#facade ch 5

[alygator77]

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 5 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse (emotional abuse but it can be a bit suggestive/interpreted as physical, from naoya not satoru)

ꨄ words: 8.3k

ꨄ a/n. here we go guys 🫣 idk what to even say, so i'll see ya'll at the bottom. enjoy♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

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ch 5 // a leap of faith

You stare out the window of Satoru’s limousine, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as the world rushes by—but your thoughts are too loud to let you fully take it in.

You’d think the upcoming interview at the gala would be your primary concern, considering that’s where you’re currently headed, but instead, your mind is trapped in a loop—the memory of Satoru’s phone call.

Do you really know him at all?

The bone chilling temper you overheard has left you questioning everything, only heightening your doubts in him.

There was something in his voice that you can’t shake—a bite that fills you with fear, a kind of fear that whispers in the back of your mind, warning that one day his icy detachment could be directed at you the moment you fail him.

Satoru sits across from you in the luxurious backseat, but despite the close proximity, it feels as though a vast distance separates you now—a chasm of unspoken thoughts and lingering doubts.

And you—so consumed by the questions swirling in your mind—fail to notice that Satoru is watching you—his gaze steady, searching, as if he’s trying to read something in your expression.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” he observes, “Is everything okay?”

You stiffen, pulse quickening.

Fuck.

Can he see right through you? Does he know about the doubts gnawing at you, the secrets you’ve been keeping?

His eyes search your face for something you’re not ready to reveal, and your defenses go up instinctively.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out, but the moment the words leave your lips, you inwardly cringe, the tonality of your voice holding an unintentional harshness.

Well, shit… it wasn’t meant to come out like that. But it did.

He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Uh…you sure?”

“Yes,” you counter abruptly, too abruptly, and your gaze darts away from his as if meeting his eyes might unravel the carefully constructed facade you’re desperately clinging to.

You feel the anxiety begin to bubble, threatening to spill over, and as your eyes fix on the window, you watch the world blur by, anything to avoid the weight of his scrutiny.

But Satoru’s sapphire eyes remain steady, unwavering. He rakes a hand through his tousled white hair and lets out a soft sigh, laced with a quiet frustration.

“You know… we’ve been living together for a while now,” his tone gentle, yet probing, “I think I can pick up when something’s up. You’re not as good at hiding it as you think. I mean, you tried to put the TV remote in the fridge this morning.”

A flush of embarrassment colors your cheeks.

Okay…rude, why does he have to call you out like that? Yeah sure, you have been out of it today—but how can you not be? The pressure you’re feeling is unbearable.

You let out a small, forced laugh, trying to brush it off, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in your tone.

“Uhh, it’s called ‘mom brain,’ Satoru.”

He furrows his brow, his expression softening even as a playful grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Mom brain? What the heck is that?”

Your eyes meet his for a brief moment, and in that split second, you catch a glimpse of the genuine concern lurking behind his playful facade. Your heart drops at the sight, a pang of guilt twisting in your chest.

Dammit, why does he have to look at you like that?

Why does he have to make this so much harder?

The frustration bubbles up inside you, not just at the situation, but at him—at the whole confusing mess that’s become your life. You don’t know what to believe anymore, and that uncertainty gnaws at you, leaving you feeling raw and exposed.

You break eye contact, looking away from him yet again, and an exasperated sigh escapes your lips.

“It’s what happens when you’re a mom and you’ve got a million things on your mind at once. Sometimes, your brain just… short circuits. It’s like, where did I put the keys? Oh, they’re in the fridge next to the remote. No big deal.”

Satoru chuckles, the sound low and warm. For a moment, it feels like the tension might ease.

“Sounds like a pretty convenient excuse to me,” he remarks playfully, but as his voice softens, the teasing edge gives way to genuine concern.

His gaze turns serious as his eyes search yours, intent and piercing, as if he’s trying to see past the walls you’ve put up.

“Mom brain or not… I know you, y/n. And I know when something’s really bothering you.”

Double fuck.

There’s a moment of panic, a fear that he might see right through you. The truth you’ve been burying deep inside threatens to surface, and the pressure of keeping it hidden feels suffocating.

You can’t let him see it. You can’t let him know.

“I’m…I’m just nervous about the interview,” you blurt out, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate attempt to deflect, to steer him away from the dark, treacherous waters he’s unknowingly wading into.

But the excuse feels flimsy, like a poorly constructed lie that could crumble under the slightest scrutiny—and so you reach deep within yourself, trying to find a way to make it more believable.

“Not everyone can be like you Satoru, all carefree with no worries in the world. Must be nice.”

The moment the words escape, you feel them slicing through the air, sharp and jagged, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Regret twists in your gut like a knife, its cold blade cutting deep as you realize the bitterness laced in your voice, bitterness that surprises even you.

Triple fuck.

What the hell are you doing? Why are you attacking him like this?

The resentment, the fear, the overwhelming sense of inadequacy—all of it comes crashing to the surface, bubbling over before you can shove it back down where it belongs.

Great. Now you’re lashing out, emotions spiraling out of control, your composure slipping through your fingers like sand.

You can practically see the words hanging in the air between you, ugly and heavy, and the guilt that follows is instant, a crushing weight on your chest.

God, get it together.

For a moment, Satoru says nothing, his expression unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, or simply trying to process your outburst.

You bite your lip, a nervous habit you’ve never been able to shake, and you force yourself to look away. Satoru does the same, both of your eyes falling yet again on the familiar blurred scenery outside the window, searching for answers that aren’t there.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, until finally, Satoru shifts across from you. He turns his head just enough that you catch the movement out of the corner of your eye, and you force yourself to glance back at him.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, but there’s no humor in the gesture, just a faint, almost imperceptible sadness.

“You think I don’t worry?” he murmurs, voice so quiet you almost don’t catch it.

The rawness in his tone cuts through you like a blade, slicing through the walls you’ve built around your heart.

You turn to face him fully, really looking at him, and for the first time, you notice the subtle signs of weariness etched into his features—the shadows beneath his eyes, darker and more pronounced than you remember, the way the light in his eyes seems… dimmed, like a flame that’s burning too low.

Has he always looked this… tired? Or is it only now that you’re seeing it?

“Well…you’re always so confident and composed. It’s hard to even imagine you worrying,” you admit softly, and the defensiveness that had been there moments ago slips away like water through your fingers. “You’re able to handle all this with such ease. It’s like… nothing ever phases you.”

Satoru lets out a soft, almost bitter chuckle, the sound tinged with disbelief, as if your words are some kind of cruel joke.

“Yeah, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” he shakes his head slightly, “It’s not that I don’t worry. It’s that I can’t show it. People expect me to be… well, this,” he gestures vaguely to himself, “Confident, capable, always in control.”

You blink. The realization hitting you like a wave, washing over you and leaving you unsettled.

All this time, you’ve seen him as an invincible force, someone who could handle anything with a smile, who never let the pressures of his life touch him. You’ve relied on that image, drawn strength from it, without ever questioning the reality behind it.

But that’s not the case, is it?

Beneath the polished exterior, behind the confident facade, he’s been playing a role, just like you. He’s been hiding his fears and insecurities, presenting a version of himself that the world expects to see, while the real him remains concealed.

Your heart aches at the thought, a pang of guilt threading through the tenderness you feel for him. He’s been carrying this burden, this expectation of perfection, and you’ve been too wrapped up in your own struggles to see it.

You were right—you truly don’t know the real him. But… you want to. Desperately.

You take a deep breath, eyes searching his face for the truth behind his words.

“But… why?” you ask gently, “Why is it so important to you to keep up this image? Why can’t you just… be yourself?”

There’s a moment of silence, a heartbeat where you think he might not answer, where the vulnerability in his eyes seems to retreat behind the familiar walls he’s built. But then, he speaks, and the words that spill from his lips are raw, tinged with a quiet resignation that cuts through you.

“Because ‘myself’ isn’t good enough,” he admits quietly. “Not in this world. Not with the expectations people have of me.”

The sheer weight of his words, pierces through you, and your heart aches with an almost unbearable tenderness. There is a deep vulnerability in his admission, and the need to reach out, to comfort him, burns within you.

But would he even accept it? Could you close this growing chasm between you, this distance that feels both vast and fragile?

“But Satoru, who says you have to meet these expectations?” you whisper, voice trembling with emotion.

He lets out a bitter laugh, the sound devoid of any real humor, and the gesture is almost painful to witness, as if he’s mocking himself more than anything else. When his eyes finally meet yours, there’s an emptiness in them that chills you to the core, as though he’s become a shell of the person he once was.

“I’m a Gojo, y/n. There’s a certain… standard that comes with that name. It’s not just an image, it’s a legacy.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting away from yours and settling on the passing scenery outside the window yet again. There’s something almost haunting in the way he stares out, as if he’s lost in a world you can’t reach.

“People look at me and they see the name before they see the person. And if I don’t live up to that legacy… if I don’t maintain it…”

“—but doesn’t that mean you’re living for them, and not for yourself?” you interject softly, the question hanging in the air between you like a lifeline.

Satoru’s eyes flicker to yours quickly, a flash of something unidentifiable crossing his features, but then he looks away again, his gaze returning to the window. This time, there’s a distant sadness in his eyes, a melancholy that seems to settle over him like a heavy shroud.

“You shouldn’t have to sacrifice who you are just to fit into a mold that someone else created. That’s not living, Satoru. That’s just… existing.”

The silence that follows is thick and palpable, stretching out between you as if the very air around you has become denser. You watch him closely, searching his face for any sign that your words have reached him, that they’ve touched something deep within.

But as the moments pass, a new question begins to form in the back of your mind, creeping in slowly with an undeniable urgency.

Is Satoru truly happy with this life he’s been forced to live?

Or has he become so accustomed to the role he’s been given, the expectations he’s been made to carry, that he’s forgotten what it means to live for himself?

The smile he often wears—the one that dazzles everyone around him—feels different now as you think about it. It seems less like a genuine expression of joy and more like a carefully crafted mask, designed to hide the cracks beneath.

But then there’s the smile you’ve seen when he’s with you and Haru, one that’s softer, more genuine, like a fleeting glimpse of the man he could be if he weren’t weighed down by the immense burden of his family’s legacy.

If Satoru were truly as calculating, as cold and self-serving as you once thought, then why does he seem so… trapped?

Why does it feel like he’s just as much a prisoner of his circumstances as you’ve felt in your own life?

The thought sends a pang of guilt through you, a realization that maybe, just maybe, you’ve been too quick to judge, too quick to believe the worst without truly understanding the complexities of the man sitting in front of you.

You know that feeling all too well—the suffocating pressure to be someone you’re not, to live up to the expectations others have placed on you.

It’s a burden you wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all someone who, despite everything, has shown you kindness and care.

“You know…there was a time in my life when I was just… existing, too,” you murmur, the words fragile yet heavy as they slip from your lips.

His eyes flicker to yours briefly, a small spark of interest igniting in the blue depths, but he doesn’t turn to face you. His posture remains angled toward the window, his gaze distant and unfocused, as if the world outside holds the answers he’s searching for.

“When I was with Naoya,” you continue, the name tasting bitter on your tongue, “it felt like every day was a performance. I had to be what he wanted, do what he expected, or face the consequences. It was like I was living in a cage, unable to be myself because ‘myself’ wasn’t what he wanted.”

You steal another glance at him, wondering if he understands, if he sees the parallels between your experiences. The memories flood back with each word you utter, their weight pressing down on your chest.

“I was just going through the motions, trying to survive,” you admit, voice trembling slightly. “It was… exhausting. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t, always afraid of what might happen if I let the mask slip.”

Satoru remains silent, his profile bathed in the soft glow of the city lights as they pass by outside the window—but, in the dim light of the limousine, you catch sight of his expression—thoughtful, pensive, as if your words have found their way into a place in his mind where he rarely allows anything to dwell.

“It sounds… suffocating,” he finally says, his voice quiet, almost reverent. His gaze remains on the world outside the window, though you know his words are meant for you. “Living like that, always having to be someone else. I can imagine… how hard that must have been for you.”

“It was,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart drops as you experience a sudden realization—a realization that…with Satoru you are falling into that same pattern.

Forcing yourself to put on this façade of being the perfect wife of a Gojo—trapped in a life that doesn’t feel like yours, performing a role that someone else wrote for you.

How is it that your entire life, you have been a victim of control—first by Naoya, the man you once loved, and now by Satoru, the man you are beginning to care for?

All you have ever wanted is what’s best for you daughter.

“But… I did what I needed to do, for Haru’s sake.”

Haru’s sake.

The words echo in your mind, a reminder of the choices you’ve made, the sacrifices you endured to protect her. And as you sit across from Satoru in this limousine, another question lingers at the edge of your thoughts—a question that fills you with uncertainty.

…what is the right choice to make for Haru’s sake?

Would staying with Satoru mean condemning yourself to another life of pretenses and expectations? A life where you continue to lose pieces of yourself, where you’re forced to hide behind yet another mask?

You steal a glance at Satoru, searching his face for answers you’re not sure you’ll find. His expression, though calm, doesn’t give much away, and it only deepens your turmoil.

Could he break free of these shackles with you?

Could he let go of the image he’s been forced to uphold, and be the person he truly is, without fear of judgment or rejection? Without being dictated by the weight of legacy and obligation?

The questions whirl in your mind.

Do you risk telling him everything, laying your soul bare in the hope that he will abandon this life for you? That he will choose you and Haru over the cold, unyielding expectations that have bound him for so long?

Or do you betray the man you’ve come to admire so deeply, the man who, despite his outward strength, is already so fragile, so vulnerable, hidden behind a mask of confidence?

As the silence stretches between you, you realize that the answer to one question in particular might be more important than anything else.

Because if Satoru can’t break free—if he can’t be himself, even with you—then what kind of future could you possibly have together? What kind of life could you offer Haru if you’re both trapped in a web of lies and half-truths, forced to play roles that don’t fit?

Your heart clenches painfully at the thought, and for the first time, you begin to doubt whether you can keep playing this role, whether you can keep pretending that everything is okay when deep down, you know it’s not.

But…you want to believe in him. So, so badly.

You want to believe that Satoru is different, that he’s capable of more than just playing the part assigned to him. You want to believe that, together, you can carve out a life that’s real, that’s yours, free from the weight of expectation and the shadow of legacy.

The desire to believe in him, to trust him, is almost overwhelming, and it takes every ounce of your strength not to reach out to him, to demand answers, to plead for him to show you that he’s more than just the image he projects to the world.

“So how did you break free?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, almost as if he’s afraid of the answer.

Your breath hitches as his words hang in the air, and for a moment, the weight of his question feels like it might crush you.

You let out a trembling exhale, your emotions teetering on the edge of control, threatening to consume you whole.

“Just… a leap of faith,” you manage.

The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve survived. And in that moment, you hope—no, you pray—that it’s enough.

Enough to show him that there’s a way out, that there’s more to life than the roles you’ve been forced to play. Enough to convince him that he can take that same leap, that he can be more than just the legacy he’s been bound to.

Because if he can’t… then you’re not sure you’ll survive another fall.

ꨄ︎

The rest of the car ride passes in an unusual, heavy silence, but as the limousine nears the dazzling venue that will soon thrust you both into the public eye, you steel yourself for what’s to come.

The quiet, introspective moments you shared with Satoru within the backseat of this vehicle start to morph into something else—an unspoken agreement that whatever doubts, fears, or conflicts surfaced during this ride must now be hidden, locked away beneath yet another carefully constructed facade.

After all—in this world you are both living in, there can be no room for hesitation, no cracks in the image you both must maintain.

Satoru straightens in his seat, his expression sharpening into the confident mask you’ve seen him wear so many times before—like an actor preparing for a role.

It’s as if every trace of the man who moments ago, shared his deepest insecurities with you is now tucked away, replaced by the flawless persona the world expects to see.

And the way he does it so effortlessly—well, it only intensifies the ache in your heart.

But you have no choice to follow suit—the night is just beginning, and so, just as he did, you force your own worries into the back of your mind as you too prepare to play your part.

The limousine comes to a smooth halt at the gala’s entrance, and your eyes widen in awe.

It’s not as if the last charity gala you attended wasn’t elegant, certainly it was, but this—this is on an entirely different scale, a spectacle of grandeur that borders on the surreal.

The venue—a massive hotel nestled in the heart of the city—stands like a beacon of luxury. Its grand entrance a marvel, adorned with sparkling lights that bathe the surrounding area in a warm, golden glow.

The red carpet stretches out like a river of crimson, flowing beside the gleaming wheels of limousines that pull up one after another.

Their doors open to reveal the crème de la crème of society—elegantly dressed attendees stepping out, their outfits glittering under the lights and the air filled with the lively murmur of conversation and bright flashes of cameras.

You recognize several faces in the crowd—renowned actors whose performances have moved you to tears, musicians whose songs have been the soundtrack to your life, influencers who have set trends you've tried to keep up with.

These are the people who’ve always seemed larger than life—whose lives have played out on magazine covers and in the flicker of movie screens. And now, here they are, mere feet away from you, mingling in the same space, breathing the same air.

God, this is terrifying.

You’ve stepped into the domain where every glance, every whisper holds weight—every word you utter, every expression that crosses your face, will be scrutinized, dissected, and judged.

The world is watching you.

Bright lights from cameras flare up, nearly blinding you as your foot touches the red carpet.

The media presence is quite overwhelming, and instinctively, you reach for Satoru’s hand, seeking some sort of anchor in the chaos—without even considering how, just moments ago, you could barely bring yourself to meet his eyes.

As soon as your fingers brush against his, you hesitate, unsure if it’s the right move.

You steal a quick glance at Satoru, trying to gauge his mood, to see if he’s feeling the same dissonance. But before you can pull away, he responds immediately, his hand closing around yours with a gentle squeeze, intertwining his fingers with yours.

His expression remains carefully composed, and he offers you a small, comforting smile—one that feels reassuring in its familiarity.

But… isn’t that just how it is between you two?

Pretending like nothing happened, like there isn’t a storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

His smile is a mask, you know that, but despite it all, it’s still a small comfort—a quiet reminder that, despite everything, you’re not alone in this.

At least, you’re in it together.

As Satoru leads you down the red carpet, carrying that familiar unshakeable confidence—the second skin he effortlessly slips into—you can’t help but feel a subtle tension in the air of attendees, an undercurrent you can’t quite shake.

Why is it that the media’s gaze feels sharper…more pointed, as though they’re all waiting with bated breath for the slightest crack in the façade, for a single moment of vulnerability to pounce on?

And you can’t help but feel like that crack might come from you.

You catch sight of the interview station ahead—a stage set for judgment with its sleek, modern setup. The charity event’s logo glows prominently against a backdrop, creating a space to remind everyone of the event’s significance, yet for you it feels more like a gauntlet.

Oh, God…

Suddenly everything feels unbearably heavy, magnified under the relentless scrutiny of so many watchful eyes: Naoya’s threat, loosing Haru, Satoru’s intentions and your conflicted feelings for him.

Guests are ushered forward one by one with rehearsed smiles and practiced answers ready for the waiting reporters, and microphones glisten under the harsh lights, capturing every word, every inflection, while cameras click and whir, immortalizing each moment.

Throughout the chatter, you overhear a famous actress gushing about the importance of supporting children in need, her voice carrying a practiced sincerity. Next to her, a well-known musician is cracking a joke, easing into the limelight as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They make it look so easy.

But for you, every step closer to the cluster of reporters feels like a step closer to the edge of a cliff. The knot in your stomach tightens, coiling like a snake ready to strike. The distance between you and the flashing cameras, the probing questions, the scrutinizing eyes—it’s closing in too fast, and there’s no escape.

