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bluemerakis · 1 day ago

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────── ❝ his for the taking ❞ ── ⋆˙ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

─────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ──

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x anxious .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, portrayals of anxiety, lip biting, consumption of blood (if u squint), finger sucking, masturbation f receiving, grinding, overstimulation, pet names, ben being a tentative cutie bf with his own idea of therapy lmfao

synopsis ─ it’s one of those devitalising days that’s got you biting your lip raw. soldier boy notices, and if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s seeing his girl all worked up at the hands of something that isn’t his.

word count ~ 3.4k

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The apartment’s living room brims with the static of the television, the muffled voice of a man narrating a football game forming a pesky backdrop that’s otherwise repressed by your busy mind. You’re tucked into the end of the sofa, legs cluttered together in a tense cross while you cradle your forehead in the palm of your hand.

On the other end of the Sofa, Ben has settled himself into a shameless manspread—a thawed beer clutched in the hand propping the arm rest while the over fans his thigh. All his attention is trained onto the game blaring from the television’s beaming display, and occasionally, he lets slip some exasperated cuss, followed by a short-lived rant that falls entirely on your deaf ears.

Your head’s tilted down to the textbook splayed open in the crook of your lap, where your free hand’s armed with a rigid index finger that slowly cuts down the expanse of the page you’re reading. The words feel so inexplicably cluttered that you find your eyes flicking back and forth across the blocky text—resetting the sentence every so often. And just when the information seems to settle amongst your comprehension, your mind flashes with a mental list of everything you’ve yet to do. It fills your chest with an overwhelming dread that usurps your focus entirely, nipping your academic grind—or an attempt at one—at the fragile bud.

It frustrates you to the point of flipping the book closed in a hot flurry, the lower lip you’d been slowly tenderising between your teeth now captured in a harsh bite. Your head buckles into both palms as an audible groan echoes from within the suffocating grip, and in your lap, you feel the textbook’s back shift against your skin. You figure it’s about to fall, but you’re at your wits end with the unsuccessful study attempt, so you decide to let it—out of petty spite.

Just as the textbook tilts along your calf in fragile balance, the cushion beside you dips with the weight of Ben’s prying presence, and his hand must’ve come to the book’s rescue because when it finally slips the ledge of your lap, there’s no thump to solidify its downfall. And his heroic act is confirmed when you finally hear a dull thud of the book amongst the coffee table before you, followed by a brisk whistle that’s a telling remark in its own.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” He asks pointedly. When you don’t look at him, he pushes his advance further by settling his palm against your closest knee—which, unbeknownst to you, had been besieged by a compulsive series of bounces. It was an absentminded habit that tended to escalate on the nights seemingly determined to fracture your composure—nights like this one.

And Ben, he always notices.

You adore his attentiveness—you really do, but the irritation you’ve been hoarding throughout the study session compels you to fashion silence at his question. But your boyfriend’s not—and never has been—tolerant of being ignored, so the palm he’s cupped over your rattled knee applies just enough pressure to still your busy body, and once you finally comply with a lax leg, you feel his hand sag down and across the bare hump of your thigh. He settles at the inner for a firm squeeze, his fingers burrowing divots into the flesh.

“You gonna talk to me ‘bout it? Or you gonna keep up the ragin’ bounce house campin’ out on your knee, hm?” He probes again—and it’s underlined by a low, husky tone of impatience. He’s tolerant of your avoidance, until he’s not. He’d once claimed that it was his brand to don, not yours.

“Sorry,” you murmur into your palms, making the conscious effort to throttle any further urge to fidget. Behind the privacy of your hands, you snag your lip on another bite, and your tongue retreats with an acrid-tasking visitor—a trail of blood. The split flesh begins protesting its hostage situation, throbbing with a force that makes you want to recapture it in a numbing grip.

“Not what I wanna hear,” Ben responds disinterestedly, releasing the grip on your thigh to furl his fingers around your nearest wrist. There, he gives one, effortless tug that collapses your mask of self-pity and finally exposes some fraction of your thoughts to him. “Look at me,” he demands—but it’s soft, curious, and his grip on you doesn’t falter. Instead, his thumb starts stroking gentle lines across the pulse point of your wrist, as though he’s consulting your biology to gather the information you won’t tell him.

