at herself for long as the voices grow louder, the doubts taking over.

You're disgusting, they whisper, and she sees herself frowning in the mirror. Look at yourself! Messy hair, vacant expression, lips swollen and raw. Why would a man like him want someone like you? You're nothing! Just a body for him to use and not even that you can do properly! Making such a mess... absolutely disgusting! He'll probably bring you right back to where he picked you up, gets rid of you again, to find someone better.

That revelation makes her stare at herself, her shoulders shaking as she tries to suppress tears. Would he do that? Why wouldn't he? He's had his fun with her, the whole weekend long, now he's probably done with her after what happened. Why would he keep her anyway? She's just a stupid little girl, now more than ever, no matter what her ID says.

Silent tears stream down her cheeks as she stares blankly ahead, the act of tooth brushing just an automatic thing she does while she spirals deeper and deeper into her own doubts and worries. Once she's done, she washes her face, but new tears come almost instantly, so she doesn't bother anymore. She dresses with her head spinning, and when she notices he didn't even leave her another butt plug to wear like he's done the first morning she woke up here, the concern only grows.

He doesn't care anymore. He wants her gone.

Sniffling pathetically, she leans on the counter and tries to ease her breathing. He shouldn't see her like this, she should leave him with at least a little bit of dignity. Although she has no idea where to find anything like that in the mess that is her brain. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, wipes at her eyes, and swallows the dark thoughts.

When she exits the bathroom, he's sitting at the small table in the corner, long legs stretched out and crossed, his phone in his hand. He looks up when she approaches him timidly, wringing her hands, biting her lip. “Sit,” he tells her, and she does, glad about the command.

Her eyes wander over the table: there's a bowl of cereal, a pitcher of milk, a basket of fresh croissants that smell heavenly, a little tray with various jams in small glass jars, two plates and cutlery, a large glass of orange juice on her side of the table and a cup of coffee in front of him. Her mouth is watering at the sight, but her stomach tenses up even more. She doesn't deserve this.

“Help yourself,” he says before he turns his attention back to his phone while taking a sip of his coffee. She just sits in the chair opposite him, trying to control her breathing and her pounding heart, new tears burning under her lashes. “What's the matter?” His voice cuts through her nagging thoughts, and it takes her a moment to look at him. There's a deep crease between his eyebrows, and she's not sure if it's anger or concern.

“N-nothing,” she croaks, hastily grabbing a croissant and starting to nibble on it. It tastes so good, but she can't enjoy it thoroughly. The doubts are still there. The worries, the humiliation, the fear of this being the last time they sit together like this. It all burns inside her as she stares at the plate in front of her, unsteady breaths making her shoulders shake.

She hears him sighing loudly, and then he suddenly stands up, taking a long stride towards her, towers over her until she looks up in disturbed confusion. His eyes are darker, impatience plastered all over his face. She ducks under his imposing posture, not even sure what she's expecting. She doesn't expect him to take the croissant from her shaking hand. She doesn't expect him bending down to scoop her up in his arms. She doesn't expect her heart to beat so fast in her chest, and the warmth pooling inside her stomach, and the throbbing between her legs.

He carries her back to his chair and sits down with her perched on his lap, holding her tightly pressed to his chest, before he leans over the table and grabs the croissant, gently holding it up to her lips as he watches her closely. For a moment she feels even worse than before. Treated like a goddamn child who can't even eat on her own. But then she opens her mouth and takes a bite, holding his gaze, sinking into his eyes, grasping at the comfort the gesture gives her.

A small smile crosses his features, and she blushes deeply, taking another bite, chewing, letting him feed her until the pastry is gone. He wipes his thumb over her mouth to get rid of the crumbs and flakes, then raises the same thumb to his lips and licks it clean. The heat inside her intensifies at the sight. His eyes bore into hers as his fingers trace down her neck, and she winces slightly when he presses against the marks he's left there.

Another thought crashes through her. Those will fade, like the pain, and then he will be gone from her life. Just like that.