This is it. This night will test your resolve and your ability to maintain this façade, perhaps more than any before it, and the cost of failure is far too high.

Satoru glances at you, his expression a mask of calm and composure, but there’s something more in the way his thumb traces soothing circles against your skin.

A silent reassurance—one not for the cameras. A promise that, despite everything that happened in the limo, despite the unresolved tension still hanging between you, he’s here.

He’s with you.

You look up at him, and for a moment, the noise and chaos around you fade into the background. In his eyes, you see a softness that’s only privy to you—a vulnerability that he keeps hidden from the world.

It’s a look that makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest, a look that almost makes you believe that maybe everything will be okay.

“You ready?” he murmurs.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm within, nodding slightly as you force a smile onto your face. The muscles in your cheeks feel tight, strained, but you hope—desperately—that it’s convincing enough.

“Yeah,” the word sticks in your throat. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

As the reporters spot you, you can practically feel their collective gaze zeroing in. The intensity of it is suffocating, and as you step into the designated interview area, the cameras flare to life, their bright lights nearly blinding you.

A female reporter steps forward, her smile bright and impeccably professional. She’s poised, microphone at the ready, her demeanor polished to perfection, as if she’s trained her whole life for this moment.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gojo, you both look absolutely stunning tonight,” she begins, voice smooth and tailored for the camera.

“Thank you,” Satoru responds effortlessly, slipping into his role with grace. “We’re both so honored to be able to attend.”

“You’re one of the most talked-about couples this evening,” the reporter continues, her eyes gleaming with interest as she watches you both closely. “Tell us, how does it feel to be here supporting such a noble cause?”

Your heart races, pounding so hard in your chest that you wonder if she can hear it over the noise of the crowd. But you can’t let it show—this is the moment where the facade must hold, where you must be the perfect wife, the perfect partner, the perfect everything.

And so, you force yourself to smile again—stepping into the role you’ve rehearsed in your mind a thousand times.

“We’re here to support a cause that’s very close to our hearts,” your voice is steady, though beneath the surface, you feel a faint tremor threatening to break through. “The work this charity does for children in need is truly incredible… and we’re honored to be a part of it.”

Satoru steps in smoothly, his voice rich with a warmth that seems to effortlessly draw everyone’s attention.

“Absolutely,” he adds. “As parents ourselves, we understand the importance of giving every child a chance at a brighter future. We’re here to do whatever we can to help make that happen.”

There’s a sincerity in his tone that makes it easy to forget the mask he wears, eliciting nods and approving smiles from the reporters.

For a moment, even you are almost convinced, but you know the script, know the words.

You catch a subtle glance he throws your way—a silent check-in, his eyes asking the unspoken question: Are you okay? And you manage a small, almost imperceptible nod in return, meeting his gaze briefly before turning back to the reporter.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” she responds. “And how have you both been? The public is so curious about Haru.”

Here it is—the anxiety settles as you transition from the safe ground of charity work to the more precarious territory of your personal life.

You can feel the eyes of the crowd on you, the cameras zooming in, capturing every flicker of emotion, every nuance of your body language—as though the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for you to falter.

Satoru’s hand releases yours only to wrap around your waist, pulling you close, and the warmth he provides brings you a fleeting moment of comfort.

“We’ve been great,” his smile unwavering. “Life has been busy, but we’re grateful for every moment we get to spend together with our little one. Haru keeps us on our toes, that’s for sure.”

There’s a practiced charm in Satoru’s voice, the kind that can turn any situation into a favorable one. You muster a smile, trying to match his composure, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, she does,” you add, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “It’s a whirlwind, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The reporter’s smile widens, clearly pleased with the smooth delivery, but there’s a lingering tension in the air, a sense that she’s searching for more, for a crack in the veneer.

“There’s been a lot of speculation about Haru,” her voice soft yet probing. “Many are wondering Satoru… is she your biological daughter?”

The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun, the implication sharp and clear.

The crowd seems to lean in, the cameras zooming closer, waiting for your reaction, for any sign of hesitation or discomfort.

But Satoru anticipated this moment—it was one of the questions he had prepared for, a part of the script meticulously crafted to navigate the murky waters of public scrutiny.

The media has been relentless, swirling with unanswered questions about Haru, speculating about who she is and what she’s like.

It’s no secret that you’ve both been fiercely protective of her, keeping her out of the spotlight, away from the prying eyes that would dissect her every move.

For that, you’ve always been deeply grateful to Satoru.

And so, he handles the question with the same effortless grace that he’s maintained throughout the evening.

He chuckles softly—a sound that feels almost disarming warm in its sincerity, as if the question is nothing more than a casual curiosity, easily addressed and dismissed.

“Haru is my daughter in every way that matters,” his tone firm yet kind. “She’s our pride and joy, and we love her more than anything in this world.”

His answer is flawless, designed to reinforce the image of a perfect family. Yet, as the conviction in his words leave his lips, you feel a surge of bittersweetness.

Haru deserves what he is saying…she deserves that reality.

But alas, it’s nothing more than a rehearsed line delivered in front of an audience that’s eager to believe in the fairy tale.

The reporter shifts slightly, her eyes gleaming with curiosity as she continues.

“I see. It’s clear that family is important to both of you. What’s the secret to balancing your high-profile lives with raising a young child?”

You force yourself to smile, the answer ready on your lips.

“We just focus on what’s important,” you begin, the words flowing smoothly despite the tightness in your chest. “We make sure to carve out time for each other and for Haru. It’s all about prioritizing what really matters.”

“It’s not always easy,” Satoru nods in agreement, “but we cherish our time away from the spotlight, and we’re very protective of Haru’s privacy. At the end of the day, we’re just like any other parent—we want what’s best for Haru, and we do our best to make that happen.”

Another perfectly crafted answer, one that’s sure to satisfy the reporter and the audience watching from behind their screens. You can almost see the checkmark being made in her mind—a box ticked off; a line drawn under the discussion of family life.

The reporter, sensing she’s reached the natural conclusion of the topic, shifts her stance slightly.

“Thank you for sharing. It’s clear that Haru is very lucky to have you both.”

Her gaze sharpens, the glint of professional interest cutting through the pleasantries.

“And what about your own relationship? How do you manage to keep the spark alive amidst all the chaos?”

Here it comes. The question you were dreading, the one you hoped she’d skip over.

It’s one thing to talk about Haru, to present a united front when it comes to your daughter...

But your relationship?

That’s a minefield, one littered with unspoken truths and half-hearted lies. And it sucks. It really sucks that Satoru has to deal with this kind of intrusion daily—a life where privacy is a luxury you can barely afford.

“Communication is key,” you begin, the words flowing out of you like second nature. Lies. “We make sure to talk about everything—our hopes, our fears, our plans.” Lies. “And we make an effort to have regular date nights, just to reconnect and remind ourselves of why we fell in love in the first place.” Lies.

As the words leave your lips, you can almost hear the hollow echo of them in your mind, a mantra you’ve repeated so many times it’s lost all meaning. You know it, and Satoru knows it, too.

But he plays his part flawlessly—lifting your hand to his lips, brushing a tender kiss on the back of it. It’s a small gesture, one that seems innocent enough, but you feel the weight of it—the expectation, the need to present a united front, to sell the illusion.

As the warmth of his lips lingers on your skin, your heart clenches with yearning.

“That’s right,” Satoru adds, his voice carrying that practiced sincerity that makes everything he says sound like the absolute truth. “We support each other, and I’m so lucky that y/n is my biggest cheerleader. We’re a team, and that makes all the difference.”

The reporter nods thoughtfully, her smile curling up in a way that suggests she’s found the narrative she’s been looking for.

“You know,” she begins, her tone shifting into something more conspiratorial, as if she’s about to reveal a tantalizing secret, “speaking of… you two have quickly become the talk of the town—everyone’s eager to know more about your story. Satoru, you were once considered the world’s most eligible bachelor, but now… here you are. How did this all begin?”

There it is—the question that forces you both to delve into the past, to recount a story that’s been polished and perfected, but one that still feels strangely disconnected from the reality you’re living.

You shift slightly in Satoru’s hold, the rehearsed answer poised on your tongue, designed to fit the narrative you both agreed upon—but before you can even open your mouth to speak, Satoru takes the lead.

“Well," he starts, calm and measured, "Y/n was looking for a new job, and I needed someone with her expertise. It was professional at first, but we just… clicked. Like it was meant to be.”

The familiar words from the script slip effortlessly from his lips, just like you practiced, and the interviewer’s eyes light up, clearly pleased with the response—at least on the surface. But there’s a glint in her eyes, a spark of curiosity that suggests she’s not quite done yet.

The microphone inches closer, capturing every word, every inflection, as if she’s trying to draw out something deeper, something more than the polished story you’re offering.

“That’s wonderful,” her voice takes a more intimate tone as she leans in. “But Satoru, what was it about y/n that made you realize she was the one? I mean, surely there was something that stood out, something that made you think, ‘This is the woman I want to spend my life with.’”

“I’ve always admired how she puts Haru first," he begins reciting the script, voice steady and composed. "Her dedication to being a mother, to making sure Haru has everything she needs, it’s something I truly respect…”

But then, there’s a pause—a brief, almost imperceptible silence that stretches time, making your heart skip a beat.

Did he just hesitate?

His gaze flickers to yours, and for a moment, the practiced facade slips. There’s a softness in his eyes that makes your breath catch—but before you can process it, he continues.

“Actually, you know… when I first met y/n, there was something about her that I couldn’t ignore. She was different from anyone I’ve ever met—strong, intelligent, and fiercely independent."

Wait… did he just change the script?

An unexpected flutter stirs in your stomach, and your pulse quickens as the weight of his words sinks in. This wasn’t part of the agreed-upon answer… so why is he veering off course?

Your eyes narrow slightly as you search his face, trying to decode the sudden change.

"It’s strange,” he continues, his voice softer now, more introspective, “because at first, I thought it was just her strength that drew me in."

A small, almost nostalgic smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and there’s a warmth in his expression that makes something inside you twist.

"But as I got to know her, I realized it was more than that. Y/n has this incredible ability to make everyone around her feel seen and valued… she’s honest, sometimes brutally so, but she’s also kind in a way that’s rare."

The interviewer’s expression changes, the curiosity in her eyes deepening as she senses a sincerity in his words.

Is he… speaking from the heart?

It feels like a quiet confession, one meant only for you, despite the audience that surrounds you both.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you find yourself holding it, afraid to let go of this moment, afraid to shatter the delicate truth he seems to be laying bare. His words wrap around you like a cocoon, drawing you in, making you feel both vulnerable and cherished in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

This isn’t the Satoru you’ve come to expect—the one who carefully controls every word, every expression, ensuring that nothing slips through the cracks. It’s as if he’s just lifted a curtain, showing you a glimpse of something real, something you didn’t think you’d ever see.

But why now? Why here, in front of all these people?

Is…he willing to take that leap of faith?

In that instant, the hope blooming inside you feels almost tangible, like a fragile flower unfurling its petals for the first time. It’s delicate, yes, but unmistakable, and it fills you with a warmth that you’ve longed for—something you thought you’d never find again. It’s enough to make you believe that maybe, just maybe, everything can change.

For so long, you’ve hidden behind masks, playing roles that never truly belonged to you. But now, if Satoru is willing to step beyond the boundaries you both created…

The world around you—the blinding lights, the flashing cameras, the buzz of the crowd—seems to fade into the background, blurring into insignificance.

All that remains is the two of you, as if you’ve stepped into a world of your own making, where nothing else matters.

Satoru shifts slightly, and when his eyes find yours, there’s a depth and intensity in them that you’ve never seen before.

It’s as if he’s seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you—not the roles you’ve played, not the masks you’ve worn, but you, the person beneath it all. In that moment, it feels like you’re the only person who matters.

“For the first time in my life, I feel like I have someone I can truly trust. Someone who doesn’t just see me as ‘Gojo Satoru,’ but as a regular person, with all my flaws and imperfections.”

Trust.

A knot forms in your chest, constricting each beat of your heart as Satoru’s confession echoes in your mind.

The burden of that single word feels unbearable as the guilt you’ve been suppressing resurfaces, suddenly making it hard to focus on anything else.

Here Satoru is, baring his soul to you in a way you never expected, revealing the depth of his feelings, his vulnerabilities, and all the while, you’ve been holding onto a secret—a lie that could shatter everything.

No… it’s not just a lie—it’s a betrayal, and the full weight of it settles on your shoulders, heavy and suffocating.

Fuck, you’re losing your composure.

You’re acutely aware of the cameras, their lenses trained on you, capturing every fleeting emotion that flickers across your face.

The pressure is immeasurable and you swallow hard, desperately trying to hold his gaze, to anchor yourself in the sincerity you see there, but your smile feels brittle, like it might crack at any moment.

Satoru leans in closer and instinctively, you want to pull away—terrified that the closer he gets, the more he’ll see, the more he’ll understand the depths of your turmoil. But you’re trapped, rooted in place, every movement scrutinized, recorded, and you know you can’t falter.

His breath is warm against your skin as he places a gentle kiss on your temple, a touch so gentle that it nearly undoes you. This wasn’t part of the script, unlike the calculated kiss on your hand earlier, and the tenderness behind it, is almost too much to bear.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and his words—intended for the camera—feel like they’re meant for you alone.

“I guess you could say that y/n has this way of making me feel… grounded. Like I can be myself, and that’s enough.”

His words cut through you like a knife. What are you doing? You can’t keep lying to him, not after this.

As the crowd around you buzzes with life and the cameras continue to flash, capturing this moment of intimacy, all you can think about is the price you might pay for this secret you’ve kept.

Once he realizes you’ve been hiding this from him, will he ever be able to look at you the same way again? Will he still see you as someone he can trust?

This new fear surges forward, and you feel your composure slipping, the mask you wear cracking.

Fuck. Is it obvious?

Can they all see the turmoil roiling inside you, the fear that everything is about to come crashing down?

Is your panic written across your face, as clear as day for the world to see?

“That’s such a beautiful sentiment,” the reporter’s approving voice cuts through the haze, snapping you back to the present with a jolt.

But before you can fully regain your bearings, her gaze shifts, locking onto you with an intensity that makes your heart pound against your ribcage.

Her eyes seem to bore into you, searching for something beneath the surface, and suddenly, you’re terrified that she might find it.

“And how does it feel to hear him say that, y/n? To know that you have such a profound effect on someone like Satoru?”

The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, you’re frozen, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a physical force.

What are you even supposed to say?

You practiced for this, rehearsed the lines until they were second nature, but nothing could have prepared you for the raw honesty in Satoru’s words.

How does it feel?

God, the truth is, you don’t know how to feel—happy, surprised, comforted, terrified…there are too many emotions surging through you at this moment, too many to untangle and make sense of.

But…you have to say something, the world is watching.

Blood rushes in your ears, drowning out the noise of the crowd, and you force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels, searching for the right words, the ones that will satisfy the reporter.

“It’s… I’m so lucky,” you manage to say, stammering slightly. “Knowing that I have that kind of impact on him… it’s an honor. I just hope I can continue to be that person for him.”

Is it enough?

The words feel hollow, a weak echo of the truth, but they’re all you can manage. You just hope they’ll hold the world at bay, at least for now.

The reporter nods, her professional smile unwavering, but you can’t shake the feeling she’s watching you closely, searching for any cracks in your veneer.

Her eyes linger on you for a moment longer, as if weighing the sincerity of your words, but then she steps back with a practiced ease, seemingly satisfied.

“Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts with us, Mr. and Mrs. Gojo. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

As she moves away, you experience a fleeting sense of relief once the crowd’s attention shifts, the cameras swiveling to capture the next moment.

Satoru’s hand finds yours, guiding you away from the spotlight as the next couple in line takes your place under the glaring lights.

The silence between you is thick, and around you, the crowd blurs into a haze of indistinct faces and flashing lights.

You try to decipher Satoru’s mood, searching his face for any clue, but his expression remains an unreadable mask as you both maneuver through the throng of people, each step carrying you further from the intensity of the interview and deeper into the swirling uncertainty of the night.

Then, as you cross the threshold into the grand ballroom, the change in atmosphere is immediate with the soaring ceilings, glittering chandeliers, and the soft hum of polite conversations—yet, despite the grandeur surrounding you, your focus is entirely on the man beside you—the one who just moments ago bared a piece of his soul to you in front of everyone.

Almost instantly, Satoru is swarmed by people—important figures and familiar faces, all eager to exchange pleasantries with the man of the hour.

You watch as he slips effortlessly into casual conversation, his charm and charisma on full display—a scene you’ve witnessed countless times before.

But that’s because, to the outside world, nothing has changed—he’s the same confident, untouchable figure he’s always been. It’s as if the heartfelt words he spoke moments ago, laying his heart bare before you, were never uttered. As if they were just another part of the performance.

But you know better.

You saw the look in his eyes, felt the sincerity in his voice. And now, as he engages in yet another conversation, flashing that same easy smile, you can’t help but wonder…

What is he really thinking?

His gaze lingers on you as he effortlessly navigates each conversation, and there’s something in his eyes—an almost imperceptible signal, like he’s reaching out to you, a silent communication that only the two of you can understand.

You’ve made up your mind.

You want more with Satoru—something real, something unburdened by the lies and pretenses that have cast shadows over your relationship.

You can no longer allow this secret to fester, growing like a dark cloud that threatens to eclipse whatever light might still exist between you.

To truly move forward, you have to release the fear that’s been holding you back—you have to come clean, to trust him, just as he has placed his trust in you.

But you know the timing isn’t right—not here, not now, surrounded by the glittering facade of this world you’ve both learned to navigate so well.

When you finally lay bare the truth you’ve been hiding, hopefully Satoru will understand.

All you can do is wait, hope, and wonder what the night will bring.

hello lovelies, thank you so much for reading and supporting my fic 😭 i cannot tell you how much it brightens my day to read your comments! to be completely honest, i really wasn't expecting much with this fic, it has really transformed into something that i had no intention of doing, but the thing is, i'm really enjoying writing it, so SO much, and i'm glad ya'll are enjoying reading it 🥲🫶🏻 this is only 2/3rds of the original chapter 4 i wrote...lol. i still have to edit the last 1/3 (apparently i cannot stop yapping) so it just seemed right to split it up and let this section breathe a little bit too, it felt like a natural stopping point before we delve into y/n getting that closure with satoru. y/n finally got the push she needed to make up her mind 🥲 i know it took her a bit, but being in an emotionally abusive relationship has left her with a lot of trust issues, and seeing satoru open up to her made her realize that despite their differences, they are going through similar struggles. poor baby satoru 😭 he needs a hug. like my heart literally breaks for him. this chapter felt really vulnerable to write...maybe that's why i was so hesitant on posting it. like it just hurts my soul lol. anyways, i wanna let you know that with this month coming to an end, my schedule is going to be getting pretty busy as i will be starting classes. it's my first time returning to school after 10 years...and i'll be doing it while still being a mom and working. i'm literally gonna be feeling like y/n, juggling a lot (the mom brain is a REAL THING YA'LL) so if my updates take longer that is why. much love to you all, and again thanks so much 🤗 -aly 💕 → onto the next chapter ꨄ

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[talesofesther]

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 | 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

What once was mine

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8

When watching what once was supposed to be the rest of his life, in an empty room in the TVA, Loki sees someone he can’t recognize; a girl who’s all tenderness and loose smiles, and most importantly, she was smiling at him.

Make it taste like love

You felt him before you even met him. And despite the pain he carried around, his soul was one of the most beautiful you’d ever seen.