And your heart is racing—so much so that it thuds at the cavity of your chest like a caged bird trying to escape. But you don’t look at him. You torque your chin the other way, choosing to settle your eyes on a dark corner of the room that’s blind to the frustrated tears pricking at your rims. You’re so inexplicably overwhelmed that everything’s starting to weigh on you. Heavily. And you’re not sure he can help with something so abstract—so confined to the battlefields of your mind.

You love him, and he loves you—and while he is a soldier, he’s not the kind that can fight your internal wars for you.

“Hey,” he calls again. It’s firm, and decidedly his last warning before he finally releases your wrist to graze his fingers along the underside of your jaw. He manages to frame you in his hold, where he topples your stubborn resolve by tilting your face in his direction. “Enough o’ this silent treatment shit,” he scolds, but his tough display drops along with his gaze as he spots the blood welling on your bottom lip, the hand guarding his beer finally banishing the beverage to the armrest.

Immobilised by Ben’s grip—with nowhere to escape his prying gaze, you blink away the moisture lingering along the rims of your eyes, your hands fumbling together within your lap like it’ll throttle the nerves bristling at your fingertips.

“Well, shit,” Ben breathes somewhat amazedly, neglecting the sight of your bloody lip to catch your eye once more. “If you were into that sorta thing, you shoulda told me.” There’s a mischievous glint to the green depths of his glare, one that you could appreciate on any other night—but not this one.

At his poke, you suckle your lower lip self-consciously, faintly surprised at the impressive bead of blood that rolls onto your tongue. Ben’s throat rumbles with a disapproving noise, his grip on your jaw shifting to elevate his thumb to your lips. There, he drags the pad over the tender tissue before pushing it between the bloodied flesh, where he curls it downward to hook your lower lip free of your teeth.

You’re briefly surprised by the intrusion, but your jaw seems to slack with the motion, and you realise, then, just how much tension you’ve been hoarding in the form of a clench. You catch a hint of salt as his thumb presses into your tongue, but it’s not an unpleasant—or unfamiliar taste. And it doesn’t overstay its welcome as Ben retreats from your warmth, the separation formally announced by a characteristic pop that feels laughable.

“You’ve gotta stop doin’ that,” he says with a light squeeze of your face—like he’s solidifying his will.

You pass your tongue over your lips to collect the saliva trail his thumb has marked in its wake. “I can’t help it,” you say softly, feeling the way the cut bristles at the stinging caress of the room’s air. “I don’t know I’m doing it until it’s too late.”

Ben’s grip on your jaw finally relents, though not without a playful pinch to the divot of your chin. The corner of his lips quirk with a smirk that’s owed to an amusing thought he doesn’t care to share, his hand lowering back down to your thigh. He settles at the curve, delivering a squeeze that’s demanding of something more than a possessive place to rest.

“Get over here,” is all he says, his hold transforming into more of a pull. You’ve never been good at resisting him, so you surrender yourself over, jittery legs uncrossing to allow the shimmy of your knees along the sofa’s length. His hand withdraws from your thigh to allow you the ease of movement, and when you’re close enough, his large palms find you at either hip—like you were made for him to cradle.

“I need to continue studying,” you say tensely, but the words feel like more of an attempt to silence the guilt that lingers at the front of your mind, and you know that you have no intention of seeing it through as you reach Ben’s lap.

“The books can wait,” he decides, the hands clasping your hips helping to manoeuvre you across his lap, and his hold on you doesn’t shy—even once you’re completely straddling his thighs. “You’ve been at it for the whole fuckin’ evenin’. Give your pathetic body a break.”

“Pathetic?” You scoff, shifting within his lap as you try to position yourself amongst the wide, v-like formation of his legs. Ben picks up on this, and in no time he’s shifting his legs closer together, taking pity on the way your lower half spreads with difficulty to accommodate his slack pose.

“Yeah,” he affirms casually, as though blind to the offence that underlies your question. “Fragile thing like you? You’re bound to break under a shit load of pressure—so take it easy is all I’m sayin’.”

“And I’m fragile why?” You shoot back, but the truth has always lingered between you—as clear as the air connects your contrasting beings. Compared to his super-abled, indestructible—unmovable mountain of a body, you’re nothing but a brittle pebble. And he’s seen your body fracture under stress more times than you’d care to admit.