Swallowing hard, she looks away, forcing her gaze through the window, out onto the city waking up around them. It's a gloomy day, gray and foggy, and she can't see far. The other buildings are dark shapes, barely there. Of course the weather mirrors her mood perfectly. A sigh escapes her.

Suddenly his hand closes around her throat, and she gasps, looking back at him. “You have to stop worrying so much,” he says darkly, and it sounds more like a command than a general life advice. She bites her lip, trying to read his stoic expression. “Whatever is going on in that pretty head of yours, stop it,” he continues, squeezing her neck lightly. She blinks at him. “Can you do that?”

She feels her eyes watering under his scrutinizing gaze. His words confuse her. She doesn't know what to make of them. Parting her lips, she whispers: “I don't know...”

His gaze darkens, the grip of his hand tightens, she lets out an overwhelmed sob. Then his lips are on hers, his mouth capturing any other sound that climbs up her throat. He kisses her hard, demanding, thumb and forefinger guiding her jaw, tongue gliding against hers. And she melts into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, a familiar feeling of blissful nothingness inside her head.

She's panting when he leans back, he looks about the same as before, unfazed, eyes dark, jaw clenched, but the little flick of his tongue as he licks his lips makes her feel even warmer. He cups her face, rubs his thumb over her bottom lip, watches her closely. After a moment of just looking at each other, he leans back a little, tracing his index finger along her temple.

“Head empty now?” he says, tapping his fingertip against her skin.

She nods, he raises an eyebrow, her stomach tenses. “Yes, sir,” she replies quietly, and feels instantly validated when he gives her a small smile, his big hand patting the side of her head.

But he doesn't call her a good girl. And he breaks the moment when he suddenly turns his head away, looking towards the door. A second later, he lifts her off his lap, putting her down on her own chair again.

“I'll be right back,” he tells her, leaning over the table to grab his phone, before he puts another croissant on her plate. “Eat.”

She nods, her breath quickening as she watches him leave the room, the lock clicking behind him. Without him, the head-empty-feeling is gone almost immediately. To cover up her emerging sobs, she grabs the croissant and shoves it into her mouth, angrily biting it to keep those nagging thoughts down.

When he returns, she is back to square one, an intimidated girl, stuck in her own head, eyes reddened, chest tight. And this time, he doesn't seem to care. He puts her sneakers in front of her and waits for her to put them on, towering over her, eyes dark, him in his expensive suit, her in her cheap little club outfit. Her hands are shaking as she ties the shoelaces into a loop.

What does she need shoes for? she wonders, though deep down she knows the answer. The voices have been right. He's taking her back.

And indeed he does. Grabbing her hand, he pulls her out of the bedroom, and she forces herself to only focus on him as he walks her to the front door, trying to ignore the noises from the other rooms, the people working around them, the smell of cleaning supplies. She feels something hot burning in her stomach, not the good kind. Her humiliation flares up again, but she can't dwell on it as he pulls her out of the apartment onto a large hallway. Towards one of two elevators.

She realizes she (still) can't remember how she got here in the first place, so she's trying to memorize any details on their way down. There are only two buttons in the elevator. Up and down. Large mirrors all around, soft lighting that doesn't distract from the fact how much taller he is than her, how tiny she feels standing beside him, his big hand still holding hers. His fancy dark suit in stark contrast to her silly skirt and top. So childish. Just a kid standing next to a fucking grown-up.

Did he finally realize that? That she's too young to satisfy his needs properly? Too inexperienced? Too much hassle after all? Is that why he's taking her back?

She stares at the ground, at her old sneakers, fraying at the edges, dirty and worn, tiny next to his large shiny shoes, elegant, expensive. She bites her lip, her shoulders sagging. The elevator ride seems endless when you're caught in your own head. Those nagging voices just won't stop.