Tangle me in all your broken pieces (and watch me stay)

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3

An Asgardian god has just threatened your planet and you were called in to provide a little help. What you didn’t expect was to develop a strange soft spot for said god, who hid more pain behind his cold facade than you thought possible.

Too close to the stars

Somehow, between your overwhelming sweetness and insistence on treating him as if he was someone worth saving, you had managed to sneak your way into Loki’s cold heart. He simply hadn’t managed the guts to tell you, but a bit of a Christmas spirit might just change that.

[songmingisthighs]

Wanbelyn

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. lxxx - broken face

neurosurgeon!hongjoong × reader

genre : dad!au

rating : mature; crude jokes and filthy language

wc : 2.3 k

buy me coffee ?

where love and peace is held, i never expected for this to happen. i planned and i planned, i expected, and i hoped, but it was never you. you held what i wanted hostage to make room for you, the thing that i needed but has no means of acceptance. deny me, live your best life.

To say that you rushed into the gym was an understatement because you practically flew through the door, almost breaking it in the process. You even ignored San who was beaming when he saw you, trying to go in for a hug only for you to push past him whilst yelling 'SORRY, MY BABY NEEDS ME MORE'. Hell, you didn't even take notice of Yeosang who had to console San for being ignored by you.

When you got to the classroom, your eyes zeroed in on the very familiar tuft of hair and not because of the fact that he was the only one there.

In a flash, you dropped to your knees and cupped Kijoong's face who was surprised when he was suddenly spun around. "Kijoong, are you okay?" you asked worriedly, the first aid kit you had hauled with you left on the floor as you tried to look for signs that his face was, as San said, broken, "Did you fight with someone?" you asked, still looking for signs of injury.

Now fully realizing that you were there with him. Kijoong grinned widely and jumped into your arms, wrapping his own shorter ones around your neck and trying to climb you like a tree. It was then that you realized that Kijoong was perfectly fine and perhaps you had fallen so absolutely stupidly to San's words. You risked getting a speeding ticket only to see that Kijoong was perfectly fine and that confused you more than anything. "Kijoong, did you get hurt?" you asked again, still wanting to make sure as it would greatly affect how dead Choi San would be. Instead of telling you if he was okay, Kijoong proceeded to tell you about what he had been learning in school and in class with San.

In a state of confusion, the door opened and at first you thought that it was San which would have been nice since that would mean that you could spare his staff from seeing the strangling of a lifetime. So it took you by surprise when you saw Hongjoong standing there, looking as surprised as you.

"(y/n)?" God, it had been a while since you heard him call your name, "What are you doing here?" he asked, confused but slightly hopeful for some reason. "I- San told me Kijoong got hurt and I got here as fast as I could. What are you doing here?" "Picking Kijoong up?" that was stupid of you to ask and you really wanted to kick yourself for that. "But also, San told me Kijoong got in a fight with a kid and I needed to sign an incident report? I just saw him outside, he told me to get the story from Kijoong first so I came here." As if on cue, after Hongjoong was done explaining his being there, the door suddenly closed and locked, surprising you and Hongjoong yet again.

Just as you rushed to try to open the door, Yeosang's head popped up from the small window with San above him. "Kang Yeosang, what the hell do you think you're doing?" you hissed, trying to open the door which of course didn't happen as it was locked. "I did nothing, San was the one who locked you in," he smiled innocently only to receive a smack on the shoulder from San. You turned your attention to San and glared at him, "You have exactly 5 seconds to open this door, Choi San, I'm not kidding I will whoop you," you threatened, oblivious that Hongjoong was looking at you with amusement and affection, as if you were the most adorable being on earth and it didn't go unnoticed by your two friends outside. "You can't scare me (y/n)," San was lying straight out of his ass but he had to keep the facade to ensure that the plan would work, "You two need to talk things out and reverse the divorce because Yeosang and I have created a gaming group chat with Yunho and Mingi and I'm not about to give that up especially since we're going into a competition soon and we want you both to be there!" "Bye (y/n)! Have a good talk!" and with that, both Yeosang and San walked away, leaving you in a room with the guy whom you harboured feelings for but unfortunately had to repress for the sake of his son.

"So..." Hongjoong started, clearing his throat, "Seems like we were lied to, huh?" he stated the obvious. Sighing, you turned around to look at Hongjoong but kept your distance by leaning against the door, "Yeah, seems like it and I have a feeling those two were not the only ones in on this," you huffed. Hongjoong only chuckled as he managed to put two and two together rather quickly.

"How have you been though?" he asked. You didn't know how to answer that because from professional aspect, you were finally getting back on track and you were happy with that. But emotional-wise? You've been repressing everything to the point that you were functioning like a robot in real life, using work as a distraction. Little did you know, Hongjoong wasn't faring any better but he had to kept things going for him as best as he could because Kijoong was depending on him to be okay. You were about to answer when he interjected, "Because I haven't been fine since you left." It genuinely surprised you that Hongjoong was the one to reveal his feelings first. From your experience, something dramatic had to happen between the two of you first before he came clean about how he was actually feeling. The honesty felt refreshing.

"Neither have I," you answered, sending him a sad smile.

Though it was a sad realization for the two of you, Hongjoong couldn't help but feel butterflies in his stomach when he found out that you were as much as not okay as he had been.

"I missed you. Home is not home when you're not there," Hongjoong confessed, voice slightly shaky as he was trying his hard to not be too emotional. Your shoulders slumped hearing that, feeling bad that Hongjoong felt like that and thought it wasn't your fault exactly, you still feel somewhat at fault.

The two of you were so focused on each other that you completely missed the way Kijoong was staring at the two of you with furrowed eyebrows and a displeased expression. You only took notice of him again when he ran up to you and hit you on the hip with a balled fist. "No!" He exclaimed loudly, surprising both you and Hongjoong who immediately chastised him. "Kijoong!" he called out but Kijoong went for another hit and that was when Hongjoong swooped down to hold Kijoong back but Kijoong was straining against him, trying to get another hit on you. "Hey, no!" Hongjoong tried his best to keep Kijoong from trying to hurt you again but the boy was still going wild in his arms. "No!" Kijoong screamed again, louder this time as he tried his best to get his fists to reach you.

After coddling him due to your own self-blaming, you decided to step in and get to the bottom of the issue. You joined in and crouched in front of Kijoong, holding both of his hands in your own. "Use your words," you stated, looking straight into Kijoong's eyes. Kijoong noticed the serious tone in your voice and he felt something in him, something that didn't make him feel good. He managed to slip one hand out of your grasp and swung, successfully hitting you in the head much to Hongjoong's horror. As the parent, Hongjoong was about to haul Kijoong up and out one way or another so he wouldn't hurt you anymore but you didn't falter. Instead, you simply grabbed his loose hand and held it at the front. "Use your words Kim Kijoong, you know you can," you stressed, maintaining eye contact with him.

Kijoong's chest began heaving and you thought he was about to scream at you but the first thing he did was burst into tears. The sound of his son bawling made Hongjoong let go in worry, wanting to immediately calm him down but he was stopped from taking action when Kijoong spoke up, "Why you left? You left and you made daddy sad," he cried out while trying to get you to let go of his hands but you kept them firm, "Kijoong, what did you mean by that?" you asked, your voice sounding less harsh but it still had an element of seriousness to it. Through tears and sobs, Kijoong looked to you and then to his dad, and then to you again before attempting to speak even though it looked like he was struggling, "Y-you said you leave when I don't need you a-and you ma-de daddy sad," he told you.

Though his words were simple and rather vague, you immediately realize what he was trying to tell you. You did tell him that you would only leave when he no longer needed you and you did tell him that you cared for him and his dad. So obviously in his simple mind, when you did leave when he still needed you and when Hongjoong had to deal with the absence of you, he blamed you. It didn't help that you already blamed yourself for Kijoong's episodes and the decision to leave them, hearing what Kijoong had to say made your heart break.

You were about to apologize and acknowledge that you messed up when Hongjoong grabbed Kijoong and turned around to face him, "Hey, you can't blame (y/n) like that, Kijoong. (y/n) didn't leave us, she was giving us time because she was scared that you'd get sick again, remember? Remember when you had another episode and then again?" Kijoong nodded, remembering both times he had an episode around you, "You remember what you told Uncle Mingi? You remember telling him you didn't want (y/n) to be your mommy because then she'd leave me?" again, Kijoong nodded, his mind clearing up as his sobs died down slowly. "(y/n) is not like your mom, Kijoong. Your mom... She was sick so she decided to go, she couldn't be anyone's mommy and yes, that made me sad but I'm no longer sad about mommy being gone because I had (y/n)." Though Hongjoong was talking to his son, you couldn't help but think that he was probably also talking to you, telling you how he felt about you and how serious he was about his feelings. "I was happy when she was around but then you got sick so we agreed that you should get better first and yes, that made me sad, but that was not (y/n)'s fault, that was my fault too. I'd rather be sad for a long time than to see you sick again and (y/n) also thinks the same way. We didn't want to be apart but we thought we had to."

Hongjoong didn't realize that he was starting to cry too until Kijoon reached up to wipe the tears off of his face. "I'm sorry daddy, sorry for being sick," he sniffled, now thinking that his dad was sad partially because of him. But Hongjoong immediately shook his head and pulled Kijoong into a tight embrace, "You silly little monkey, you don't ever apologize for being sick, okay? You can't help being sick, you have no say in that," then he pulled away, "But you have a say in letting people into your, into our lives, you hear me?"

It was then that Hongjoong turned his attention to you, seeing you looking at him so sadly. A small smile appeared on Hongjoong's face as he reached a hand to softly take yours, immediately rubbing his thumb gently on the back of your hand. "And I want you in our lives (y/n). The distance between us confirmed my feelings that it was never the proximity that affected my feelings for you, it was never the fact that we were simply in each other's lives. I didn't choose to have feelings for you but I was gifted the ability to develop feelings for you because it was you, it had to be you. I don't want to force you nor do I want to pressure you, but I really want you back in my life. You heard what Kijoong sad, I was sad without you," You couldn't help but chuckle and tried to look away when you felt a tear fell from your eye from being reunited with the father and son duo once again, remembering how much you silently miss them but not being able to know if you should approach them again only to know that both of them were missing you too. Seeing the tear, Kijoong reached out again and this time, he wiped the tear off of your face. It may seem stupid, but that moment made you feel like it was proof that Kijoong didn't have anything against you, not anymore at least and you didn't know how to feel about that.

"So, can you find it in yourself to come back to us?" Hongjoong asked, hopeful but he was still allowing you to make a decision.

Your shoulders slumped and you let out an exhale. You took a moment to look at Hongjoong and then at Kijoong, remembering all the good times with them and then also the bad times. The bad times that brought so many emotions and even some trauma back. As much as you were reluctant to give an answer right then and there, you knew you had to because if not then, then you would just postpone and risk ruining things further.

This is going to seem mean, but...

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@strawberry-yeo @luvt0kki @allisonleannn @dinossaurz @khjcs @blackb3ll @aloverga @at1nys-blog @itsbeeble @potatomountain @axo-l0tl @green-thots @intancollins @galaxypox @11glitch11 @maddiebabyxoxo @alyssajavenss @mirror-juliet @gxlden-bxbyy @charreddonuts @dreamlesswonder86 @mayonnaisehoeshit @kodzukein @teenyfinds @dear-dreamie @mitchloveswriting @soobiverse @satsuri3su @phenomenalgirl9 @guess-monst3r @dimeb29 @ka-ni-ma @yayaistime @angelicyeo @kyume02 @thedistractedwriter @surveilenceysystem @ateezourstars @aursmrt @mismatchfluffysocks @puppyminnnie @nycol-ie @yungilia @writingbarnes @worcesheshestershiresauce

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven In Your Eyes || Masterlist

Pairing: Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC (Heaven Lavey Shelby)

Additional content/Info: CLICK HERE

Fic Summary: He meets her at church one dreary night, guided by her singing. Her name? Heaven Lavey. White ivory hair, fair porcelain skin, and petite shape, this almost ethereal creature is Arthur's strict opposite. Yet, all it took was one dive into her heavenly eyes for him to be convinced God has sent His sweetest angel to save his bastard soul. The two lovebirds, obsessed with each other, are determined to live their love no matter people's judgments and no matter the dangers of a Peaky Blinder's life. They are together through the best and through the worst.

But behind her holy appearance and sweet facade, Heaven Lavey is dangerous. With rumors of witchcraft and murder, her shady past weighs on her shoulders. And if she is a blessing for Arthur Shelby, she will soon prove to be a curse for those who dare to stand in her and her husband's way. Even Thomas Shelby himself.

She is Arthur’s Angel, but don't get fooled by her doe eyes: for the rest of us, she is the White Devil.

And by extend, you are too.

Why? Because Heaven Lavey… It’s you.

TW: Major character death, explicit sexual content, canonical violence, graphic description of violence, blasphemy, witch trials and burning of innocent women, dependent relationship (if Arthur and Heaven are happy in their relationship, they are obsessed and possessive, which leads to bursts of violence and deifying from Arthur. By no means I am claiming their relationship is healthy, but it is what works for them)

ACT I. SACRILEGE

♢ Ch. 1 || Heaven in Your Eyes

♢ Ch. 2 || Never Did, Never Dared

♢ Ch. 3 || Something Wicked This Way Comes 🔞

♢ Ch. 4 || Dead Bird at Witchin Hour

♢ Ch. 5 || The Hell in His Eyes

♢ Ch. 6 || The One They Should Have Burned

♢ Ch. 7 || Of Matches and Gasoline 🔞

♢ Ch. 8 || Tango on Broken Dreams

ACT II. CARNAGE

♢ Ch. 9 || For Whom the Bells Toll

♢ Ch. 10 || Closer to Heaven or Closer to Hell? 🔞

♢ Ch. 11 || When The Bridges Burn

♢ Ch. 12 || As They Always Did

♢ Ch. 13 || Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

♢ Ch. 14 || Pure As a Lamb 🔞

♢ Ch. 15 || Women Like Me in a Men's World

♢ Ch. 16 || Après Moi le Déluge

♢ Ch. 17 || Our Old Friend Death (c o m i n g . . .)

♢ Ch. 18 || Il Diàvulu Biancu

♢ Ch. 19 || Empire of Lies

♢ Ch. 20 || The Fog of Silent Hills

ACT III.

♢ Ch. 21 ||

♢ Ch. 22 ||

♢ Ch. 23 ||

♢ Ch. 24 ||

♢ Ch. 25 ||

♢ Ch. 26 ||

♢ Ch. 27 ||

♢ Ch. 28 ||

♢ The series can be longer.

Some events from the show are taken and obviously reworked. Yet, except for a few quotes and scenes, everything else is imagined by the author.

Related works - in chronological order-

♢ From Blood We Will Grow

♢ To Bark and Bite

♢ Kaiser Meeting Cyril (requested)

♢ A Bone to Pick With It (requested)

♢ Perfect Lines

♢ Savage Daughter

♢ A Slice of Us (Modern!HYE)

♢ Love Ritual (@zablife's celebration)

♢ The Woods Whisper 1, 2 (Halloween Horror)

♢Little Lamb 1, 2, 3 (Yandere!AU)

Moodboards and other content

♢ Playlist

♢ Moodboard Aesthetic

♢ Moodboard Chapter 6

♢Heaven In your Eyes Act II trailer

♢ Moodboard Chapter 12

♢ Heaven in your Eyes chapter 16 trailer

Looking for more? Check out Heaven's masterlist I and II

Taglist:

@adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @meowtastics @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @justrainandcoffee @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @copinghex @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @lokigirlszendaya e @mischievouslittlecreature @he6rtshaker @bemyqueenofdarkness @cljordan-imperium @red-riding-wood @jjovin3221 @06nasyrah13 @randomcreator-09 @weepingdreammarvel

[cyberneticfallout]

Chapter Three: The Gulper

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10 - More Coming Soon

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader Summary: As you continue your journey, you encounter the vault dweller and chaos ensues. Tags: Slow burn (and I mean SLOWWW), angst, eventual smut, language, canon-typical violence, more tags will be added Posted on AO3: Smoothie and The Ghoul Word Count: 1.8k

Emerging from your slumber, a thin layer of mist clings to your skin, casting a damp chill upon the early morning air. Your back protests from the uncomfortable night's rest on the flat, hard ground, but you shake off the discomfort with a determined grimace. After all, you've endured far worse over the years through the wasteland.

Shaking off the grogginess, you cast a quick glance around the campsite. The ghoul remains peacefully asleep, barely distinguishable in the dim light of the approaching dawn. With the sky gradually brightening, you determine that it's time to start your preparations for the day.

You rise from your makeshift bedroll, stretching your tired muscles and seeking relief from the stiffness that plagues your body. The calmness of the early morning wraps around you, broken only by distant echoes of the wasteland stirring to life.

As you collect your belongings, a soft chittering echoes in the air, instantly grabbing the dog's attention as her ears perk up. The dim light of dawn shrouds the surroundings, making it challenging to discern the source of the sound. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a radroach creeping ever closer to the slumbering ghoul.

Without hesitation, you instinctively grab hold of the pistol within your reach, taking aim at the approaching bug. The air shudders as two resounding shots tear through it, bringing a swift death to the radroach. The ghoul jolts awake, his head snapping towards you with a look of surprise… and annoyance?

"Can't you see I'm sleepin'?" he calls out, his voice twinged with irritation.

You respond, feigning a gasp and mockingly clutching your chest. "Oh, I do apologize, mister! How thoughtless of me not to realize you had scheduled to be a feast for a radroach!"

He grumbles, rising to his feet. "Shut up. You think I didn't see it comin'?"

"You looked dead asleep," you remark.

"I always look dead," he mutters.

"Oh I don't know about that," you retort, a mischievous smirk gracing your face. "Sometimes you look like a sun-dried tato."

"You're damn lucky you have what I need..."

"Well, lucky for you, I happen to have a soft spot for sun-dried tatos," you quip, trying to lighten the mood. He raises an eyebrow, a faint hint of amusement breaking through his facade of annoyance. He grunts, a sound that could be mistaken for a chuckle if you weren't aware of his generally sour disposition.

“You're a strange one, you know that?" he rasps, scratching the back of his head. With a chuckle, you start packing up the rest of your belongings, the early morning sun casting long shadows around you.

“Come on, let’s go find the rest of him.”

As you venture further into the wasteland, the sun climbs higher in the sky, casting harsh shadows and intensifying the heat around you. The landscape is a mix of desolate terrain and remnants of the old world, twisted and broken by time and neglect.

The ghoul trudges alongside you, his footsteps heavy but determined. Meanwhile, the dog is trotting ahead, sniffing the air and occasionally darting off to investigate something in the distance. The wasteland is eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of debris or distant howl of a mutated creature. You remain vigilant, scanning the horizon for any signs of danger.

Hours pass by and you notice a subtle change in the landscape. It slowly turns greener and the air feels a bit cooler. With each step you take, the transformation becomes more noticeable. The harsh, barren landscape is gradually replaced by patches of greenery. Sparse vegetation starts to spring up, providing some relief from the relentless heat. The dog, too, seems to appreciate the change, wagging her tail more often and darting around with renewed energy. Even the ghoul seems less weary, his heavy steps lightening a bit.

Rustling in the foliage caught your attention, followed by a swift blur of a vault jumpsuit sprinting past. It seems the ghoul was right about her not getting far. The ghoul glances at you and nods toward the direction she had fled. The three of you quicken your pace and find her sitting on the ground, a look of panic etched on her face.

"Hello again," he drawls as he lifts his gun and cocks it. "Where is it? The head."