“Don’t go lookin’ for arguments—y’know exactly why,” Ben chuckles faintly, head tilting slightly as he drinks the view of you in—like he’s marvelling at your beauty all over again.

But you don’t allow yourself to get swept up in those cursed eyes of his—a soldier’s glare he’s managed to mould into something akin to a puppy-stare. It’s rougher, more refined, but still honest enough to admit that he wants you. “Maybe if you’d stop riling me up with thinly-veiled insults, I’d have less reason to run my mouth.”

“What I say doesn’t count for shit,” he retorts with a knowing and amused furrow of his brows, one of his hands neglecting your hip to drag teasing patterns along your thigh. “You’re always riled up, and you’re worse than those crappy, goddamn toy dogs with the built-in windup mechanism. Y’know the kind? The ones always runnin’ frantic lines all over ‘em kids’ stores.”

“Just shut it, actually,” you huff, and Ben—to your utmost surprise—listens with a surrendering smirk.

“Wanna talk it out or drink it down?” He averts, chin jutting past your shoulder to where his peeping tom of a beer defrosts amongst the armrest—beads of moisture pooling onto the worn leather.

“None of the above,” you murmur, and with a spent sigh, you shift in his lap one last time before melting entirely into the comfort of him. “Just hold me.”

“Yeah, I got you, baby girl,” he mumbles gruffly, hand rubbing a comforting circle across your lower back before he finds your hips in a steadying hold once more.

Your hands glide up his chest and along the broad contour of his shoulders before slipping past his neck, where they connect in a fumble that cages him in—but he doesn’t seem to mind. His own hands settle for a cupping of your waist, where his thumbs rub lines across the point of your hip. The sensation soothes you, like his very touch was made to melt away the chill of your anxiety—the kind overwhelming enough to tremble every inch of your body.

You find your head buckling into the crook of his neck, where you nestle your cheek like it's the welcoming comfort of your pillow. And for a while, neither of you speak, but the tv continues to ramble on in the background with enough chatter to compensate.

Ben’s hold on you is one that tethers you—a physical presence that reminds you of what’s real, and what isn’t. It coddles you enough to persuade your mind into pushing back the anxious thoughts that plague it, but the sentiment is so deep-rooted within your DNA that your body resorts to doing what it does best—all that it knows. Fidgeting.

Your knee starts bouncing into the sofa, your ankle flexing with every intent to help drive the movement. And as though it’s the first collapse that sets off a cascade of trouble, the familiar feeling of dread settles itself back into your bones. You try to fend off the unwelcome intrusion, but your body betrays every viscous attempt with the rapid beating of your heart, and the tension that returns to the muscles of your jaw.

“Jesus Christ—I can help, y’know?” Ben says suddenly, peeling back the cosy silence that has settled over you both like a comforter. His playful grip on you stills as his chest shifts against your own. “I can hear your heart beatin’ off like it’s employed by a fuckin’ marchin’ band.”

You hum in acknowledgement, your hands unclasping to rub your palms down the muscle of his back—like you’re seeking out the stimulation to numb your shaky hands. “Not with this, you can’t,” you say pessimistically, and the words are slightly slurred by the way your cheek melts against his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges in a murmur so unconvinced, it’s almost mocking. And as if to prove his point, one of his hands dip along the inside of your thigh, fingers roughhousing with the fabric of your pyjama shorts before he successfully slips into the flimsy keep. There, his hand fans over the sheer fabric of your underwear, his middle finger employing a rhythmic line between your folds while his thumb pinches at the waistband for grip. “Let me know when you’ve changed your mind.”

The line he traces along your slit causes your eyes to flutter closed in helpless surrender, and suddenly, you’re biting your lip for a whole different reason. Your hands drag up the length of his back to run along the nape of his neck, where occasionally, you tumble with the lengthy strands of his hair. His chest reverberates with a sonorous sound that acts as a seal of approval, so you don’t slack in your ministrations, and he doesn’t falter with his, either.

You let out a soft, muffled moan, and a second later, you feel the chafe of Ben’s beard against the shell of your ear as he nuzzles his jaw against you. “You like that, huh?” He coos softly—but the way he retains the gravelly edge to his voice shamefully strikes your core. As a feeble response, your hands tighten within his hair. You’re too far gone to equip your words.