A sudden ding makes her flinch, and she looks up at him with a frown when he squeezes her hand. It's only a second, but the way he looks at her makes her knees shake. For a moment she focuses back on him, ignoring the doubts within her racing mind. He pulls her out of the elevator into a large parking garage. Two rows of very expensive looking cars line the sides, most are sleek and black, some bigger, and some look like they came straight from the racing track. She's completely stunned by the sight.

He takes her to the far back towards a black car (she sucks at naming them so she doesn't even try), lets go of her hand as he opens the passenger door and waves her into it. She sinks into the soft leather seat, looking around in awe, before she freezes when he leans over her and fastens her seat belt for her. Blushing deeply, she stares at him, holding her breath when he straightens up again and closes the door with a loud thud.

Her heart races. The way he treats her stands in a stark contrast to what she fears he's going to do. Leave her, bring her back. But then why does he care so much? Opening the door for her, buckling her in? Watching her whenever he has the chance with those dark eyes and the familiar intensity in them (hunger even?). She's confused, to put it mildly.

He slips behind the wheel, puts his own seat belt on and starts the car. The engine roars in the underground space, and she watches in growing admiration how he maneuvers the vehicle out of the parking spot towards a large gate that slides up when he approaches it. It's up a winding ramp, and then they're in the middle of the big city traffic.

She has no idea where they are. The buildings are tall, too tall to look at fully from her lowered position, the streets look clean, fancy shops with fancy signs line one side, men and women in business clothes walk up and down the sidewalk, other fancy cars fill the stuffed roads. She decides to focus on him, staring at his long fingers curling around the steering wheel, while his other hand rests on the gear shift between their seats.

She feels like she's never had time to actually fully admire him, between all the things he did to her and made her do (it's all a blur at this point, distant memories in light of what's to come, presumably), so she lets her eyes wander over his hands, the veins and tendons twitching under his tight skin, how he sits behind the wheel, all big and confident, eyes on the road ahead, expression hard and stoic, jaw clenched.

Handsome. Too handsome to be real.

They drive for quite a while, and when he finally pulls into a parking spot, she's stuck in her head again, thinking back to having his hands all over her, both dreading and enjoying his demanding touches, while simultaneously lamenting the fact that he won't do that to her ever again (and she isn't sure if it's regret or fear that makes her think that, but it surely isn't relief, strangely enough). She's sunken into the seat, hands clasped on her lap, tight and cramped, heart beating faster as she stares blankly ahead.

Her door opens, and she flinches when he leans over her to unbuckle her seat belt, the scent she's grown accustomed to filling her nostrils when he brushes past her. Another thing she's going to miss. Before she can wonder why she should even miss being treated like a toy, being used like a mindless body, he grabs her hand and pulls her out of the car, demanding but gentle, keeps holding her hand when he closes the door.

Looking up at him and then around, she realizes they're here. Her apartment building looks downright shabby compared to where they started their trip. His car looks completely out of place between all the old, rusty vehicles lining the street. As does he, the tall man in his expensive suit holding onto the unassuming girl's hand. Her heart beats faster. He actually took her back to her place. To bring her back, let her go. She bites her lip, and the worries almost overpower that one nagging thought in the back of her mind.

How does he know where she lives?

She looks back at him, frowning slightly, but he ignores her and pulls her towards the steps leading up to the front door. He walks with confidence, seems to know exactly where to go, through the narrow hallway, past the mailboxes on the wall, up the stairs, floor after floor until she's suddenly standing right in front of her apartment door.

She doesn't even question it when he pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks it, pushes it open with a squeak, and guides her inside. Her steps are uncertain, the familiarity of this shitty little place she called home almost drowning her in emotions. As she stands in the small hallway that seems to shrink even more with him standing behind her, filling out the space in a way that's almost frightening, she doesn't know what to do, what to think.

Why are they here? Why is he here? He could have said goodbye down in the hall, send her on her merry way. But he came with her. And she's alone with him in the cramped space that is her apartment. She's been alone with him the entire weekend, but this feels strange. He doesn't fit. The door frames seem too narrow and too low, the interior too childish, too colorful, too cluttered.