The vault dweller turns slowly to the gun pointed at her, her appearance striking. With dark hair, a flawlessly sculpted face, and the largest eyes you've ever seen in your life, she exudes an air of innocence and vulnerability. "I-I don't know where it is, okay? I lost it. I lost it," she stammers, her voice trembling with fear and desperation.

She watches you rummage through her bag, a look of disbelief crossing her face at your audacity. Finding only provisions, you stand up and survey the flooded ruins around you. With a grim tone, you mutter, "A gulper got it."

"A gulper got it, huh?" The ghoul chuckles darkly before swiftly knocking out the vault dweller with the butt of his gun. You raise an eyebrow at him as he hoists her over his shoulder and carries her to a nearby dock. There, he starts securing her with a contraption that appears to be for waterboarding.

"So, uh... what's the plan here?" you ask.

"Gonna use her as bait," the ghoul replies matter-of-factly.

"Bait? For the gulper?" you muse, considering the plan. "That's actually a pretty solid plan."

You watch with a mix of curiosity and unease as the vault dweller slowly regains consciousness. With a quick tug on a rope, he sends her plummeting into the water below. After nearly thirty seconds, he decides to pull her back up via a makeshift pulley system.

"Please stop!" she cries out, spitting out water. "My dad is an overseer. He got taken by raiders and I need that head to save him. If you help me find him, he'll do anything you ask."

Ignoring her pleas, the ghoul sends her back into the water and whistles for the gulper as the dog barks in protest. It's clear he doesn't care about her father's position. As he hoists her out of the water again, she pleads, "Stop. Stop! Torture is wrong."

"You know, they used to do these things called ‘studies’. You couldn’t open a newspaper without reading about one study or another," the ghoul begins, the geiger counter on her Pip-Boy clicking. "Anyway, this one particular study came out, and it said that torturing a person don’t do shit."

He submerges her once more, turning to you, "It made sense. I mean, a man hurts me, I wouldn’t want to do him any favors. And yet the practice of torture failed to vanish from this earth. In fact, as time marched on, I’ve personally noticed a decided uptick in the amount of torture being doled out across the board."

The vault dweller coughs and gasps for air as she’s brought back up. "Sir, please, I need the head. It’s the only way I can get my father back."

"Still so polite... calling you sir," you quietly chuckle to yourself as you approach her, her drenched body shivering in protest. Leaning in close, you whisper, "You're a long way from home, Vaultie. You shouldn't be out here. Daddy's probably already dead, if I'm being honest.”

"My point is...” He interrupts and you step back, “If you ask me, them studies, they was right. Torturin’ a person don’t do shit.”

"Then why are you doing this to me?!” she screams.

"Well, I ain’t torturin’ you, sweetheart. I’m using you as bait,” he explains before plunging her into the water once again. You can't help but feel a slight hint of annoyance at him calling her "sweetheart".

You shake your head, trying to push aside the unreasonable jealousy that bubbles within you. The ghoul's actions can be seen as despicable, the vault dweller's plight heart-wrenching, and yet here you are, fixating on such a trivial detail. You chide yourself for feeling envious over a term of endearment. It’s a bizarre reaction, one that you begin to struggle to understand.

You snap out of your thoughts as the ghoul attempts to retrieve her from the water. A tense moment begins to unfold. The rope gets tangled, and the water starts churning as the gulper draws near. Frantically, he twists the wheel connected to the pulley system but it seems stuck. In a panic, you spot a hook stick nearby and throw it to him. He yanks her back up and she falls back onto the dock. The gulper lunges forward, its jaws snapping shut mere inches away from her, narrowly missing her.

The excess rope attached to the vault dweller becomes entangled in the gulper's mouth, causing it to thrash about wildly. In the chaos, the rope slips from under you and winds around your leg. As she fights back against the creature with the ghoul's satchel, she manages to free herself. But now, the gulper redirects its focus towards you and launches itself at your foot. With a terrifyingly close view, you see its mouth lined with tendrils resembling human fingers as it starts to pull you closer, inching towards the horrifying prospect of being devoured by this thing.

The ghoul rushes towards you and clasps onto your hand, desperately trying to pull you out of its mouth. For a brief moment, you're touched by his attempt to help, but suspicion creeps in as you realize he may be more concerned about the vials in your bag.

However, the sheer power of the large gulper proves too overwhelming as it begins to engulf you. The hundreds of finger-like tendrils, slick and slimy, slither and coil around you in a grotesque dance of entrapment. Each sinewy appendage seems to have a mind of its own, probing and grasping with an unsettling precision.

As the tendrils press against your skin, a wave of revulsion washes over you, causing your stomach to churn and bile to rise in your throat. The repulsive touch is warm and clammy, sending shivers down your spine as you struggle against the suffocating grip of the gulper's mouth.

You unleash a torrent of obscenities, every curse and profanity in your arsenal spewing forth in a raw display of frustration and panic as the ghoul continues to fight against the gulper's grasp. In a final, desperate struggle, the ghoul's grip falters. His strength wanes as he stumbles backward, his body crashing to the ground with a resounding thud.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" you shout in frustration as the creature envelops you, swallowing you whole. The last image being etched in your mind is that of the ghoul's contorted face, twisting in anger as he yells furiously at the vault dweller and then…

Darkness.

Tag List: @fallout-girl219 @ellabellabunny123 @sunnexaltation

[deceptive-daydreams]

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Fourteen - A Merry Little Christmas

W/C: 7.5K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Have yourself a merry little Christmas…

(Cover) Phoebe Bridgers

Warnings: mentions of bad childhood, mentions of parent’s death, issues with mental health, allusion to a suicide attempt, self harm but not, just appears to be, blood, let me know if I missed anything. In all fairness this is a heavy chapter in the beginning. Oh and also, smut 👀

A/N: this took literally forever to write…only because I couldn’t write for like months lmao. But I spent all day basically fleshing most of this all out and there’s a lot of emotion put into it and not too much editing cause I already overthought everything I wrote as I wrote it, dare I say I put my whole fuckin pussy into this chapter. Next chapter will be the final one in the series 😭

Masterlist

Prev |

Christmas Eve was supposed to be different this year.  

A senseless daydream.  

It was dad’s last kick to his gut, he knows it.  Eddie finally had a good thing going for him but alas the Munson’s were cursed and he could never escape.  This was some kind of final revenge for not hanging around like a lost puppy though it wasn’t even his choice to leave Hawkins in the first place.  It didn’t matter, life never spared Eddie a precious moment.  

So he sat there, salty tears still somehow leaking out of him despite how tired he was, despite how wrong it felt.  Last week his dad was the most hated man in his life.  And last week he was suddenly dead.  It didn’t make sense, the devastation that consumed Eddie.  All he knew was that sunlight began leaking through the blinds and dotting the floor.  Birds were chirping annoyingly outside and his skin started to feel like cold cuts and despite how uncomfortable it made him, he couldn’t find it in himself to get off his ass and at least put a sweatshirt on.  

He had promised you breakfast, down the road at that little diner called Reggie’s.  Promised to get you the biggest stack of pancakes covered in whipped cream and all kinds of sprinkles along with the best, artery clogging bacon you would ever taste.  Maybe some scrambled eggs and hashbrowns.  

Whatever you wanted. 

He hadn’t seen you in days, not since the recent news broke.  His excuse of harboring the flu was not how he wanted to start daily phone calls with you.  He knew you would then mistake the stuffiness in his voice for phlegm and not his inner sorrows burrowing their way out of him.  He refused your offer to bring him homemade soup and hot tea, rejected the kindness he hadn’t deserved in the first place.  Told you that he just wanted to get healthy quickly and it wouldn’t do either of you any good to both be sick.  He left you in charge of the bar, much to Jett’s disdain, Eddie didn’t need you to confirm that for him he just knew.

Now just standing up seemed impossible.  Shifting his position on the couch to at least relieve the pressure against his tail bone wasn’t plausible.  And for what?  For a man that never gave an inch when Eddie gave him miles upon miles, practically handed over his life on several occasions.  Pathetic, he knew.  But the pain didn’t cease and he couldn’t even find it in himself to turn his head to check the time.

This was it.  

This was how you were going to come face to face with the fact that Eddie was no man.  Not a real one anyway, a facade if anything.  He could just picture it: you would await his knock at the door and it wouldn't come.  A giddy smile would spread across your face as you thought about your plans of going sledding together–he sees it so vividly in his mind.  And then you would be massively disappointed when he couldn’t deliver.  The creases at your eyes when you got overly excited would cease to exist at the mere idea of him.  He had it coming, he just didn’t think it would be so soon.

Eddie told you he was feeling better.  It was a lie.  He never had the flu.  He didn’t feel better.  He wanted to die.  And the man responsible for it wouldn’t even give a shit had he still been alive.  Now he was dead and Eddie was the one suffering.

And so his neglected stomach grumbled, his incoming stubble itched though he couldn’t find a fuck to give even in his discomfort, and the whiskey bottle ran dry far too soon.  His brain had been clogged with wishes and what he could’ve done, then declarations of it never being enough, a constant tug-of-war that migraines were made of.

He never stood a chance, his DNA had always been coded like a mutant, at least that’s how it felt deep in his bones.  There was always something off, he never resonated with life in general how everyone else did.  A flaw in the system.  And he built his entire being off of it, afterall he never had any control over the way he was perceived so what option did he have?  

Several.

He thought to himself.  

You could have gone to school, shown up.  

Could have stayed out of detention.

Gotten arrested less.

Not get arrested at all.

Could have said no.  So.  Many.  Times.

In all honesty he wanted to blame his old man but he couldn’t stop taking the hits for him even in death.  He couldn’t stop making excuses.  Any normal person would feel relief but he felt nothing but remorse.  For what, he couldn’t exactly piece it together.  Maybe it was a hidden desire to fix him, a glimmer of hope that he could make him turn his life around like Eddie had.  It would never happen, he was well aware, but a certain childish hope clung onto him, tugging on his sleeve, begging himself for reasons.

Until familiar curls similar to his own and an aura of the gentlest kind clouded his vision.  He could nearly hear her voice, smooth as butter and warm as the summer sun when he was a freckled kid.  Rosy cheeks and beautiful chocolatey brown button eyes to match his.

What’s the matter darlin’?

And he just sobbed.  And remembered.

Morning pancakes and the blues.  Muddy clothes and bubble baths laced with melodies.  Kitchen table haircuts, the softest voice humming in his ears, half inch curls littering the linoleum.  Dancing in the living room.  Refusing to eat his broccoli until she told him they were tiny trees.  Walking hand in hand to the corner store for milk and eggs, the promise of a sucker waiting for him at the cash register widening his innocent grin.  Late night cereal bowls when sleep wasn’t an option and nothing did the trick except some off brand Lucky Charms and tales of dragons and fantasy lands he wished they could run away to.

Then he remembered.

Him.

Stumbling into the kitchen on those nights more often than not, spewing nonsense.  Breaking the refrigerator door as he tripped while seeking another beer.  That door forever being duct taped and never properly fixed as promised.  Mama coaxing dad to bed before she slipped into Eddie’s tiny twin bed for the night, most nights.  Dad waking up just to shut the music off in the morning so he could sleep in.  Disappearing for days.

Mama unexpectedly passing and Eddie being so devastated that he didn’t eat for days and willingly waited at the door every day for pops to get home.  Only he rarely did.  Wayne checking in each and every day only to be on the receiving end of a temper tantrum each time.  Years and years of push back.  A clueless kid defending Indiana’s worst dad in the name of seeking some kind of normalcy.  

“My dad has a ton of jobs.”  He would beam, bright eyes and missing teeth.  

The kids would snicker.  Their mocking smiles would be mistaken for a token of friendliness.  And Eddie would once again be disappointed come the end of the day.  Because he’d realized it wasn’t normal to crawl under fences where dad couldn’t fit, to steal expensive things from “higher class pricks” as dad deemed them.  Take your kid to work day had a very different definition in his book.

So Eddie steered away from telling everyone about his dad’s work antics, opted to tell them about how he got to go to the bar with his old man every Wednesday, thinking he’d surely get praise for being considered so mature.  At least that’s how dad described it.  It wasn’t any better and the reactions were only worse.  They called his dad a drunk.  They weren’t wrong but that didn’t make him feel any less enraged.  “Spawn of Satan”, they called Eddie.  Because in truth that’s what his dad was, he just couldn’t comprehend it at the time.  Then came the christening of his formal title, a word so small but so…derogatory with the way it was spat at him.

Freak.

Spawn of Satan sounded so much worse on paper but Freak made his insides hurt.  And as he recounts the events of his life up until now, he tallies everything up.  Closure in some kind of fucked up way.  Childish thoughts of “he was still my dad” try to take over but are quickly replaced by images of their burning house, the records going up and flames and ash coating everything he had left, everything she had left.

Suddenly there’s broken glass scattered across the floor and warm blood trickling down his arm, not by any fault of his own, just pure rage and unknown strength annihilating the poor glass he attempted to drink water with.  Heartbeat in his ear, he swallows thickly and resumes his position against the kitchen cabinet–they’re going to send me back to the asylum.

All over again, even in the afterlife, dad plays his sick jokes.  Gets Eddie into trouble he never sought out–he was just getting water, it was just water and now he looks like the picture perfect case for mental instability.  No one’s seen him for days and–there’s knocking at the door.  He swears it’s not like last time- it can’t be like last time, he didn’t mean it.  This isn’t like back in Hawkins, when he was healing and the courts were making their decisions.  He thought he was a goner, decided to pull the plug to save everyone the trouble, Wayne was at work, Steve was getting him groceries, everyone else was dealing with the end of the world.  They shouldn’t have to worry about me.  With a bottle of prescribed pills in hand.

The knocking turning urgent, conclusions are drawn up in a scattered, tormented mind–surely they’d rip up his contract, the agreement in which he had been assured a promising life anywhere but Indiana.  A life he’d always longed for anyway.  

Be careful what you wish for.  

That goddamn voice taunts him.

The door shakes, manhandled from the other side and he’s forced to confront the final moments before he’s permanently put away.  “One slip up…”  They had said.  It didn’t matter if he told them it was an accident, nothing mattered if it was anyone else’s word against him.  Literally anyone.  As long as it appeared that he was a danger to himself, he was a danger to society. They were probably waiting for this moment: lock up the problem child and throw away the key.  

Cause he was nothing if not a problem.  First and foremost.

Heart beating out of his chest, breath caught in his throat, he could practically hear the sirens whether they be from an ambulance or police car or both, they were coming–

“Eddie?”

It all stopped.  

“Eddie?!”  

There was no accurate way to describe the sob that clawed its way out of his throat, a tortured cry.  The scene before you had been pulled straight out of a horror movie: your beloved Eddie covered in blood, palms pressed into his eyes, stuttered breathing in between sobs.

Upon approaching him he attempted to scoot himself away, glass shards sinking into his hands, a gasp filling the room and you were certain you needed to find someone else to–

“Please don’t make me go back!”

You couldn’t form words.

“I-it was an accident, I-I promise.”  His eyes brimmed with a fear you never could have imagined coming close to witnessing in this lifetime.  “Just–I just got some water-I didn’t mean to break it, I s-swear.  Please d-don’t let them take me.”

Glass crunched under your boots, a slow approach as you crouch in front of the shattered man with the saddest eyes you’d ever seen.  With a shaky breath and careful movements, a silent request to assess his arm and hands is made.  You’re sure your wide eyes can’t be comforting in the slightest though the shock still pulses through you.  

“I’m sorry.” 

“Shh.”  You soothe. 

Forehead pressed to his in a moment of solace, you offer a nudge, nose to nose.  A wordless commitment.  Softness he didn’t know he needed, tender touches of your fingertips to his wet cheek as if to promise a remedy for his aching heart, that you weren’t planning on going anywhere.  You weren’t leaving him like he convinced himself you would or god forbid turn him over to the authorities like he feared.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

–

Glass has been carefully swept three times over, though you were considering a fourth for good measure.  Shards had been plucked from Eddie’s poor hands, your tweezers doing the job just fine after being doused in some cheap vodka he had.  Gauze from a first aid kit you thankfully had in the car had been wrapped around the largest gash in his forearm, not large enough for stitches but large enough to wince at.  He sat there the whole time, staring at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but your face.  

The silence was heavy, a dense fog that hung low throughout his house.  Someone had to break it but both parties were finding difficulties in voicing the reality of what just occurred.  If either spoke it would make it real.  Right now it was hazy, a question of “are we dreaming or did I just walk in on a suicide attempt?” hung in the air.

He said it was an accident, and you believed him.  There was just so much unanswered and it’s the only thing that came to mind.  Anxious fingers tapped against his own thigh, occasionally twisting his rings round and round while gnawing on his lower lip.  It then dawned on you that he was the most human out of anyone you’d ever met.  

He felt on a deeper level than most.

At the touch of your gentle hand against his, his surprised eyes, parted lips, and hesitance to reciprocate hint that he hadn’t anticipated you sticking around this long after you’d found him.  In the standard of fight or flight, he froze.  Realistically he may have been sitting on his tattered couch while you tended to his wounds, both physical and emotional whether he cares to admit or not, but mentally he checked out the second he found himself surrounded by glass and tears.

“Bambi–”

“You don’t need to say anything.”

You were trying to keep it together.  His croaking voice made that hard.  But in all seriousness it wasn’t fair to throw yourself a pity party in light of Eddie’s current stability.  And you’d reject the idea of throwing him a pity party, wouldn’t even touch the idea, but you would offer him all the empathy your soul had collected in a lifetime.  Even not knowing the culprit of his now dried up tears and stinging hands, you’d go to war for him.  Maybe that was dare you even think it, love.  But that’s a crisis for another time.

“Dad died.”

Somehow the silence became even greater, a gigantic void of confusing thoughts and complicated quick conclusions.  Conclusions you backtracked on immediately.  It wasn’t your decision to declare how he should feel about a man who in your eyes and through his words put him through hell no matter how strong your sense of justice grew.      

“Oh, Eddie, I’m so–”  A soft beginning to a sympathetic apology short lived.

“It’s fucked.”  His voice cracked, stoic face crumbling no matter how hard he tried to rebuild the tough exterior.  “I shouldn’t–”  There’s a pause, an intake of shaky breath.  “I shouldn’t feel bad.”

“You’re allowed to.”

“No, no he ruined fucking–everything.”

“And you’re still allowed to mourn.  Even for as shitty of a person as he was, you were still his son and that meant something to you.”

You wished you could erase the flash of pain that glazed over his eyes; something that tells you he knew every word you spoke to be true but couldn’t quite bring himself to be at peace with it yet.  Dust collected on the coffee table in his eternity of reflection, a melancholy aura blanketing the dark cabin as wind whistled through the chimney like spirits demanding attention.  

“How’d you know?”  He finally asked, timid.

“Hm?”

“I left everyone hanging, they all think I’m out with the flu, how did you pick the exact moment I…”

“Needed someone?”

Eddie nodded, hesitantly, like those weren’t the exact words he would pick himself but they seemed to convey what was necessary.  

“Wayne called me.”  You sigh.  “Said he got my number from Steve.  Everyone wanted to jump on the first plane over y’know?”  At this a trace of a fraction of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth but he did his best to contain it.  “But it’s Christmas, flights are booked, and even then there’s a storm coming in.  Wayne said he couldn’t get a hold of you.”

“So you knew?”

“No.”  You assure, taking care to relax your features.  “Just sounded really worried, didn’t want to air everything out.  He wanted me to check in.  I guess he has some kind of godly intuition.”  You chuckle.