Ben’s a welcome siege on your senses—to the point where anything and everything he does sets your frail nerves alight. It’s a type of plague that makes you restless in all the ways that your anxiety does. But with him, you welcome it. Embrace it. Crave it—and he knows it.

He loves it.

The hand nestled between your thighs begins to pick up its steady pace—but you’re greedy, so you add to the stimulation with a buck and sway of your hips. “Maybe this is helping,” you breathe out in scattered words, head pulling back from his shoulder to gaze at him through hazy eyes while a cheeky half-grin pokes through.

Ben drinks you in with sultry eyes that rival your own lust, a self-satisfied smirk settling onto his vain features. “Yeah, I’m employee o’ the fuckin’ year,” he huffs amusedly, the other hand he’s got gripping your hip softening an inch to aid the roll of your pelvis. His eyes drop to drink in—and almost admire—the rocking of your hips. “But I gotta say—you’re makin’ runner up with this eager participation o’ yours,” he adds with a low chuckle.

You hum in response, head tilting back with the overwhelming pleasure that trickles through your body. The air you take for granted thins in your chest as the stimulation pushes you to your breaking point, your hands taking root at either shoulder to steady yourself. Your underwear clings to your folds with every compressive movement—drenched by the pent up arousal that Ben’s fondling has managed to enlist thus far.

“I can’t hold on anymore, Ben,” you whimper softly, your hips staggering with your dwindling strength.

“But you’re gonna,” he responds unfeelingly, and the hand gripping your hip presses down into the flesh until you’re a quieted, miserable mess amongst his hand. You groan at the loss of stimulation, your high recoiling like a thief in the night.

“Ben,” you protest feebly, your grip on his shoulder softening with the disappointing fruits of your labour.

“Don’t Ben me,” he mocks, his chin perking with intent as he deals you a challenge within his glare. “You wanna move? Then move,” he instructs, his hand delivering a light squeeze to your sensitive clit before he withdraws it entirely and settles it beside his other at your hip. Beneath you, his legs shift until his thigh is wedged between your own. “If you’re gonna burn through every control you got, might as well put it to a damn good use—so go on, have your fun.”

You gaze at him for a few, clueless moments before understanding settles in, and you begin rocking your hips against the muscular bulge of his thigh. Ben’s eyes lower down your body in an agonisingly slow motion, where he settles on every drag of your mound against him.

“Atta girl,” he praises, the hands at your hips tightening in a resistance that rivals your efforts—because he absolutely loves seeing you go above and beyond to settle your urges. You know it spurs him on, so you don’t argue against it. It’s a favour you decide to reciprocate—ensuring he gets his own fill of entertainment while you get yours.

“Fuck,” you hiss as your swollen, sensitive mound regains its flutter with every drag against him—the fabric shrouding your heated core bundling with the movements and only adding to your heated stimulation.

“Yeah, you’re doin’ good, baby,” Ben hums encouragingly with a light squeeze of your hips. “Just like that—you got it.”

Your hips don’t stutter in their pace as you grind yourself against his thigh, and with each round, you’re pressing yourself further and further into the bulk of his muscle. The stimulation bruises and burns your clit raw, but you’re in the hot pursuit of a release, so you endure. And then your high arrives in a muffled, broken grasp—your lower lip instinctively drawn into a bite as you cope with the wave of pleasure that rises overhead and collapses back onto you. Your head lolls back in the midst of your blissful moment, and your chest heaves with the struggle for air.

Ben pats your thigh in a physical expression of bravo before his hand strays from its place to curl around the arch of your neck. There, he glides his way up to your jaw, forcibly tilting it down to where he has a full view of your exhausted face. Immediately, his glare snags onto the lip you’re throttling between your teeth, and his brows cock on a look of disapproval.

“Stop that,” he says, releasing your jaw to flick a finger across your lips. You wince softly at that, your lip plopping from your toothy grasp before you’re shooting him an indignant glare.

“I’m trying!” You say defensively.

“Not good enough.” His hand moves to curl around your nape, where he selfishly pulls you in for a kiss—but his lips hover just shy of you, his eyes seizing yours in a glare that borders on a silent warning. “You better try harder, ‘cause I’m the only one that’s allowed to roughen you up like this,” he murmurs, and before you have a chance to respond, he’s pressing his lips flush against yours.