She wants to ask him why he's here, turns around, but he gently shoves her into the living room which is basically an open kitchen with a couch and a small table. Everything is small here, except him. She watches him walk to the kitchen counter before he leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest, tall and intimidating, his eyes fixed on hers.

“Pack up,” he then says, and she stares at him in confusion.

“What?” she murmurs, her mind spinning into ten million directions at once, not understanding anything anymore.

“I want you to pack up some things you think you may need,” he says, slowly, as if he can see how hard thinking is for her at the moment.

“Need? For what?” she stammers, furrowing her eyebrows.

He works his jaw, just looking at her. “I told you I'm taking you with me,” he then replies, his eyes boring into hers. “And I meant it. You're staying with me.”

Her mouth falls open, his words barely making any sense, but they cause the heat inside her stomach to flare up. Before she can form any coherent sentence, ask any of the many questions tumbling around inside her head, he pushes off the counter and walks towards her. With his long legs he's there in no time, grabbing her face, tilting it up to make her look at him. She stares at him blankly.

“You are mine,” he whispers, leaning down to press his forehead to hers, his gaze burning itself into her mind, erasing any words she may have wanted to utter. “Mine to use, mine to control, mine to have...”

She shivers, caught in a strange limbo between feeling aroused and completely terrified. Her body is tense but her legs are trembling. His breath fans over her quivering lips.

“And I'm giving you the option to grab whatever you want to take with you,” he continues quietly, darkly, leaving no room for complaints or questions. “I've already terminated your lease. Your stuff will be put in storage once we're done here.”

Something cold fights its way through the heat inside her. He did what? “You... you did what?” she whispers, staring at him.

“I also resigned you from your job at the fast food place,” he adds, and somehow that doesn't even bother her. She hated flipping burgers and being covered in grease all the time anyway. But that he just decided this for her? Without asking first?

“You –” she starts, her voice tiny, barely able to squeeze through her tight throat.

“I take what I want, baby, and what I want is you. You don't need a shitty place like this or work your pretty butt off so you can afford this shitty place. You won't have to worry about anything anymore, do you understand?”

She stares at him, still completely overwhelmed by what he just told her. It's just too much. He basically cut her out of her old life, burned all the bridges, erased her sorry excuse for a life in a span of seconds. All of it to have her for himself? So she can exist only for him? The thought is as horrifying as it is tempting. Suddenly she craves that head-empty-feeling, not having to worry about money, about rent, about having enough to feed herself.

He'd do that for her. All of it. And in exchange, she only has to let him do whatever he wants to her. Use her. Wherever, whenever he feels like it. And somehow she finds comfort in that, as strange and disturbing as it sounds.

She's been worrying about no longer being attractive to him after what happened last night, worried about not being enough, too small and too inexperienced and too freaking innocent to meet his expectations, but then he just goes and takes away the last things that made her somewhat independent, binding her to himself. Fully turning her into his little plaything.

A tear slips from her lashes, and he leans back and wipes at her cheek, watching her closely. “I want you to submit to me,” he whispers, almost softly, almost as if he's actually asking. “Put away your worries, focus on me. Be my good little girl. Do what I tell you. I promise you, you will feel better. It'll all be easier.”

She blinks another tear away, staring up at him, feeling so small and insignificant, while also growing at least an inch as she listens to him. It's a contradicting feeling, complicated, unreal. The option to give herself to him, let him steer her through life, is something she can't completely deny liking. It will indeed be easier to have someone take care of everything, take care of her. Her life hasn't been easy thus far, so after all that hassle of trying to be her own human being, his proposition sounds almost too good to be true.

She'd do anything for that head-empty-feeling right about now. Thinking about this too hard, makes her head hurt and her heart ache and her stomach tense. All those thoughts inside her head drive her crazy, the doubts, the complaints, the questions. Does he really mean it? What if he grows tired of her? Then she'll have nothing. Will he just throw her away at one point? He barely knows her, she barely knows him. It's been an intense weekend, but has it been enough?