Eddie retracts his hand, and you know you’ve lost him to his inner battle again.  You can only imagine the bloodshed happening within, after all, you were no stranger to deconstructing your own self worth brick by brick.  The traumas he had been faced with were not anything therapy could simply remove like a tumor.  There were no treatments afterward to ensure everything would get better.  You knew this first hand, that you could try and try to get to the root but there was never any way to truly remove it to keep it from ever festering again.  It would appear, it would be when you least expected, at your worst, and it would look you in the eye and test you.

“I’ll be fine.”

Famous last words.  When the host convinces themselves but could never actually believe it to be true in their lifetime.

“But right now you’re not.”

Sabotage.  In his eyes.

“But I will be.  Don’t let me ruin your holiday just because–”

Excuses.  Deterring from the targeted enemy: grief, in the name of saving others the trouble.  A tactic you’d perfected in your years of people pleasing and feeding your tendencies to deflect your sorrows with the intent to appear invisible and self destruct.

“Stop it.”  You demand.

“No, Bambi.  Go to Donnie’s, I’m sure they’ll understand you coming early–”

“Stop.”

Rational thoughts were shoved into a neat little box somewhere else in his mind and you only hoped you could aid in retrieving it before he threw away the key.  Before he decided not even he was worthy of hearing them from himself.  And as he crossed his arms, a stubborn gesture, you braced for impact against his defenses.  His cruel inner monologue and haunted house of a brain.

Big eyes adorned with every brown hue under the sun dissipated into pure darkness.  Cold and black, lacking any of the warmth you’d previously basked in.  He was lost in an underworld he’d been promised to since birth.

“Would you listen to me?!”  Eddie’s jaw clenched in utter frustration and you swear a bead of sweat trickles into his eyebrow.  “I’m not–I don’t wanna be the guy to drag you down.  I’m not gonna be that guy, I won’t do it.  My shit is my shit.”

You weren’t going to become complicit in the reality he’d settled for, the reality in which he felt he deserved scraps and just enough attention to deter himself from going insane.

“And I’m not gonna be the one to leave you while you’re hurting.”  Finally catching his avoidant eye contact, you offer his forearm a squeeze.  A plea.  “Throw me out in the snow, I don’t care but I’m still gonna sit on your porch until you let me in.  I don’t care what holiday it is.”

“Go.”

You try not to take it personal.  It’s not personal.

“Fine.”

The last thing he hears is a slam of the door, refusing to even glance at where you previously sat adjacent to him.  The room turned colder, more vacant.  Even your energy had left with you, none spared for him of course, because why would he be spared anything from your healthy heart?  His was black and blue, barely pumping, and he’d be damned if he was going to let you perform CPR on what he considered an already lost cause.

Do not resuscitate.

As quickly as he’d accepted the death of a budding relationship, the door swung open with aggression to interrupt his mourning, smacking the wall and no doubt breaking through some drywall.  The least of his problems as he watched your determination in setting some stacked boxes on his kitchen counter before exiting again, this time leaving the door wide open.  

It was eerie, the way your second exit was so open ended.  Snow flurries entered and gusts of wind toyed with his curls, his cheeks already hurting a tad with the coldness.  Eddie wasn’t sure what to make of it, you’d dropped off a box of what appeared to be Christmas decorations and what?  Stormed off?  Somehow that hurt even more than the first time, though he’d anticipated the day you would figure out how fucked up he was and retreat.  He could prepare all he wanted but nothing stung more than the actual—

In you came, a box of ornaments under one arm and a small Christmas tree under the other.  And you got to work, setting up the three foot tree right on his coffee table, plugging it in to the nearest outlet and initiating a soft glow of white lights, instantly engulfing the room in a newfound safeness.  The tree needed fluffed and appeared to have bed head, though it still served its cheerful purpose regardless.

Eddie sat with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, on the edge of the couch, eyes shut.  An uphill battle.

“Bambi, what did I tell you–”

“You told me to go.”  You nod confidently, a frown betraying you, pulling at the corners of your mouth.   “And I did.  You didn’t say how long or—or where to go.  But I gave you time to cool off and now you’re gonna either sit and pretend Christmas isn’t a thing or you’re gonna watch the stupid little clay people on TV while I cook dinner and bake.  Either one is good with me but I’m gonna be here whether you like it or not and—“

Before you can look up amidst your rambling, a ringed finger hooks itself in one of your belt loops, tugging you into a warm chest.  

There he is.

Warmth restored in his irises and a semblance of a smirk threatened his lips.  Pale skin rosy in all the right places and endearing eyelashes framing his shy gaze down at you.  Your boy.  

Lips grazed lips, noses nudged into each other, and it all just…made sense.  Bambi and Eddie.  There is not one without the other, not anymore.  Not since you sauntered into his life, demanded a job, puked on him, made him go absolutely insane—

“I love you.”  

It just fell from his tongue.  A promise.

“I-are—are you s—“

“Am I serious?  Is that what you’re gonna ask?”  He nearly mocks your mouthful of syllables.

You nod, gulping.  Not because you’re afraid, no, never.  You’d just never seen such assurance in a single man.

“Bambi…” He tuts.  “You don’t see how bad I’ve got it for you?”

All you can manage is to dumbly bat your eyelashes up at him, mouth hung open like a fish and fists clutching the front of his shirt unknowingly, though he doesn’t mind in the slightest if you stretch out his collar.  

“Bad.”  He reiterates.  “So bad, that even if you don’t feel the same, even if you only like me out of pity—“

“I don’t—“

“I’m not finished.”  Your attempted interruption has him thumbing at your bottom lip.  “Even if you only like me out of pity, I’ll take it.  And I’ll run with it.  Far.  Because I’m pathetic—“

“You are not.” 

“I’m a pathetic man.  Who is deeply in love with you, Bambi.”  

“Stop saying you’re pathetic.”  You challenge quietly, a delicate hand tracing the stubble of his jaw.

“Oh, but I am.”  He breathes, leaving no room for argument when he presses his lips against yours as if it were his last chance.  

Did he believe it was his last chance?

And without thinking, tongues collided, teeth clashed, he had backed you into the wall and there was no telling how you found yourself palming him over rough denim, a whine escaping his throat before you’d barely touched him.

A pathetic whine dare you say.

“Sorry, sorry.”  You gasp, string of saliva connecting you like the invisible string you believed tied you to him all along.

“Don’t—ow!  Jesus fuck.”  Eddie winced, shaking his hand in the air after attempting to cup your blushing cheek.  “Forgot I had fucking…glass in my hand earlier.”

You giggle, a saccharine sound, a melody in his ears that he yearned to make more of.  Embarrassment traces your features, brows pulled into a worrisome look while you hold your hands close against your chest, afraid of further touch much to his dismay.  

“Can you…can you do that again?”  He whispers.  Terrified of the consequences but brave enough to face the rejection.

Nodding, your slow hand reaches for his cheek, thumb grazing over it before trailing down his neck.  His breath hitches, your hand traveling lower and lower, over his chest and down his stomach, exploring all that you’ve so desired only in your wildest  wet dreams.  

Lifting the hem of his shirt ever so slightly, just enough to let your fingers graze his soft skin, your main goal is to tug at that delicious happy trail.  And when you do, he can’t admit to you that he nearly cums in his jeans but you’re certain you’re on the same page when you see his eyes roll back into his skull.

 He can’t control himself when he ruts into you the second your palm meets him once again, beautiful, breathy sighs escaping his pouty, plump lips.  

“Like that, baby?”  You ask, trailing hot kisses down his throat.

“Please.”  A whisper that tells you everything.  “I-I never—no one’s ever—“  He tries to warn you.

“What?”  You encourage, tongue tracing his earlobe.  “No one’s ever taken care of you, huh?”  

“Just my hand.”  Eddie jokes, voice strained.

Guiding him to sit back on the couch, it protests beneath the weight of you both as you crawl into his lap.  Careful fingers toy with the curls at the nape of his neck, patient lips hovering over his.  Doe eyes look up at you, half in admiration, half in hesitation.  

“We can stop.”  You assure him, sweet kisses pressed to each corner of his lips.

“No, no.”  His voice shakes, chest heaving.  “I just—I don’t know exactly…what I’m doing.”  

There’s an undertone of humiliation, the opposite effect you wanted to have on him.  But you were confident that you could make him feel comfortable.  Feel sexy and wanted.

“Let me do the work.”  You whisper against his lips, slowly rolling your hips into him.  “Let me take care of you.”  

He nods, frantically moving to undo his zipper, only to be met with your delicate hands wrapping around his knuckles.  You’re so patient with him, so gentle, so unlike what he’s ever been faced with.

“I said, let me take care of you.”

Feather light kisses pressed to his knuckles, you continue rotating your hips against his, feeling his bulge in between your legs, the friction tightening the knot within you.  His eyebrows knit together, head falling back against the couch’s when you graze your fingertips just below his shirt again.  

Nails gently drag down his torso, eliciting the loudest moan you’ve pulled from him so far.  His injured hands only allow him to take their place in your belt loops again, assisting in setting the pace as you grind against him.

“Eddie.”  You whimper.

“M’ gonna cum.”  He halts your movements, only letting you hover above what was about to be sweet euphoria.  “Wanna be inside of you.”

You can only gaze at him with the utmost love, entranced by his flushed appearance and his damp curls framing his face.  

“Please, baby.  Please, I’ve got condoms—“

You have to stop his babbling by shoving your tongue in his mouth, nodding against him with a grin.  

“You bought condoms?  Boy, are you prepared—“

A playful pillow is tossed into your face, a deep groan coming from your boy.  

“Yes, I’m cautious, baby, please if you don’t sit on my dick right now, if I have to go one more minute not knowing what it’s like…”

“Shhh, okay, okay!!”  You squeal when he attempts to get up only to fail with you pushing back.  You knew damn well he was strong enough to fling you off of his lap should he choose, which only made your underwear more of a mess.

“You wanna go to the bedroom?”  You tease, nuzzling into his cheek.  

Without a second of hesitation, he launches you both off of the couch, palms against your ass only making you wonder how much his hands must hurt and how much adrenaline he must have not to care.  Playfully, Eddie tosses you onto his bed, a pile of unkempt sheets that only seemed that much more comfortable than your own bed.  You could die happily in the smell that engulfed you.  Purely Eddie.  Woodsy and minty.  A tad smoky.  And some hints of apple.

Just when you think he’s about to jump your bones, in every literal sense, you open your eyes to find him carefully adjusting the needle of his record player in the corner of the room.  And then it plays.  A rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love.  A folkier version, a woman singing with a twang to her voice.  

“Well alright, cowboy.”  You joke, an over seductive brow raising at him.  

“Shut up.”  He grins, crossing his arms to take his shirt off and toss it behind him.  

“C’mere.”  You reach over, tugging at his belt until he hovers over you.  “Wanna see you.” 

“You are seeing me, been here the whole time.”

Quickly, he gathers what you mean as you reverse positions, pushing him back on the bed to trail your lips along his stomach.  Perfectly pretty lips follow along the scars he’d been left with years ago.  The rough texture doesn’t deter you, doesn’t scare you off like he imagined.  While your lips explore his scarred side, your hand delicately traces the dragon tattooed along his ribs on the opposite side.  Inked skin that arose with goosebumps after each touch.

As if he hadn’t already died and gone to heaven, you stop your torment on his body to discard your own shirt, leaving you in only your bra before him.  Careful to grab his hand, you drag his fingers down your chest, in between the valley of your breasts, down, down, down until you let him dip into your pants.  Beneath your damp panties, collecting slick before he catches on your clit, a moan falling so desperately from your lips.  

“F-feel what you do to me?”

It aches.

His finger sits pressed against your throbbing clit, teasing in a way he has no idea about yet.  But he will and you’re not quite ready to relinquish that power to him…yet.  

You can’t handle the confines of clothing any longer, releasing your breasts as you unhook your bra and toss it to the side.  His eyes grow, lips parted in awe.  And when you go to shimmy your jeans off, the friction against his hand pulls a mewl from you, something so pretty and real.  

You’re completely bare, prey for him to claim although he doesn’t, he lets you have control.  And then you remove his hand, only to drag yourself over his denim covered thigh, slick coating the material without much effort.  

Catching his eyes, you watch as he brings his finger up to his lips, tongue wrapping around the digit with a moan of approval.  That’s when you decided you couldn’t drag it on any longer.

His belt buckle clinked against itself as you worked to yank his jeans down, practically drooling for his cock, drunk on the mere idea of even seeing it.  Plaid boxers ignored, you pay attention to the way it slaps against his stomach, already leaking and red.  Painfully aroused.

He barely survives when you decide to lower yourself and lick a long stripe up the underside, twitching against your tongue.

“B-baby, please.”  While grinding into nothing, poor boy.  “Wanna cum, wanna cum so bad.”

He’s been taunted enough, breaking a sweat as he lays there, fisting the sheets in his hands.  You’ve nearly brought him to tears and you’ve barely touched him.

Leaving open mouthed kisses along his reddening chest, you finally offer some relief, ripping open a condom he’d somehow grasped in his hand the entire time, rolling it onto him, and sinking down, swallowing him into your warmth.  Eddie makes the prettiest sounds, small almost hiccups and gasps.  Slowly, you work your hips against him, clit rolling just right against his pubic hair. 

He’s big, stretches you out and hits just the right spot.  Hips stuttering, he places his hands on your waist, cut hands be damned.  Eddie’s close, has been this entire time, but he can’t contain himself the second you lick up a bead of sweat from his chest to his collarbone.  The site is simply too pornoraphic for his inexperienced dick, hot cum filling the condom.  The moan he lets out as he finishes only encourages you, gets you going faster in the limited time you now have before he softens.  

Automatically you reach down to play with your clit, knowing it’ll push you over the edge though he realizes and beats you to it, a rough finger circling you in a pleasant rhythm.  Overstimulated whines fall from him but he doesn’t quit giving you what you need, what you so desperately desire.  

Then all at once, pleasure crashes down around you, pulsing around him, leaving you twitching and panting.  The record stopped playing however long ago, the silence pulling you back into the realm of Eddie’s bedroom.

 Nothing needs to be said, words aren’t on your minds.  Excuses for what just occurred are nonexistent because if you’re being honest, it was sewn into the timeline no matter what.  Forever embedded into the universe in every lifetime.  Heavy breaths carried a symphony during the cool down, sweaty chests pressed together, sticky and salty.

Absentmindedly your foot grazed against his hairy shin, fingers dancing along his chest and arm.  His bicep was toned, something you were never able to appreciate up close before but would now take all the time you wanted.  You wanted to memorize every detail of his body, every freckle, hair, and birthmark.  All of him.

His lazy hand let his fingers trail up and down your spine, writing letters unknown to you but etched into his brain for as long as he knew you.  He held a new appreciation for intimacy, something he sourly wrote off early on but now would cherish deeply.  

Girls never liked him but if he could go back in time and show younger Eddie the one girl who would ever matter to him, well he imagines younger Eddie would still be a naive dipshit about it but he could try nonetheless.  Supposes he would hit him with a “it gets better, kid” and all that sappy shit.  Something like “you’re gonna marry this girl”.  That would be okay to jump the gun on, right?

–

Cinnamon and chocolatey aromas couldn’t completely wash away the somber haze although it was fairly close.  Post sex air somewhat helped as well, though you weren’t banking on it, it wasn’t a solution, more like a deterrent that hadn’t been planned on either part.  

The little plastic tree on the coffee table decorated with years old ornaments wasn’t going to heal the bruising on an ever healing heart.  Christmas classics played on the TV but you knew Rudolph wasn’t going to erase a lifetime's worth of childhood trauma.  

It could help though.  And that’s all that mattered.  If watching Christmas classics only aided in healing a millionth of the wounds, then it was worth doing.  If decorating his once dark and depressing house with twinkling lights and garland only brought out a smidge of the inner child that needed help healing, then it was worth it.  

While Eddie slept in, you played Santa even if just with one gift, leaving it next to the coffee table, too large to fit under the small tree.  Though it didn’t start out perfect, Christmas was starting to look very familiar.  Baked goods sat out on top of the stove, cinnamon rolls, croissants, the works.  Eddie’s shitty little kitchen radio played Christmas tunes which you found yourself humming along to.  

You’d thrown together some maple bacon, drizzling actual maple syrup on the strips in hopes that they’d candy in the oven, which they did.  Hash browns sat in the skillet, slightly burned but at least there was ketchup in the fridge to cover up the burnt taste.  Snow blanketed the streets outside, snowing you in although you didn’t mind one bit.  

You’d called Donnie, heard the commotion over the line at her house, family members causing a ruckus in the background as she made pancakes.  While you were supposed to be with everyone this morning, she assured you all was well and you could hear the smirk in her voice.

Emerging from his room, Eddie’s bed head is the first thing you greet.  Curls sticking out every which way, bangs defying gravity.  Lines ran down his face, imprints from the sheets and his boxers hung low on his hips.  A dream.

“Merry Christmas to you too.”  You giggle at the way he squints in the early morning sunlight peeking through the window.  

Stretching his arms over his head, you’re forced to witness the way every muscle flexes, drool nearly falling from the corner of your mouth.  It doesn’t go unnoticed but he decides it can be addressed later.  

“Merry Christmas, did you get me some fucking curtains so I can actually see?”  He laughs, voice husky with sleep.  

“No but I can do you one better—“

“I was joking Bambi, I wasn’t actually expecting any—“

“Next to the table.”  

Your grin makes him want to run directly to you and spin you around, kiss you a few dozen times, and never leave this bubble you two have created.  Instead he hesitantly steps toward the previously mentioned gift, a large gift at that, wrapped thoughtfully in reindeer paper and complete with a large red bow.  He felt like an asshole.

“I—no I can’t—“

“Open it.”  

Eddie just stared. 

“Eddie, it’s Christmas, first thing you do is open gifts!”  You smile, approaching behind him.

Then he disappeared back into his room, the sound of him rummaging the only thing letting you know he hasn’t retreated just to hide from you.  When he walks back out, he’s hiding something behind his back, a nervous smile tugging at his face.  

“I swear—I was going to wrap it, I just—I don’t have an excuse.  I just didn’t.  I’m sorry.”  His large brown eyes plead with you, begging for forgiveness that he didn’t need to beg for in the first place.

As if defeated, he hands you a stack of records, several that probably cost a good paycheck.  And you can tell he feels it’s not even enough with the way he avoids your gaze.

“Um, it’s probably stupid, it’s just, they’re records that made me think of you.  I dunno, it’s dumb, music is just—“

“I love you.”  You interrupt.

Without another word you grab the records from him to momentarily set them on the table.  Before he knows it you're smashing your lips against his, passion being poured into every breath he takes against you.  Your hands cup his cheeks, still slightly stubbly but cute.  He wraps his large hands around your wrists, hissing at the slight sting but continuing. 

“You’re not just saying that—“

“I.  Love.  You.”  You enunciate each word with a peck.  “Point blank.  No exceptions.  You’re stuck with me old man.”

“Old man?  We’re like the same age—“

You’ll never forget the amusement on his face but what attracts your attention next are the records.  A huge stack of them.  All genres.  Some Elvis, ones that hadn’t made it in your collection yet, a few that seemed more his taste, metal.  It was a universal language and it was his preferred way of feeling.  That much you could gather.

“Um, yeah, if you don’t like them I can just…”

“Don’t like them?”  You scoff.  “I love them.”

You hold them close to your chest, as if they were books and you were in high school.  You suppose you could be what with the way butterflies erupted in your stomach.  He made you feel like you were in high school, gave you a sense of youth that had been skipped over previously.  

And he was blushing. 

“Well, uh, I just thought you know…music does a lot for me.  I picked some out that I knew you’d like.  Also put some that I like in there, I dunno why, you don’t have to listen to them.”