There, he consumes you with a vicious kiss, his tongue finding yours in a tumble that feels frustrated. And somewhere in the mix, he sucks at the tender flesh of your lip. It’s an action that feels soothing—like he’s laying down a bandaid, until he seizes it between his teeth, and you realise that he’d always intended to rip the bandaid right off.

With your lower lip captured between his teeth, Ben sinks in a light nibble that delivers well on his claim—that you’re all his for the taking.

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a/n ─ first off, don’t talk to me about how this is too long for a drabble bc in my yapper mind anything less than 5k words is a drabble. secondly, this goes out to all my anxious girlies that stim with lip biting. just one of those days where the anxiety is kicking in full-fledged and i bit my lip raw 💪 need me a comforting sb fr. n e ways, i feel like sb, with all his past trauma and emotions he pretends not to notice, he’s developed all his own anxious body languages that he does absentmindedly—toe tapping, jaw-clenching, fidgety hands, tense shoulders. and so it’d be pretty easy for him to pick up on likewise behaviours radiating off of you, and he’s immediately addressing it. but at the same time if you had to bring it up with him and point out his own anxious behaviours, he’d deny every second of it bc bro doesn’t think he’s subconsciously troubled. he so is tho and reader tends to do something about it anyway with massages (drabble on this is coming), scalp massages, jaw mobilisations (i learnt this on animals and applied it to myself and it’s heaven actually). yeah that’s it for now. and thank you all from the bottom of my heart for 700+ followers, take this piece as my token of appreciation <3

thank you for reading! likes & comments are appreciated, but reblogs go a much longer way—so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @honeyryewhiskey @daylighted @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @whisperingdaze @st4rmarley @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @chi-raz @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @beelzebzb @lunaleah @kr804573

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buck-star · 2 days ago

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Shattering glass

Bucky gets into a fight with John on the ice. Luckily, you’re there to fix his injuries and offer him a lot of much needed kisses.

Pairing: Collegr!HockeyCaptain!Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x College!Girlfriend!Reader

Wordcount: 2.295 Words

Warnings/Tags: Established relationship, college au, ex-boyfriend John Walker, fight on the ice, bruises, mention of blood, mention of cleaning wounds, language, talking about sex/nudity, kissing, fluff, petnames [Steady, Pengu]

Authors Note: This work is a “What if: Bucky as Hockey Player” after “Summer of love”. While he’s actually a football captain, for this he turned into a Hockey Captain. If you have any asks about these two feel free! Shout out to @elixirfromthestars for helping to come up with the idea and help with the nicknames. Divider made by me.

Events: Bucky Boy Bingo [N3 | Free Space | @buckyboybingo], Seasonal Delights Bingo: Types of love [B3 | Covering their face with their hands from being flustered | @seasonaldelightsbingo]

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Endless love Collection

“Fuckin’ idiot!” Bucky groans loudly when John kicks his hockey stick into the back of Bucky’s legs. The brunette immediately turns to the rival, his eyes narrowing underneath his helmet, and he spits out the protection for his teeth. “Dickhead, I’m talking to ya!”

The other man slides over the ice, paying no attention to the angry man. Bucky huffs, shaking off his gloves and basically running after the other with his ice skates. His hockey stick lands somewhere on the ice as well.

“John fuckin’ Walker, you fuckin’ whore. I’m talking to ya, so don’t dare to ignore me like the little bitch ya are,” Bucky shouts after him. His voice is rough and filled with anger. He’s shouting loudly, but his words are only muffled behind the ice ring — for you not audible.

However, you don’t need to hear him to know what he’s saying. Bucky’s face is almost red from the boiling emotions; he’s never good with someone disrespecting another player — he already deserves an award for having the most fights on the ice. Though, you guess the brunette is even more mad at the other captain because he’s your ex-boyfriend, and showing him what he thinks about John is something Bucky does like a whole lot — every now and then.

“What do you want, Barnes,” John shouts back, frustrated. He’s turning on his skates, still moving away from Bucky but this time backwards while the other man is still gliding closer to him on the ice. “It was an accident; didn’t know you’re such a coward.”