Suddenly she's back at the club, meeting his eyes through the crowd. The thumping bass under her feet as she approaches him, the muffled music in her ears when he pushes her against the wall in the back, her own heartbeat drumming inside her skull when he kisses her, holds her, tells her to take her with him... She wanted a hook-up, be one of the girls that crowd around him every night. She woke up to a weekend full of unexpected challenges and experiences, of humiliation, of pain and pleasure, of praise and warmth, of needs and wants she never knew she had, of itches she never knew needed to be scratched.

It's insane to want this, to be just a body for him, a set of holes for him to fill however he likes. To be degraded like that. But is it really insane to want to be in his strong arms, to feel his hands on her, his mouth, his lips, his tongue, his cock inside her? He told her she isn't allowed to have wants anymore, that she's his to use, but this is what she wants. Him. His attention. His warmth and strength and the comfort of being with him, those sweet moments afterwards.

Inhaling deeply, she bites her lip, swallows hard, her eyes wandering over his hard face. Handsome, stoic, surprisingly patient as he waits for her reply. He doesn't have to give her time to think about it, he said he takes what he wants, he's never asking her to do anything, he orders her to do it. There's no room for complaints. And there's a certain freedom in it, in just following his commands, doing what he tells her to do. It is easier.

And yet he gave her the chance to consider it (well, the illusion of a chance if she ignores the state of her apartment and her job for now), he wants her to submit, asked her to submit. And it's that little space for hesitation that makes her doubt everything. She feels as if she can't make that decision. Can't make any decisions anymore.

“T-tell me,” she then whispers, barely audible.

He frowns. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me to submit. Please. Order me to submit,” she clarifies, biting her lip.

His eyebrows shoot up before they furrow back down, his gaze darkening. His hands leave her face to rest heavy on her shoulders as he seems to straighten up in front of her, looking down at her. “Kneel,” he says, his low voice causing goosebumps to ripple over her skin.

She falls to her knees instantly, hands folded on her lap, chin tilted up to look at him. Focusing on him and only him.

“You will submit to me,” he says. It's not a question. “You will do whatever I say. Do you understand?” His hand is on her chin, thumb rubbing over her bottom lip.

“Yes, sir,” she replies, two words that just spill from her, so easily, a reflex almost, just like how her lips part when he presses his thumb between them. She watches him, her heart racing, her stomach tensing up, that throbbing between her legs back in full force. And he watches her, pushes his thumb deeper into her mouth, and she sucks on it, instinctively, her tongue flicking around it in an almost meditative fashion.

“Good girl,” he says, and she knows, deep down, she will do absolutely anything to keep hearing those words. To stay on his good side. Nothing else matters. Just him. And the itch that needs to be scratched. The very selfish itch to be called a good girl.

NINE 🟥 TEN 🟥 ELEVEN

End notes: This marks the end of Season 1 of Infatuated! Now she is fully his, with no place of her own, no life to return to, all his. What will happen next? Find out very soon!

It's been quite the journey for these two, and for me, and for you, maybe. It was certainly fun to let loose completely and write out all my dirtiest, darkest ideas, and trust me, there are more. My dirty mind is a bottomless pit... (TL;DR: Season 2 is in production, baby!)

So, I want to thank you for joining me on this ride, and I hope you'll continue to follow my work and this story. Until then: Thank you once more, I really appreciate all the support, especially with a story this dark, full of all these controversial themes. It's not something I expected.

Thank you for reading!

TAG LIST: @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN

ELEVEN TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN◾TWENTY

[golvio]

Quietly obsessing over the fact that, based on how you can get to The Fury in the base game, Voice of the Stubborn will be the common denominator of the two possible starting routes, but also that his role in Fury might change depending on whether he’s the second or third Voice you meet.