“Oh, we are listening to them.  Right after you open your gift.”

More blushing.

Eddie takes a few glances at the gift, as if it were there to test him.  Like Pandora’s box or something.  Then he crouches down beside it, hesitantly reaching out to peel back the paper.  A giddy grin rests on your face, records still clutched in your hold.  His face says it all once he’s torn through enough paper.  It’s a guitar case, that much he can tell, eyes nearly popping out of his head.  Then he opens the case, revealing a cherry red electric something that you couldn’t memorize the name of but all you knew was that he had his eyes on it for months before you even entered the picture.  At least that’s what the guy at the thrift shop said. 

“No fucking way.”  He smiles, half laughs.  Then repeats himself.  Over and over.

“Do you like it?”

Instead of receiving verbal confirmation, you’re nearly tackled, strong arms wrapping around you and swinging you around.  Laughter erupts from deep within you, Eddie setting you down just to kiss you deeply and with so much care you figure you’ll faint.  

“I love it, I love you.”

Later that morning, frosting coats his lips then transfers to yours in a quick kiss across his tiny dining table.  The bacon is devoured, mostly on his account, and those claymation Christmas classics elicit laughter like no other.  Deep belly laughs from the man whose legs you sit in between.  His shirt rests comfortably on your torso.

He calls Wayne, puts it on speaker, and effortless banter occurs between you three.  Wayne tells his boy to behave, wishes him a Merry Christmas, apologizes that times have been so shitty and that his flight had been canceled.  Thanks you for being there to ground his boy, tells you how much Eddie’s friends have gone on and on about you two, that he can’t wait to meet you.

Then you call up your family back home, more than likely all crammed in the same house, doing puzzles, arguing over stupid things, throwing wrapping paper everywhere.  You miss it.  But you wouldn’t trade your place right now for anything.  Eddie timidly and adorably chimes in, says hi.  Makes small talk with mom and grandma.  Grandma begs him to take a look at her station wagon when he makes his way over with you for a visit some day.  No question about it, he’s going and that’s final, according to her.  He doesn’t seem to mind though, a shy smile pulling at his lips.

Lastly you call up the gang.  Nancy answers, says everyone’s at their house as usual.  Shouting between Dustin, Steve, and Mike is heard in the background.  Something about a broken sled.  Robin takes the call hostage, telling you both about the juicy gossip amongst the group.

“And then Max—you haven’t met Max yet, Bambi, but Max left Lucas a—shit you haven’t met Lucas yet either.  This would all make so much more sense then.”

There’s talk of a summer trip, something fun everyone can join in on.  Kind of like summer camp except Nancy would of course be the ring leader by default.  She would more than likely assign the adults as camp counselors unofficially.  Eddie’s face lights up, tells her about the perfect campsite not far from his house.  Beautiful in the summertime.  Then looks at you, shares a dimpled grin and runs his thumb over your knee.

Loved ones called and bellies full, Eddie plays around with his new guitar, and softly in the background, Muddy Waters plays.  One of the records he’d gifted you.

~end~

Masterlist

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiesxangel @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels @aysheashea @dashingdeb16

[hexpea]

After the tragic passing of your husband by your own hands, you're set to marry his younger brother, Naoya, to maintain the alliance between your clan and the Zenin.

Under the facade of lending your family's influence in exchange for the Zenin strength, your task set by your father, the 24th Kamo clan head, is clear. Use your technique to discreetly weaken the Zenin clan, killing the heirs one-by-one.

But will you even have to when Naoya comes down with a mysterious illness?

*smut warning in some chapter cases, non-consensual and rough in some cases* *doesn't follow the manga/anime, no spoilers* *contains themes of non-con and death, trigger warning* *unplanned pregnancy* *hanahaki disease*

Prologue - Gladioli

Ch. 1 - Black Dahlia

Ch. 2 - Wolfsbane

Ch. 3 - White Lilies

Ch. 4 - Daffodils

Ch. 5 - Hogweed

Ch. 6 - Chrysanthemums

Ch. 7 - Pink Orchids

Ch. 8 - Seedling

Ch. 9 - Red Dahlia

Ch. 10 - Yellow Carnations

Ch. 11 - The Lotus

Ch. 12 - Iris

Ch. 13 - Lavender Roses

Ch. 14 - Petunia

Ch. 15 - Cherry Blossoms

Ch. 16 - Hibiscus

Ch. 17 - Anemone

Ch. 18 - Pink Ginger

Ch. 19 - Gardenias

Ch. 20 - White Hyacinth

Ch. 21 - Geraniums

Ch. 22 - Poppy

Ch. 23 - Pink Primrose

Ch. 24 - Bells of Ireland

Ch. 25 - White Carnations

Ch. 26 - Crocus

Ch. 27 - Sea Lavender

Ch. 28 - Queen Anne's Lace

Ch. 29 - Baby's Breath

Ch. 30 - Blackthorn

Ch. 31 - Tansy

Ch. 32 - Black Rhododendron

Ch. 33 - Forget-Me-Not

Ch. 34 - Red Spider Lilies

Ch. 35 - Azalea

Epilogue - Buttercup

[lumidotexe]

CH 7 “To Facade” - Page 5-6

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Masterpost

[deliciousangelfestival]

Every Time You Lie - Ch 7 || Lloyd Hansen

Character: dark!Lloyd Hansen x female!reader, dark!Husband Lloyd Hansen x Wife!reader.

Synopsis: Any woman is jealous of you, especially with the status of being the wife of Lloyd Hansen—the CEO of the biggest pharmacy company in the country. From the outside, everyone sees you as a perfect family, a successful husband, two kids, and living in a big house. 

But the truth is different. You are trapped in this marriage because of the mistake you made. You are willing to give everything you have to get your freedom. Free from him. Free from your vicious mother-in-law. Free from your snobby son.

Both of them shouldn’t be together.

Warning: Betrayal, suicidal thought, harsh language, tragedy. Minors do not read. 18+

Author Note: I do not consent to copying or translating my work.

Any reblog, comment, and feedback are appreciated. I want to know what you guys think.

Series Masterlist || Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , -

Main Masterlist || buy me Ko-fi 🥹💓

In that moment of revelation, you found yourself frozen, your hands instinctively reaching for Ransom's face as if the touch could erase the weight of his words. 

Once filled with a mischievous spark, his eyes now held a haunted depth that mirrored your heart's turmoil.

"Tell me what happened," you pleaded, the words escaping your lips almost in a whisper, a fragile plea for the truth you feared.

The weight of Ransom's words hung in the air, sinking into your consciousness like a heavy anchor. "Because of drugs," he confessed, and the reality of the situation crashed over you like a tidal wave.

In the recesses of your memories, you recalled when Ransom's choice of friends had raised concerns. You, along with Linda and Harlan, had implored him to distance himself from the dangerous circle, a plea that fell on deaf ears. Ransom had always reassured everyone that he wasn't addicted, that he could handle it.

But the past had a way of resurfacing, revealing the cracks in the carefully crafted facade.

Ransom continued, his gaze fixed on a distant point, "One day, after our argument, the police stopped my car. They found drugs in it." 

His voice quivered, a mixture of regret and bitterness coloring the words. "I hired a lawyer, fought the charges, but I still lost. And I knew it was because of your husband."

The revelation struck you like a lightning bolt. The intricate web of events, woven by choices and consequences, tightened its grip around you. 

The realization that Lloyd may have played a role in Ransom's downfall stunned you, a mosaic of emotions playing across your features.

Ransom's eyes bore into yours, “Do you remember?”

"I don't. What happened after that?" you questioned, your voice edging with curiosity and apprehension.

"To be free from jail, my lawyer suggested I go into rehabilitation," Ransom admitted, the bitterness of the past still lingering in his words. "And then my old man, infuriated by the scandal plastered all over the media, decided to ship me off to Europe."

He recounted the harsh reality of his journey—an odyssey of rehabilitation that felt no different from a prison sentence. The inability to return for a year compounded his sense of confinement. 

Yet, amidst the struggles, he found a silver lining—a connection that proved to be surprisingly valuable.

You listened to his story; for you, the time passed quickly, but for him, it had been years. The fear of losing a memory loomed, casting a shadow over the revelation.

Seizing the moment, you asked Ransom, "Do you know the truth about my dad, his company, and my siblings?”

Ransom's nod carried a sense of solemnity, "But, it's for me to tell you."

He turned around, and you instinctively followed his lead. As you both faced the room, a palpable tension hung in the air. 

Your breath caught when a surprise guest entered—the last person you expected. It was your brother, Theo.

******

At Crystal Pharmaceutical L.A Branch 

Lloyd sat restlessly in the dimly lit boardroom, surrounded by his legal team. Tension hung thick in the air as they delved into the intricate details of the pharmacy company's myriad issues.

Lloyd's face contorted with a mix of frustration and disbelief. He clenched his jaw as the weight of the accusations sank in. "Opium and human experiments?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the tense meeting room.

The lawyers exchanged nervous glances, realizing the gravity of the situation. "Sir, the media is running wild with these claims. We need a strategic approach to address these allegations and mitigate the damage to the company's reputation," one of them stammered.

Lloyd leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic. "Find out who's behind this. 

I want names, connections, and every detail about that so-called whistleblower," he commanded, his eyes piercing through the legal team.

As the meeting continued, Lloyd's mind raced, contemplating the potential fallout from these damning revelations. 

He knew that salvaging the company's image would require more than just legal maneuvering; it would demand a meticulous investigation to unveil the truth and clear the company's tarnished name.

The stakes were high, and Lloyd couldn't afford to let the allegations spiral out of control. The challenge ahead seemed daunting, and the fate of the company hung in the balance.

Lloyd leaned forward, his eyes locking onto the intensity in the room. "If one of you works well, I will reward that person with $2 million," he declared, the gravity of his words punctuating the already charged atmosphere. 

A collective gasp filled the room as the legal team absorbed the staggering number.

"Now do your work, before I change my mind," Lloyd asserted with a firm resolve, his voice cutting through the stillness. 

The weight of his announcement settled over the team, prompting a flurry of activity as they refocused on their tasks, driven by the prospect of both professional success and a substantial financial reward. All of them ran to leave the meeting room. 

Alone in the now-empty meeting room, Lloyd's expression hardened. He swiftly reached for his phone and dialed a number, his voice low and decisive. "Burn everything," he commanded. 

Author Note :

Hey friends,

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@pattiemac1

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Series Masterlist || Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , -

Main Masterlist || support me: Ko-fi 🥹💓

[officialdaydreamer00]

House fire

ROLLO FLAMME — in which one can predict a student exchange program might go south real quick

COLLAB WORK with @unfictinalnightmare for [The chimes of comfort]

CONTENT — takes place after glorious masquerade, our yuusonas (hillary and irene) are yuu, silly shenanigans with hillary and irene, rollo rollo rollo, important things are to be repeated thrice ^-^, irene up to no good :)

TAGGINGS — @cloudcountry @identity-theft-101 @xen-blank @esmerulia-chantelle @dove-da-birb @cookiesandbiscuits @vioisgoinginsane @siren-serenity @loser-jpg @axvwriter @edith-is-a-cat @thehollowwriter @taruruchi @cyanide-latte @aqua-beam @ferris-thewheel + others :3

Do reblog or comment if you enjoy my work! ^-^

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3: The righteous bell keeper || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5

At the port of Sage Island, there stood a lone boy with tired sunken eyes on his pale face, dark eye bags marring his skin.

He glanced at the pocket watch in his hand. 7:45am. Damn these Night Raven College mages, at least they should've come earlier for this.

Rollo was beginning to regret agreeing to this whole thing. He cursed the headmage of Night Raven College for getting him involved with the so-called 'Exchange program', especially when Malleus Draconia, that deleterious force of nature was there. That made Rollo narrowed his eyes in revulsion, unconsciously covering his mouth with his handkerchief. 

"Flamme-senpai, what exactly are you doing?"

A calm voice echoed from behind Rollo, unconsciously drawing out a shudder from him. Rollo undoubtedly forgot that beside Malleus Draconia, there was also a Prefect he swore to stear clear away from. But by Seven, seems like it was inevitable. Rollo quickly put on a calm facade and turned around to greet his guide.

"Ah, Ms. Lovejoy, good morning. I was simply feeling a bit underwhelmed with the sudden change in weather."

Irene looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, she could practically tell what he was thinking, it was written all over his face. But she wouldn't called him out on it, out of politeness.

"G'morning."

Hillary trailed behind the ravenette with Grim in her arms. She gave Rollo a curt bow in greeting, ruby red eyes silently judging his appearance.

He looked like one of the more troublesome folks on campus she rather avoid, and look at that hairstyle and the eye bags,... Hillary thought, pursing her lips with a faint judgemental stare.

To a beauty appreciator like herself, Rollo definitely got a negative out of ten. Not that he was unattractive, quite the opposite actually, but just like every other guy she saw (excluding Pomefiore boys), he didn't know how to take care of himself or utilise his looks.

Hillary stared at Rollo unblinkingly, as if she had made something her life mission, and that sent chills down Rollo's spine.

———————————————————

Irene and Hillary took Rollo on a tour around town before going back to campus.

Irene, as usual, took the lead and introduced to Rollo about Sage Island and Night Raven College in proper tour guide speech, while Grim and Hillary roamed around the marketplace, buying ingredients for their lunch and dinner.

"Let's see... What to cook, what to cook..."

Hillary noted down the list of dishes for the day with a smug smile as she looked at the whole chicken and the cut of beef she bargained for only 500 madols.

The white haired girl takes great pride in her shopping skills. Her ability to bargain along with years of experience always help her bring back cheap yet good-quality ingredients for their daily meals in Ramshackle.

"How about borscht?" Irene suggested, holding up a red beetroot at a vendor nearby.

As much as she hated Hillary, that girl could cook, she had to admit, albeit begrudgingly. She wasn't exactly a picky eater, but some Russian dishes she didn't particularly enjoy was now on her okay list, all because of the snowette.

"Wait, really?" Hillary blinked in surprise, then she shrugged. "Sure, why not. We can make that Vietnamese style chicken curry you like for dinner, then."

Hillary then resumed with her shopping. Irene was looking over Grim and Rollo when she saw a fruit vendor, an evil idea popped up in her mind.

Dark green lips curled up into a mischievous smile, and as Rollo was looking around the town with a bored gaze, she quickly asked Hillary to buy some berries and flour to bake a certain cake.

She simply couldn't wait for dinner to come.

[quuerbee]

Just saw a picture of divine dragon chung myung before he got that title and it really hit me how small Cho Sam's body was when chung myung came back. This little thought has spoilers for chapter 400+ (I think anyway) and vague spoilers for everything past ch 400 until like. Ch 800

GOD OK so we as the reader understand chung myungs situation very very intimately. WE understand that he is an 80+ year old man mentally. WE understand that he is not in fact 15, then 17, then 19, 20, etc. Everyone around him, however, truly believe that he is those ages.

It's brushed upon multiple times throughout the novel, especially whenever chung myung is down for the count/recovering after a fight. The facade he makes around himself, the strong reliable leader, fades away and the "truth" of who he is reinstates itself to those close to him in this second life. His back, every time he wavers, is described as small. This is always through the perspective of anyone but himself. This is even more apparent whenever he is unconscious after a serious fight. I don't know exactly chapters, but i KNOW that baek cheon (and the rest of the 5 swords plus soso and hye yeon), at least once, has had the reality of Chung myungs apparent age dawn upon them. That they're youngest sajae (sahyung in soso's case) is constantly spilling his own blood to protect them. (This fact is straight up said by yu iseol after the particularly bad fight with Jang ilso, spitting her frustration with only getting in chung myungs way instead of protecting him).

This phenomenon is hardly limited to the main group of disciples. After the first myriad men siege on Mount hua (while The Gang is in Xian), everyone subconsciously gains courage with the thought that soon enough chung myung will come, that he'll protect them. The disciples (soso being the most prevalent since she's one of the main disciples focused on in the novel) of course correct this thought, realizing that they cannot rely on chung myung forever. Anyways moving on from just describing this arc. What I mainly want to focus on is Hyun jong and chung myungs interaction AFTER the siege is finished, after un gum is fresh off of his amputation, after chung myung has barely gotten treatment for his own (quite serious) injuries.

What do you think when through Hyun jong's mind, seeing his youngest disciple, the one who brought back the hope that had almost died out with his sect, ruthlessly kill the enemy, return heavily wounded, and then try to sneak out almost immediately to go back to smite those who have harmed his home? To us, Chung myung is more than capable. He's the plum blossom sword Saint, the one who (even with all the regret he holds over this) severed the head of the heavenly demon. He's an 80+ year old man trying to protect the only thing besides bloodshed that is familiar in this second life. We understand the guilt he has over not being able to protect his home the first time. We understand that he would rather die than allow Mount Hua to fall again.

Hyun jong does not know this. He does not understand chung myungs rage (and guilt and grief and longing and-). He looks at chung myung and sees an 18 or 19 (I don't remember) year old boy, covered in wounds, trying to sneak out of his home on a suicide mission of revenge. He sees a boy. He knows that if he let's this boy go, he will never see him alive again. So he uses chung myungs borderline (who are we kidding, it is way past borderline) unhealthy loyalty with mount hua to dissuade him from walking to his death.

ANYWAYS long story not so short, I need need need more analysis over what everyone but chung myung thinks about him. Everyone sees this young teen, then young adult, bend over backwards to the point where he has almost died so so so many times just so mount hua can flourish. They've seen him kill ruthlessly, they've seen him sob over the skeleton of an ancestor (one of his brothers, a reminder of what he has lost, what he will never get back), they've seen him silly and carefree, they've seen him almost mad with bloodlust.

To us, he is chung myung, the old plum blossom sword Saint, slayer of the heavenly demon. To them, he is chung myung, the scrawny 15 year old that changed their lives, that faces unknown traumas, that has had a life so, so unkind to him.

Sometimes I look at chung myung pre time skip, how small he is, how he looks like a child, how he acts nothing like one, and remember that only we, the readers, get the full context behind his actions.

[nightlyrequiem]

The Other Side of Paradise

3) Happy Nation

Cross posted from AO3

Ch.1,, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6, Ch.7, Ch.8, Ch.9, Ch.10, Ch.11

You try to make the best of your life working at a small bakery in a city with rising cartel violence. One slower day, a man starts harassing your coworker. Despite the obvious threat, you stand up to him anyway. Unbeknownst to you, Valeria just so happened to be there to witness it.

A/N- All chapters containing smut will be labeled mature. The fic is fully written with the whole thing on AO3 but chapters on Tumblr will be posted one a day.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Dual POV, Happy Ending, Plot with Porn, Graphic Violence, Inappropriate Use of a Knife, Masturbation, WLW

Valeria sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Trying to ward off the impending headache that always comes with doing paperwork. Tax filing and wages. Boring work that makes her want to tear her hair out. She never knew you needed a license to own a salmon farm but apparently, you do. It's not like money laundering is particularly difficult, it's just the upkeep of the facade is mind numbingly boring.

Her fingers twitch. Itching to hold a cigarette. Sometimes this really doesn't feel like it's worth all the effort. But then she sees her bank account and how strong her city is getting and realizes it definingly is. She's doing a good thing here. Even if some people don't see it that way. So what if she's also reaping the rewards?

Before she knows it, she's already lighting a smoke and taking a much-needed inhale. Savoring the bitter taste. Not for the first time, Valeria considers hiring an assistant. She just can't trust anyone else to do this right. Diego maybe. Only issue being that he's a little dim.

Her thoughts shift to you and your last conversation. Contrary to what she said to you, she doesn't think you should be so honest about your opinions. At least, not right off the bat like that. Your responses definitely left a lot to be desired, but Valeria trusts she'll train the awkwardness out of you. There are certainly a few other things she'd like to train you to do.

Her phone starts buzzing and she takes it out only to realize it's her other phone. She rolls her eyes and checks it. It's Deigo. She doesn't really want to talk to him right now. He didn't do anything wrong, but his voice just gets on her nerves.

She answers anyway. "What?" She barks.

"We have a new client." He replies. He sounds pleased. Valeria rolls her eyes. Her temper flares.

"Okay?" She says impatiently. Waiting for him to elaborate.

"He's different to our usual clients," Diego continues. "It's not drugs he's looking to buy." Valeria props her legs up on her desk. "He wants missiles." Valeria quirks a brow. He wouldn't be the first to request weapons, but it's an uncommon enough of an ask to catch her attention.

"Who is he?"

"Hassan Zyani."

Valeria hums. The name strikes a chord with her. She's sure she's heard of him somewhere.

"His name sounds familiar." She remarks.

"He has ties to Al-Qatala."

Of course. That's where she knows him from. Back when she was still a part of the Mexican Special Forces. She can only guess what he'd want missiles for. She doesn't really care. Terror is good for business after all.

"When does he want them?" She asks. Getting something as dangerous as a missile will be a little more difficult than something like a gun. Valeria can do it though.

"November first." A month. Give or take. Valeria nods to herself. "He wants them smuggled into Chicago; he also wants an escort."

"For the missiles?" She frowns. Does he think they'd just send them over unguarded?

"No, for him." Diego corrects.

Oh. That makes more sense. Valeria removes her legs from her desk and stands up, her knees pop and she frowns. She stubs out her cigarette and responds.

"Tell him we can have it done." She hangs up and sets her burner down. She's done enough work for today. She deserves a treat.

It's late again when she enters the bakery. Late enough for there to be no one else. She feels a spike of satisfaction when she sees you behind the counter alone. You look up from your phone and straighten. Nodding in acknowledgement. She sees that you haven't put away everything yet. Though there's still not much to pick from. No conchas either.

She stops in front of the counter. She can tell by the furrow of your brows that you're feeling nervous. She makes sure to keep up eye contact. "Closing shift again?" Valeria says. "Did you piss off Mateo?" She remembers her first job. She hated the closing shift.

"You know Mateo?" You ask. Eyeing her with what Valeria thinks may be suspicion. Valeria smiles a little. Mildly entertained like a child lifting up a rock to see what exoskeletal creatures hide under it.

"It's a small town, I know most people here."

"Oh." Your fingers tap against the counter. "Well, I actually asked for the closing shift." You say, answering her question. "I like how quiet it gets and I get to take home any leftovers."

Makes enough sense. "You must get lonely though," Valeria says sympathetically. "I know I would." She can't actually sympathize though. She can't recall a time she ever felt lonely.

"I'm used to it." You shrug nonchalantly. Like a bloodhound sniffing for weakness, she picks up on the hint of longing in your voice. Valeria feels that little tingle at the base of her neck. One she gets whenever something is going the way she wants it to.

She watches you lean against the counter. She knows you're trying to come off as casual but the stiffness in your shoulders gives you away.

"What do you do when no one is here?" Valeria continues her inquiry. You strike her as someone who would go dormant. Just stand there silently like a stone carving.

"Well...I clean." You reply.

"No, I mean-" She sighs. "Okay, when you aren't cleaning or tending to customers what do you do?" You pause. Thinking, Valeria hopes.

"I read." You finally say. She watches you check your phone before you meander out from behind the counter. You begin to sweep and cast her a look every couple of seconds. You probably think you're being subtle too.

Valeria calls your name, beckoning you over. Once you're within arm's reach she reaches into her back pocket and takes out a black pen, she doesn't ask before grabbing your hand. For your sake, she pretends to not notice the slight tremor. She writes her number. Going slow to make sure its legible, and to hold onto you for just a little longer.

She finishes and looks at you. You look at your hand, then look at her.

"What's this for?"

"I don't want to come down here every time I want to talk to you." Valeria answers. Pleased by the little smile you try to stifle.

She turns and leaves without a farewell or a baked treat.

She returns to her home and dutifully ignores her office. There's neglected paperwork still waiting for her on her desk. She makes a quick, protein filled meal before heading downstairs to work out for an hour. She feels like going to bed but forces herself forward.

She finally finishes. She's sweaty and sore, and incredibly thirsty. She downs a cup of water and then two more when the first isn't enough. Her feet carry her to her bedroom but just before she reaches salvation she turns left into the bathroom. Just one more thing before she gets to sleep. Her soft bedding waits for her like lover, and it would be rude to show up in this state.

Finally, finally, Valeria gets to crawl into bed. The cool sheets feel like heaven against her skin. She lays down and closes her eyes. The moment would be perfect if her phone didn't start ringing shrilly. She audibly growls like an animal and tries to ignore it.

It's her work phone though. Her hand flashes out and grips the stupid, cheap, almost-out-of-minutes device and answers.

"What?" She asks sharply. She didn't bother checking to see who it was that was calling but she really hopes it's not Diego.

"There was a problem." Deigo says. Valeria seethes quietly.

"What problem? What happened?" She demands. Of course there was a problem. For everything that goes right something must go wrong.

"The Arizona shipment was interrupted by a civilian," Deigo drones on about the details. It was resolved and the witness was taken care of, but Valeria feels lightheaded with anxiety. He described the person, and it sounds a lot like you.

[krypt-kir]

For a friend who cares

A short little drabble for a friend who feels like their words aren't effective.

Main: Bash/Mixtape!BF (Mine), YS/HitSingle!Yourself (@ochrearia) Mentioned: Beef (@gemharvest)

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

Bash had another nearly sleepless night. Beef was still passed out on the sofa, and he was sitting on the floor with the coffee table in front of him, holding his phone and scrolling through the pictures he took last night.

They had a lot of fun together. Being rowdy and letting loose. Something about nighttime just felt more freeing. No worries about what we need to do while the sun is still out. No errands you could possibly run when everything has closed. No one who'd call you up for anything unless it's an emergency.

It was nice to forget about being an adult for a while.

There was a brief ache in Bash's chest at that thought. The idea he'd lose that sense of fun.

He glanced at Beef.

There could be a day where they grow apart.

He held his phone a little tighter, pushing the thoughts away and getting up. He hoped that brief blip of sorrow wasn't noticable to YS. That guy had enough to worry about as it was. He didn't need more to worry about and it would make him feel like shit.

He went to the bathroom to wash his face when he saw YS staring back at him with a disappointed look. Crap.

"Uhh…heyyy…" Bash smiled awkwardly, knowing he was about to get chewed out.

"Staying up late isn't good for you. Y'know that, right?" The other said.

Yeah. Bash knew that. God. This felt like being chewed out by his parents a little bit. "What can I say? I'm a night owl." He shrugged nonchalantly, trying to pass it off as joking with a chuckle.

"Bash, this is serious. When was the last time you had a proper sleep schedule?" YS folded his arms.

Oh. He really wasn't gonna get out of this one, huh? This wasn't just some silly one-and-done forget about it confrontation. This was an intervention. "I mean I might stay up late but I get 7 hours at least on most days." He figured it wasn't that bad if he's getting the right chunk of sleep. Might not be at a good hour but it felt like a reasonable compromise to him.

"I know you wake up earlier than your alarm unless you're sleep deprived. Your group chat messages for the past week. They show you're only offline for 4-5 hours every night." YS said firmly.

Bash's smile faltered a little. He knew he wasn't the most responsible adult but this just felt a little…

"Disappointed in yourself?" He cut Bash's thoughts off with a dagger. Ouch. YS must've realized because his expression furrowed a little differently. Less of disappointment and more of worry. "Shit- sorry."

"No. You're right." Bash sighed, dropping the jokester act. He didn't feel like keeping it up if the facade was already seen through. Couldn't hide anything from this guy. "I should act like the adult that I am."

Something about saying that outloud felt a lot worse.

"Fuck, dude-" YS winced a little. Regret immediately washed over Bash. God, it was hard to hide things here.

"Sorry, I-" Bash knew YS meant well, but goddamnit if he could silence the hurt so YS didn't feel it, he would.

"No, no. Forget I said anything." YS said, turning away.

"Wait-!"

Bash was met with his regular reflection.

He sighed and rubbed his face. Yes, he felt tired. Yeah, a little bit physically, but having your emotions read like it was a big old stoplight on his head felt exhausting after being so used to just hiding it. Being overly emotional never helped anyone. Not in Bash's experience.

Back when he and Pico first started dating, he'd do the same thing. Stay up way too late texting with him. It was fun, and he'd pass out with the last thing on his mind being the time they shared. After a long day of boring classes he didn't care about and doing chores around the house, it was his way of winding down.

It wasn't like he didn't see the downsides of it. He was just willing to make the sacrifice. He could sleep during class and take naps after doing his chores while Pico's still studying. Bash didn't particularly care about his homework and he'd do it during lunch anyway since Pico helped him. It was his own system and he thought it worked great.

But now that he was an adult, it felt more like an addictive cycle. His coworkers could tell when Bash has another late night. They'd bring it up. He'd have a cup of coffee and end up too caffeinated to sleep later. He stays up, has fun, and tries to stay up even longer till he's too tired to speak or type coherently. He'd wake up tired. People notice. Repeat.

He knew it wasn't healthy and he needed to break out of it hard and fast.

But it's always the first step that's the hardest, isn't it? Committing to it.

Bash washed his face. He felt a bit better, but not by much. His heart still weighed heavy, and he wanted to apologize to YS. Tell him the truth. Right now he knew YS was overthinking things. Maybe that he overstepped or caused Bash to feel hurt when it's not true at all.

YS was right when he brought up Bash was disappointed in himself. When your bad habits are laid out, anyone would feel guilty of it. Bash caused his own hurt by making bad choices. He needed that intervention or he wouldn't stop. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't the first time either. YS tried before and he didn't listen.

Bash tried to suppress the guilt that twisted in him, but he was terrible at it. Yes, this was the push he needed. Not all change was comfortable, and he knew that all too well. Didn't make it easy, but he'd live.

It wasn't much, but he set a few alarms for later tonight. Added an extra hour to his estimated sleep time to see if that does anything different, though a part of him believed it wouldn't change much.

He smiled a little to himself. He probably never would've taken the first step if it wasn't for his other self stepping in.

He hoped YS wasn't beating himself up about it. That was the last thing he wanted. Humans were complicated, and just detecting emotions didn't make YS a mind reader. Bash needed to explain himself and talk it out.

He sent YS a text.

(Hey, are you ok?}

----------

Not really used to writing other people's characters. Gave it a shot here, but I don't think it came out right. Wrote this all out and I'm not gonna re-read just cuz I'm gonna get embarrassed and chicken out of posting it.

Gonna be gone for a little bit so if I don't respond to comments right away just know I'm out doing errands lol

[loreleismusings99]

Two Body Problem

Ch 5

[Masterlist]

In which your students know more about how the two of you feel than you do, and Hana and Colin form a plan.

This has been in the works since December of last year, but this semester's been a doozy and a half and I didn't have a whole lot of time to work on it. So, before getting into the description and the fic itself, I would like to apologize for how long it took to get this done and also for it not being as long as other chapters--this might be the shortest chapter? I'm not 100% sure. I'm working on chapter 6, slowly but surely. I should have that done at least a bit more quickly and will hopefully have that published by the end of the month.

As always, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this! if there's anything you're curious about or would like me to address or fix, or if your have any comments at all, please let me know. Your feedback means the world to me and keeps me motivated to keep writing this <3

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The steel lab bench stool was cold and harsh, causing Marta to squirm in her seat to find a more comfortable position. She adjusts her stationery and lab notebook carefully before looking up and to her right to start taking notes on the current demo the TAs are setting up at the front of the lab. You’re standing behind the desk, looking down past the fireproof tabletop at what must be the source of the clamoring and clanking sounds emanating from the front of the room. Mark pokes his head up from under the desk and carelessly tosses a bottle of what looks like isopropyl alcohol that you frantically catch before it rolls off the table and onto the brutalist concrete floor.

“Mark, be careful!” you whisper-shouted at what is presumably the other TA crouching at your feet to retrieve reagents stored in the cabinetry behind the desk’s front facade. “Do you need help down there?”

“Nope! I’m fine, totally fine.”

“We were supposed to start 3 minutes ago.” You crossed your arms, still talking to the floor.

“That means I have two more minutes before this starts getting weird--”

“It’s already weird.” You whisper matter-of-factly before crouching down to join him on the floor. The other pre-meds sitting at Marta’s table let out an audible sigh in exasperation, the freshman in question choosing to channel her annoyance into a more silent and harder-to-notice eye roll. The two lab instructors obviously have had a thing for each other since the beginning of the quarter; Marta’s had to sit through nearly two and a half months of the two of you getting under each others’ skin in what had to be the most flirtatious way possible within a professional setting. At first, she thought you two were already together--given the rather marital nature of your arguments during office hours--but after the last few weeks, Marta became certain neither were you two together nor close to admitting there’s something other than loathing brewing between the two of you.

At least, not yet; bets have been floating around the class on how long it would take either you or Mark to notice the obvious crush the two of you have on each other and how long it would take for one of you to do something about it. So far the leading guess was around 3 more weeks of pining before something gave. Which, at this point, was far outside the time left before the quarter ended--meaning Marta had to likely continue to sit through admittedly cute but still infuriating mishaps like the one unfolding before her now. She watches on as Mark sets up reagents with you organizing them in his wake and telling the class what each one was.

Mark finally reemerges from below the desk and hastily writes the name of the lab the class is working on on the board behind you while you explain the lab, lifting his palm off the board to avoid erasing what he's already written. “I strongly suggest that you finish making your agar gels by the end of lab today to give yourselves enough time to complete the rest of the packet next week. As always, please make sure you address every question in each problem statement.” You say, finally drawing Marta's attention away from Mark's entirely capitalized handwriting and back to the demo the two of you had started.

  The rest of the students are halfway through the first part of their lab while Marta completes the rest of the written portion of the lab, having finished the necessary prep before the rest of her table. She lets her focus wander for a second, trying to think of the best way to describe the process of microwaving water and what was essentially inedible jello mix, when her gaze falls upon you helping one of her classmates with their gel preparation. Mark, evidently not having any other students to help, follows you around a shadow. After resolving an issue the student was having with the magnetic stirrer hot plate, you stand from your position leaning over the desk and accidentally bump another student’s flask with your arm, sending it into a precessing spin before Mark catches it, uttering a “Woah!” that catches your attention.

You pivot slightly to see if any damage was done before apologizing to the student And turning to Mark. “Thanks, good catch,” you say through a relieved sigh and a chuckle, patting Mark gently on the back of his arm. The man in question smiles and nods with a hum, seemingly lifting his hand to pat you on the back in return before becoming visibly flustered and stuffing his hand into the back pocket of his chinos, a vibrant flush dawning his barely freckled cheeks. Marta rolls her eyes while you fail to notice this, just like you have since the start of the semester--oblivious to his obvious affection for you.

☆☆☆

Exhaustion tugs heavily at Mindy’s eyes, the calm quiet the grad office had settled into not helping while Mark looks over her completed homework assignment that's due in about two days. ‘Take o-chem,’ they said, ‘it'll be fun!’ they said. This is the worst; I'm a Mech E, I shouldn’t have to subject myself to this… she thinks, trying not to lament that she can't yet legally drown her scholastic sorrows in White Claw. You're sat next to him, working on what looks like grading from last week's homework assignment, somehow having most of the sizable pile done in what felt like maybe 4 days.

“This looks good so far, Mindy. Though, you want to be careful with this question here,” Mark turns the paper around to show her the problem in question; one on the indomitable Krebs Cycle. As he is explaining where she went wrong in this particular exercise, a stray few locks of hair fall into Mark's face, partially obscuring his eyes from view.

Mark tries and fails to toss his hair out of the way of his line of sight, but succeeds in catching your attention. There was a rumor floating around the class that the two of you were an item, but given how much the two of you argue, Mindy found that hard to believe. Well, she used to at least. The last couple of weeks, the way you've been looking at Mark suggested the two of you somehow achieved a level of familiarity that Mindy didn't think you two were capable of. Looking up, you tsk softly before reaching over and tucking the rogue hair behind his ear. “You need a haircut,” you say plainly before returning to grading. You rest your chin on the hand you used to brush back Mark's hair and regard the paper in front of you with a soft pout, resuming the grading that you’re in the middle of.

Mindy looks back at Mark only to see him sort of just… frozen in place, looking off into the distance through the table with a dumbfounded twist to his otherwise blank features. “...You okay?” Mindy asks carefully, not sure what to do with the sudden stillness.

Mark looks up at Mindy before smiling and saying, “peachy--” and continuing to walk her through the rest of the problem, with Mindy gawking incredulously at Mark, her face twisted into a slight sneer.

  “Thanks, I think that's it for now. Can I email a scan of this to you by tomorrow morning for you to look over before I turn it in?” Mindy asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder and adjusting her backpack on her other shoulder. She was thankful to be done, her stomach rumbling along with her intense craving for the leftover bibimbap she packed from her last visit to her mom's the weekend prior.

“For sure,” Mark responds with a smile. “Good luck; I know it's hard stuff, but you're doing great, don't get discouraged.” Mindy laughs out an ‘I'll try’ before walking out of the combined cubicle space you and Mark have taken up. A soft scoff causes Mindy to turn around and look back at the two of you. Mark is halfway sitting on the table you're sitting at, now looking up and away from your pile of grading at the man in front of you. Mindy can almost physically see the hearts in your eyes as you gaze up at Mark, visibly trying to stifle your laughter at whatever Mark is saying. Mindy rolls her eyes before she turns back around, shaking her head at how cute the two of you are likely unknowingly being.

☆☆☆

Despite the faint squeaking of the dry-erase marker against the whiteboard, Sid’s eyes continue to droop, threatening to whisk them away into a deeper slumber than they should be in considering they’re in the middle of an organic chemistry lab. I really need to stop pulling all-nighters… they think, succumbing to a small hypnagogic jerk and almost falling off their stool. The jolt gives them a new wave of lucidity that allows them to focus their eyes on you reading what must be class notes, arm frozen in mid-stroke as you read the packet you’re clutching in your left hand.

“That’s too many s’s,” Mark says, interrupting your train of thought. He’s leaning nonchalantly against the fireproof tabletop of the desk the two of you are behind looking directly at the ‘asssignments’ underlined above the checklist you’re writing on the board. You let out a huff and rewrite the word before continuing to write out the due date for the last lab.

The dirty-blonde man stands up from his previous position halfway sitting on the fireproof table top of the desk at the front of the lab room and leans across the exceedingly short distance between the two of you, presumably to read over your shoulder. “You okay? You're more quiet than usual,” he whispers under his breath, trying and failing to conceal his concern for you.

“I'm peachy…” you pause and look to the side at Mark before inhaling surprisingly deeply and turning back to the board. “Just tired.”

Mark ‘tsk’s before turning His attention back to the whiteboard. “You've gotta get a better sleep schedule, you look like death.”

This causes you to pause your writing and turn your torso around so you're facing Mark fully. “You and I both know you have no right lecturing me on my sleep patterns,” Mark opens his mouth to retort and is stopped by you raising a hand between the two of you, your index finger forcing his mouth shut, “especially not after last night.”