I don’t remember exactly which interview I heard the devs say this, but I remember them saying that the second Voice you met was usually less helpful in the Chapter II they appear in, but the third Voice who appears in Chapter III is more helpful in that their advice guides you towards a conclusive ending to the relationship/story you’ve built with the Princess in that particular loop. But I don’t remember there ever being a route where you can get the exact same Voice from two different circumstances (unless Voice of the Paranoid can show up in The Wraith from Spectre’s direction, in which case I’m being a dum-dum).

In Adversary > Fury, Stubborn’s a perfect mirror of Adversary in that he’s accepted his role in the story as Her Eternal Enemy and enjoys it so much that he doesn’t question it. Contrarian being introduced serves as a potential destabilizing, deconstructive influence who might encourage him and Fury to start questioning their respective places in the narrative. Meanwhile, Tower > Fury has him introduced as the third voice in a manner that seems similar to his appearance in Den, where he sees himself as protecting us from a bully by encouraging us to stand up for ourself and fight back instead of meekly accepting our role as prey. But he also has no prior relationship with Fury and therefore no time to get comfortable in his role as Enemy, nor has Tower-Fury ever encountered an aspect of us with quite as willful and unrelenting as Stubborn.

Still, I don’t think it’s going to be just like Den where Stubborn is only helpful in the ending where you try to slay the Princess in revenge. I think there’s a reason why he’s in both versions of the route, even if it feels like Fury’s going to be a radically different character based on which route you approach her from, much like the Greys. I think, like the Greys, there’s a common theme to her route that makes both versions converging on the same role make sense despite the two versions of her being completely different characters. Fury’s route has this theme of literal and figurative deconstruction as both versions of her are denied what each sees as their purpose, throwing the cycle of violence/domination between us off its axis though not breaking it entirely, and then this possible theme of exploration/self-exploration as she takes us apart to try to figure out what that means. For whatever reason, Stubborn needs to be there, regardless of whether he’s initially helpful or not. And the updated Fury route will have the most new dialogue, sprites, and music out of all the upcoming new content for The Pristine Cut, if not all the base game routes in general. I find that extremely suspicious. There is something more the devs want to say with Fury, and, again, Stubborn has to be there for it.

Not to mention that, even though he was born to fight and perfectly happy with the idea of fighting Adversary forever, the only other time we’ve ever seen him truly at peace was The Wild, where he lays down his arms and willingly wants to be one with her. And then this route is another one that involves the Princess going inside of us in a very bizarrely intimate way. On top of that, the Tower being a very surprising route for me because she only ever seemed truly interested in the Long Quiet beyond allowing him to be “a priest or a pet” was when he was resisting her and trying to fight back, whether in Tower (before he actually makes her bleed and everything goes wrong) or in Apotheosis, where she seemed genuinely curious about what he was going to do if he tried to stop her.

Like…the update announcement said there was going to be a “new ending.” Is it going to be a character-specific ending like Stranger, where her route left such a massive loose end that she needed to have her own ending to give her and Contrarian’s story closure? Are we going to get that but with Fury and Stubborn? I mean, we can’t have a story about the breaking of cycles that possibly involves poor Stubborn having his own existential crisis and then leave both him and Fury hanging, can we?

[haikyu-mp4]

Glowing

word count; 1047 – gn!reader, a bit suggestive

Hoshiumi Korai always wanted to be tough. To win everything. Some would call it a need to be ‘manly’ enough, but he just always had something to prove. In a weird way, it was one of the things that made you feel drawn to him while you were dating. His drive and competitive tendencies, as well as the little frown he did when he lost or got embarrassed. It was all attractive to you.

Completely unrelated, you cared a lot for your skin with a semi-intricate skincare routine every night. Korai, who you recently moved in with after being partners for a few years, would often stay in the bathroom while you did your routine, brushing his teeth for a little longer just so he could watch you and maybe throw out a question or two. Like why are there two soaps? Why are there different serums for different days? And then once a week, after you put on a face mask, he would pull you into his lap on the couch and complain about how you didn’t let him have any kisses. Instead, he settled for holding you closer and tickling your neck with kisses. Living together was pretty great.