This causes everyone in the class to perk up; Sid tries their best not to participate in the bet on your and Mark's relationship status, but the intrigue is too much for them to ignore, and the distraction was a welcome one given the stress that comes with ending a quarter. Naturally, they had their money on the two of you cracking before the end of the month, and they were starting to get desperate with finals week merely a couple of weeks away. Common you morons, I could really use the extra money…

Mark frowns and talks in a muffled slur through the pin your finger has his lips in. “You don't know my sleep schedule; for all you know I could be the healthiest sleeper on the planet--”

“So the person who called me last night asking for help on the Carnot engine homework due tomorrow was actually just some rando who looks and sounds exactly like you?” You interrupt, retracting your hand to rest it on your hip and sending the classroom into a poorly concealed fit of giggles.

The two of you snap your heads towards the audible glee and suddenly become aware of the class seated in front of you. You cover your mouth trying to suppress giggles of your own when Mark utters a pained, “Come on guys, don't laugh at that, it's not funny--”

“It kind of is” Sid pipes up from their spot in the back of the room.

“It totally is not, please don't encourage them,” Mark says, forcing his response through the beginnings of a laughing fit of his own.

“Alright, alright--” you interject, waving your hands in surrender, “let's get started, folks.”

☆☆☆

Hana lets out what has to be the biggest yawn she’s ever had and tries to rub the sleep from her eyes. The episode they’ve just completed winds to a close as Colin reaches over and lazily turns off the television and slumps back into the cushions of Vanessa’s Lazyboy she thrifted what feels like forever ago. I need to call her soon, she was supposed to be back by now… Hana thinks solemnly before looking over her shoulder at you and Mark fast asleep on the futon next to her spot on a beanbag between the two pieces of furniture.

“God, they’re hopeless…” Colin whispers in exasperation as Hana takes in the sickeningly adorable display before her. You and Mark are practically wrapped around each other; you’ve leaned back and the curve of the futon’s armrest is canting your head and face into Mark’s hair as he uses your torso as a pillow, his arms wrapped around your middle. “What’s worse is that they’ll probably wake up like that and act like that never even happened. Either that or they’ll isolate themselves from each other. Whatever serves their denial more.” Colin laments.

“My money’s on them isolating themselves,” Hana points at the two of you with her thumb before continuing, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did you know their students have a running bet on how long it’ll take for either one of them to make a move? I ran into one of them in the quad and they asked me if I knew them and if they were together yet; they looked genuinely disappointed when I said they weren’t!”

“If only we could lock them in here, then they’d have no choice but to work it out,” Colin chortled silently.

“... Actually, that’s not that bad of an idea--”

“Locking them in here? Hana, that’s a terrible idea, there’s an equally as high probability that they’d rip each others’ heads off--”

“No, we can’t lock them in here, but we can leave them alone to work this out for themselves.” Colin frowns at Hana, tacitly asking her to explain herself before Hana continues. “I have work tomorrow, I can take you back home on my way over, but what if we just leave them both here in the morning?”

“Hana, that makes no sense, they’ll see through this instantly. And what if they still do nothing and remain comfortably in the emotionally constipated status quo they’ve cultivated?”

“The ball would be in their court at that point, so what happens happens. If it doesn’t work then we can try something else…”

“... Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Colin asks incredulously, voice still low so as not to wake the sleeping lovebirds.

“If you think I’m suggesting a full, multi-step intervention to get the two of them together, then yes absolutely,” Hana exclaims in hushed excitement. “This has been going on for too long, I think my brain will actually melt if I have to listen to either one of them deny their feelings any longer,” Hana grumbles to Colin who has to stifle a laugh before he nods.

“Alright, I’m in, but I still think leaving them alone here together isn’t gonna do anything.” Colin crosses his arms before kicking his feet up onto the coffee table in front of him.

“You never know,” Hana retorts almost silently, “maybe this is what they need to finally get the gears turning in their heads and stop lying to themselves about how they feel.”

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Taglist:

@oliviabelova , @anna-withnn , @chelseyyouraverageluigi , @celesoba

DM me to be added to the tag list!

[joestvr]

༺✮ atashi no kimyona jinsei // あたしの奇妙な人生 ✮༻

༺✮ summary: five years after the fall of diavolo, you, y/n romano, who was sent away to japan at 11 to further your studies—find the courage to come back to naples after living out your schoolgirl & gaijin university student facade in morio-chou to see how your clan’s worsened—as well as become the “donna” of your father’s gang, il terrore, while your older brother is the real leader behind the scenes, just using you as a front. with plans to murder your clan, you seek the particularly handsome young don of passione for friendship. with your tyrant father’s intervention, your friendship with the don turns to something you never saw coming.

★ 1 // il terrore

★ 2 // bella

★ 3 // viva romano

★ 4 // morte al romano

★ 5 // sorellina

★ 6 // amore

cw: it gets kinda dark this chapter💀self harm(cheri lady telling y/n to do it😭😭), y/n being delusional, bloodlust, thoughts of murder, and heavy overthinking ~

5 days later

This evening, your father was coming to have a talk with you.

You were planning on killing him, of course.

You glanced at your watch, waiting by the door. 5:02.

The doorbell rang. You answered and saw your father... and Alexander?

"Father. Alexander." You forced a smile, letting them inside.

You told them to wait in the living room while you made tea.

As you made the tea, sweat trickling down the side of your face, your hands trembling, your pupils the size of pinpoints.

It was Alexander, he was preventing this.

Should you even have told him?

But you weren't going to kill just your father. You were going to take out the entire Romano clan. You needed to. They were a poison to Italy. They were too powerful.

Could Alexander have figured it out?

You had a million different stories coming up in your head, trying not to fall into delusion and struggling to separate fantasy from reality.

You being the woman leader of Il Terrore... Just a front-- A cover up that your father wanted you to believe. It was all Alexander anyway, he was the real Don. He could easily remove you from his plans for the clan. But he didn't know that you knew the truth... Right?

You brought the teapot and cups on a silver tray, setting it down and pouring the tea into cups for them.

"So what did you want to talk about, Father?" You asked.

"You've come to the age where you require a partner and someone to assist you with our gang activities, Y/n." Your father said, taking a sip of tea then taking a cigar out of his breast pocket and lighting it.

"Wh-What do you mean, Father?" You replied nervously.

A large cloud of smoke exited his mouth. "What I'm saying is it's time for you to get married and settle down already."

Your heart was beating in your ears.

Your hands were shaking.

You felt like you were going to pass out.

The room twisted in your vision, your mind wanting to turn to delusion.

"N-No--" You laughed, "I'm only twenty."

"Mia bella sorellina, mia cara, cuore mio," Alexander said desperately, frowning, "Please just consider this. It's a Romano tradition."

"No." You laughed again, "I'm not a Romano. I'm not like any of you. The only thing we share is a last name."

"Y/n, since you're so eager to not be a part of this clan anymore, you are going to be betrothed to Giorno Giovanna, the Don of Passione."

What? What?

"A-Are you serious?" You breathed out.

"I already know you went without asking for permission and made friends with him, so this is what you get for going behind my back. " Your father said.

What?

"Che cazzo fai, padre?" What the fuck are you doing, father? You muttered weakly.

"This is your fate. You two will be perfect together and will make a perfect heir."

What?

"Perché, padre? Ch-Che cosa ho fatto di sbagri—sbagliato?" Why, Father? What did I do wrong? You cried out, stumbling over your words in Italian after so long of only speaking Japanese and English.

"Look at you, you've forgotten your family, your culture, your values, and now your language! How much of a useless tramp are you?!" He yelled angrily.

You opened your mouth to argue back, but he was quick to raise his hand against you and slap you to keep you quiet.

"Cagna stupida." Stupid bitch. He spat angrily then stood up, walking out.

You were stunned.

You were seconds away from turning to your fantasy of a perfect life and ignoring your surroundings.

You were disassociating, but you were too shocked to fully comprehend it. You started to pick at the skin on your hand.

Tears formed in your eyes. A smile crept up on your lips. You bit on your lip until it bled, holding back laughter.

"Y/n.. Mia cara sorellina..." Alexander began guiltily.

"Che cazzo, Alessandro? You knew, didn't you?" You said, fighting a grin.

"Listen to me, Y/n, I was going to tell you—"

You burst out laughing at that, turning hysterical beyond control.

"I shouldn't have told you anything! You planned this."You exclaimed humorously.

"Oh, of course all the blame comes onto me!" He stood up and shouted.

"You are such a weak bastard! I don't mean anything to you! I never have!" You replied, still laughing as tears ran down your cheeks.

He grew furious at that. "Why, you ungrateful little girl! Don't forget what I did for you while Father was too busy drinking and smoking at the bar all day! Don't forget how I pushed my grief aside after Mom died to take care of YOU!"

You sniffled. "Stop fucking lying, Alessandro! Don't forget how you supported father's decision to send me away when I was 11! I've only been back here twice since then, and the last time we saw each other I was 15!"

"Fuck, Y/n, you're such a brat... You're just like a little kid... You're a grown woman, for fuck's sake! Act your age!" Your older brother struggled to stay calm.

"Get the fuck out of here! I don't have time to deal with your multiple personalities." You scowled.

"As you wish, sorellina." He complied bitterly and left, slamming the door shut.

You were burning with anger, furious. You grabbed a tissue and wiped the running mascara off your face.

"I should kill him too..." You murmured to yourself, while intrusive thoughts started to fill your mind. Your hand twitched, genuinely wanting to murder him in that moment.

You were about to light a cigarette when you heard a familiar young voice call out your name, "Y/n?"

Leo walked into the room where you were sitting with a disappointed expression, scarily resembling Alexander. You were a bit afraid since he was already 190cm, just 3cm away from being the same as his father.

You flinched and took the cigarette out of your mouth. "Yes, Leo?"

"What the fuck are you arguing with my dad about? So much yelling." Leo responded, his voice almost as harsh as Alexander's always was to you.

"I-I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't know you were still home. I thought you went with your mother and Elena?" You mustered out nervously.

"I was playing video games. What did Dad say?" He said.

"Don't worry about it." You shook your head.

"Y/n..."

"Leonardo, I'm not in the mood." You responded back authoritatively.

"Fine. Sorry. Can I go to my friend's house while Mama and Dad are gone?"

"No," You furrowed your eyebrows, "Don't you need to study?"

"You're not my mom. Who are you to tell me what to do?" Before you could make another remark, he scowled just like Alexander and went out the front door, slamming it shut.

You were dizzy and lightheaded from everything that just happened, and sat down on the sofa, becoming riddled with anxiety.

"Kusso..." You muttered to yourself, extremely anxious, picking at your fingers and hands, "I'm being betrothed to the son of Dio... What will Jotaro-san think? Koichi-kun? Josuke-kun? Shit..."

"Kusso... Should I even tell Jotaro-san? Just seven years ago we were dealing with remnants of Dio... I don't want to bother him... He's probably working... Fuck..." You were overwhelmed with anxiety and muttering to yourself like a crazy person.

What will you do? Get engaged? Or take out your clan first?

Once again, you were struggling to separate delusion from reality and you had different scenarios coming up in your head that made you feel schizophrenic. You were delirious.

Without even noticing, your fingers became bloody from picking at them, along with the backs of your hands, old wounds opening up on your palms from past self infliction.

You felt yourself wanting to see more blood. A smile crept up against your lips as you gnawed on your lower lip. You hadn't felt this bloodthirsty since Kira Yoshikage.

You stood up to get the first aid kit in the kitchen, catching a glance at the knives, making you stop and stare.

"Do it." Cheri Lady mocked.

"Come on, Y/n, your palms aren't bloody enough, right? It'll be just like old times." She smirked.

Without hesitation, before you knew it, you were staring at the bloody gash across your left palm with a sullen smile on your face. It hurt so good.

Watching the blood gush out of your fragile hands, you loved it.

Drip, drip, drip. You wanted more. The kitchen sink below your hand was red from your blood.

You chuckled breathlessly, feeling a lightheaded, dizzy rush overwhelm your body, then sighed with petty satisfaction.

You were about to cut your wrist, a no-no spot for you because it scarred badly and told everyone that you cut yourself on purpose but you hesitated.

"Alright, that's enough, Y/n." Alima's voice startled you, making you snap out of your daze and drop the bloodied knife in the sink, making a loud sound.

"Sh-Shit, Alima—"

"How much longer are you going to keep doing this to yourself, Y/n?! What if one of my children came home and saw this?!" She burst out, making you stand there with shock. Alima never yelled at you.

"Or, God forbid, your brother walked in and saw you doing this? By God, Y/n, Alexander would slap you so hard you would forget ever losing your sense like this!" Her voice broke as tears welled up in her eyes. You suddenly felt a tiny sliver of remorse.

After all these years of your family betraying and destroying your feelings, Alima was the only one who truly cared about you. She had nothing but love for you.

Your heart was in emotional turmoil. "Alima, I..."

She approached you and gasped at all the blood that was pouring into the sink from the deep wound on your palm. Tears started to run down her face and it hurt to see her so horrified from your selfish pleasure.

"I wish I knew how to help you... Please stop doing this, Y/n..." She wept, shaking her head.

"Alima, don't cry." You murmured calmly, your sanity returning.

You took a deep breath, the pain from the wound feeling unbearable, but you enjoyed it at the same time, feeling high off of your blood loss. You were in guilty bliss.

"Doesn't it hurt, Y/n? How can you keep living like this?" She sobbed, breathing shakily.

"Please, Alima, stop crying. I'm sorry you had to see me like this." You responded, a blank expression on your face. She shook her head and sat down at the dinner table, covering her face while she cried.

"Alima," You sat down in front of her and tried to moved her hands from her face, which made her jerk away.

"I can't even look at your face..." She sobbed, "Every time I look at you, I can only see the little girl who begged me not to marry her big brother because he was mean... You're still just a child to me..."

Pain flashed across your face, but not from your throbbing wound. She still thought of you like that? It had been sixteen years since she married your brother.

"I'm going to take a shower." You mumbled numbly and went upstairs.

As you stepped in the shower, the hot water making the pain from your cut unbearable, watching lightheadedly as the reddened water swirled around the drain.

You began to question why you came back to Naples in the first place.

Why did I come back here?

What was my goal?

I should have known.

When you returned to Naples in 2001, you were targeted by Diavolo for your knowledge of his whereabouts and somehow escaped with your life because of your stand. You packed your bags and ran back to Morioh as fast as you could to continue your typical-schoolgirl facade and forget about everything that happened.

What will the Don think? A wife who gets so immersed at the sight of blood, who craves it so much she cuts herself?

I should have stayed in Japan. I could have become a resident at a high ranking hospital or even a model. I'm too beautiful for this.

The gem of the Romano Clan: Married off to the Don of Passione... I could have gone to America and been dating Hollywood stars... I'm so beautiful...

Your mind was going in circles, and you were quite literally spiraling in your arrogance. You were about to pass out but caught yourself and got out of the shower quickly.

After getting dressed and going back downstairs to the kitchen, you went to a nearby cabinet containing medical supplies and grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of bandages.

Alima was still sitting at the table with her hands over her face.

"Alima, I hope you're not still crying." You said softly as you went to sit down across from her and prepare a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol on it.

You pressed the cotton ball to your wound and it stung so bad, you had to smile.

"Stop that, Y/n!" She suddenly yelled with a shaky voice, making you jump.

You didn't respond and finished cleaning up the wound, wrapping the bandages tightly around your hand. You felt relieved from the pain.

She wouldn't stop crying, and you couldn't bring yourself to feel any guilt. Coldhearted and uncaring—That's how it is being a Romano, right?

"Alima, Alexander's gonna come home soon. Please stop crying." You fastened the bandages and forcefully moved her hands from her face, giving her a hug.

"I should just tell him and you can get your ass beat... You don't deserve my kindness..." She sobbed on your shoulder. You suddenly felt the same fear you felt all throughout your childhood caused by your father flood back into you. 

Will she really tell Alexander?

"I—I'm sorry, o-okay? Forget this-s happened." You stuttered, fear setting in at the thought of your older brother finding out.

She didn't respond and just sniffled.

"Alima? You won't tell him, r-right?" You said anxiously, "Right?"

"Fuck, Y/n, I won't! Stop being paranoid!" She pulled away and shouted, standing up.

"I-I'm so sorry, Alima, I'm s-so sorry you had to see me like this." You said solemnly.

"Enough." She held a hand up and went upstairs.

You were in a pit of anxiety, desperately trying not to rip the bandages off and hurt yourself all over again.

"I should really kill Alexander..." You whispered to yourself, Cheri Lady's unwanted, murderous whispers taking its toll in your head, "I should really kill him. He's just like the rest... He doesn't matter to me..."

"He doesn't matter to me."

[ladyazurith]

Totally agree with you about Cater in Book 5. I always found Ace and Deuce's inclusion on the team extremely forced and contrived. Realistically speaking, neither of them should’ve ever made the cut. Neither one of them have any singing or dancing training. While they did practice a little, there’s no way in hell someone would ever become a professional level dancer in the matter of a couple of days, even with the best teacher in the world. 

I’m 99% certain that Yana only did that for plot convenience, because that way she wouldn’t have to craft two new characters to fill in the roles on the team. While I can understand that logic from a real world game development standpoint, like you said, I still don’t understand why someone like Cater could’ve taken Ace’s spot at the very least. Cater is in the Light Music Club, so he has a background in that area. His VA is a professional singer. Cater making the team wouldn’t be as big of a stretch as Ace. It’s not like Ace did much in this arc other than cause trouble and insult Deuce, anyways, so anyone could’ve taken his spot. 

The other question about ch 3 is going to take a bit more thinking, cuz I've tried to make it work before in various stories, but this seems like a complete rework kind of answer is needed.

And yeah, I made a post a while ago about how Cater had to feel about the VDC, and it's something I tackle in some of my fics. Because I don't know how he can look at what happened and who got picked and not come to the conclusion Vil just hates him? Like this man is so driven to win that he's willing to do anything...except let Cater on the team.

And given I ship the two of them primarily their dynamic is something I've put a lot of effort into figuring out. The only thing I've found to justify it is that Vil doesn't like the idea of dating someone just for PR/fame. Because the way he talks to/reacts to Cater is just... not in line with how he treats everyone else. He constantly calls him shallow or implies he's only after fame which is just a wild take.

That he would let someone like Rook be his friend who 100% comes off more like a stalker fan type than Cater. And Rook doesn't even hide it. Like I get they bonded over Theater but it's not like Vil and Cater have no common ground at all. Cater's shown to be into fashion and design, given they go out of their way to mention Cater came up with Heartslabyul's Halloween costumes and designed their LMC clubwear (When for the most part that's all just assumed to be Crewel)

And then there is his friendship with Kalim like I've pointed out. And Lilia which Vil admits is someone he's interested in getting to know better himself. Hell Cater and Rook are friends? Like none of it makes sense.

Especially when Vil also has no problems with associating with other people who are clearly out to use him?!?! Like Azul, Jade, Ace...even Leona? But nah we're gonna hate on Cater. When he's always you know ASKED to take Vil's picture, even in situations where he wouldn't have to ie in public spaces and what not. He's never just taken it without permission.

In the end, despite the fact that Vil calls Cater shallow he's the one that comes across as incredibly shallow about the whole thing. Especially when we have Cater talking about what he sees in Vil and what he appreciates about him and why he looks up to him...and none of it is really shallow? He definitely sees more in him than just a quick ticket to fame.

It just seems so weird when Vil otherwise seems to put effort into helping others better themselves. He can be incredibly generous and thoughtful in certain situations. AND HE KNOWS THAT CATER IS LIKELY DEPRESSED. And that's what he's hiding behind his cheerful facade thanks to Cater's Labcoat personal story.

It's just like consistency, please. Anyway you probably weren't expecting this rant sorry XD It's a sore spot for me if you can't tell lol