One day he finally gave in. You both just finished drying off after a heated shower in each other’s company, when you started putting on this week’s face mask. Korai looked at you in the mirror with a soft frown as he snaked his arms around your waist and cuddled into your neck. It had been a long week, he was so tired from this damn sport he loved so much and felt a little extra thankful today that he got to come home to you. So when you asked “You want a face mask as well?” like you always did, he let out a small sigh before giving in.

“Yes, I do.”

After the short process of getting the mask on for each of you, trading giggles with hesitant grimaces, you both sat on the couch with a timer on your phone and some movie you had watched before on the TV. You even convinced him to put on a cute frog headband to keep his hair away from his face.

While you sat with your legs across his lap and told him about one of your colleagues’ gossip, he looked at his phone and picked it up when it rang. He just glanced at the name of the caller, too into your story to check anything else. Korai hummed as you slowed down your talking to see who it was as well.

“I’ll just check what he wants,” Korai mumbled. The two of you had taken so many cute selfies with the masks on that he didn’t realise the reason he could see the two of you on his screen now was because it was a video call.

Korai seemed to choke on his breath when his screen suddenly showed Kageyama and Hinata with a small image of you and him in the corner. Wearing... face masks and headbands. The girly kind. During Korai’s shock, there was unfortunately time for the man on the other line to fumble his way to the screenshot buttons.

“Idiotyama!! Why would you video me on a Friday evening?” Korai yelled, handing the phone to you and letting his head fall back against the sofa in humiliation. There goes my whole image, he thought dramatically. He couldn’t even cover his face with his hands in shame and instead just pointed an empty stare at the ceiling.

“Me and Kageyama needed to settle something but now I can’t remember what it was. Oh, hi y/n!” the orange-haired man said cheerfully. With a sweet smile, you held a short conversation with them before hanging up. Phone on the table, you put your arms back around your boyfriend’s neck and wondered what you should say. He put his arms loosely around you and waited in silence for you to find the right words.

“I think you look very pretty.”

Hinata and Kageyama had learnt a thing or two about teasing from their older teammates, and you bet the screenshot of you and Korai in pink face masks was sent to the Japan Olympic group chat with a nice ‘hope everyone is enjoying a relaxing weekend just like the little giant!’

Let’s just say you were struggling to hold back your laughter while you finally helped him wash the mask off after the timer went off. Korai was silent, keeping his eyes closed until you pressed a kiss to his freshly washed cheek when you were done. “Wearing a face mask isn’t embarrassing, Korai,” you told him, sneaking your hands under his shirt to warm them.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he sighed, unintentionally pouting like a little boy and tracing his hands around to squeeze your bum like stress balls. Of course, the others didn’t actually care that much if any of the guys used a face mask, it’s just so funny because it’s Korai. He always takes the bait when they tease him.

So as you two finally curled up in bed, you let him spoon you this time with his strong arms curling around you. It made him feel a bit better as you cuddled into him. The morning after was spent cosying up under the sheets and enjoying each other’s bodies before going on your routine weekend jog together. Everything seemed back to normal.

Except that your boyfriend was plotting for the best revenge against his friends.

please excuse the timeline ignorance between the Adlers and the Olympics, it's just a little bonus because I love the Adlers trio

Monday came and Korai went off to work early in the morning. He put the lunch you packed him in his bag and pecked your lips before he was out the door.

“You’re glowing, Hoshiumi.” Kageyama tried his luck early on during warm-ups.

“What am I, pregnant?” Korai spat back. Kageyama just kept smiling at his own joke.

Ushijima switched which arm he was stretching and observed Hoshiumi. “Your skin does look refreshed, maybe we should all get face masks with y/n.”

“I know it does but get your own partner, man.” He just mumbled, moving away to warm up with a ball on the other side of the court. They were so going to get it for teasing him one day.

masterlist