“Excuse ya,” Bucky says, his voice low when he tilts his head to the side. John grins through the helmet, spitting out the protection in his mouth. “What did ya just say?”

“I said I didn’t know you’re such a baby that you would cry when someone hit you with a stick. Did she turn you into a little crybaby?” John laughs. He is facing the brunette, his eyes locked with the other man’s eyes while Bucky speeds up and crashes the man into the edge of the ice rink.

A loud noise of shattering glass erupts in the hall, and loud gasps are audible when Bucky pushes John with such a force into the edge of the ice rink that he breaks the glass of it.

Bucky chuckles low in his throat when he pulls back slightly, just to ram his shoulder back into the other man’s ribs. “Yeah, what did ya say about my girl, huh?”

“Fuck you,” John spits into Bucky’s face, grinning as the brunette wipes his helmet off his head to run his arm over his face. With a chuckle, John pushes himself out of the glass and tackles Bucky with his shoulder to the side.

Your eyes widen when you see the growing annoyance in your boyfriend's blue eyes, his jaw clenching just like his fists as he sets a punch underneath John's chin and causes his head to fly back with a groan.

The blond-haired man catches himself slightly, at least enough for his fist to connect with Bucky’s cheekbone and underneath his eyes. The skin above his cheekbone breaks, leaving Bucky bleeding when John stumbles back. The brunette's eyes narrow further with a groan; he runs his fingers over his cheek, noticing the blood that’s stuck to his skin. Bucky tilts his head, a dangerous and cold smile forming on his lips, his usual soft blue eyes now dark.

“A baby, ya say? Cry baby because of my girl?” Bucky chuckles, moving closer to the other man, who backs away slightly. Everyone is watching the two of them, no one daring to move or even make a noise. “The only thing that makes me cry is my girl's perfect little cunt when it's gripping me so tightly that I feel like I'm fuckin’ for the first time. Know what I mean? Hugging my dick so perfectly when I fuck her slow and deep to make her feel every fuckin’ inch of my cock.”

John's eyes widen at Bucky’s words, his head turning to where you sit. Even his teammates look at you, while Bucky grins. Steve rolls his eyes, shooting you an apologetic look while you sit there with your mouth slightly parted and your eyes wide.

It's not just that Bucky said such a thing, because he can't know. But he comes up with something like that just to annoy John. Bucky and you haven't had sex yet, not that he didn't want to, but he doesn't pressure you, and you didn't feel comfortable enough after John. Plus, Bucky's soft kisses, the cuddles, and the showers together are so good too, and Bucky doesn’t mind that at all. He would wait forever to have sex with you, and even if you say you don't want it at all, he has two hands for good use, too.

“You- What the fuck?” John stumbles over his own words, shaking his head. He scrunches his nose in disgust about the pictures in his head of Bucky fucking you. You watch them intensely, feeling your cheeks heat up, especially when Bucky looks at you with a soft but also devilish grin at you. “You're a fucking disgusting— she doesn't even let you fuck her because she has that weird imagination of her perfect first time.”

Bucky laughs loudly, throwing his head back. If he didn't have that cold expression in his eyes, he would probably look amused. He reaches out to wrap one of his calloused hands around John's neck, pulling him flush against his broad chest. Bucky's fingers tighten around the other man's neck, and he glares at John.

“Looks like I made it special enough for her,” Bucky growls. You feel a lot of people staring at you, at least people who are able to understand their conversation. You hide yourself in Bucky's jersey, your cheeks heating up even more. John is saying the truth; you didn't sleep with him because you didn't want it to be a fuck without anything meaningful. While Bucky is lying about your sex life, he manages to make John angrier with his words.

Without another word, he throws John back into another glass of the ring around the ice. John groans, trying to get off, but Bucky's already on top of him, setting a punch to John’s chin and cheek. Just when Bucky is about to bring his fist down on John's nose, the man underneath him causes Bucky’s head to be thrown to the side and other bruises just above his head.

Only then, when both are bleeding and setting punch after punch, do the referees and coaches walk over to the two and try to get them off of one another. You get up slowly from your seat, walking over to the side where Bucky's team is sitting. Their eyes are on the scene between the shouting players while they are dragged in two directions off the ice.

“Idiotic asshole,” John shouts, earning a low, rough laugh from your boyfriend. Bucky's coach is talking to him, his arm wrapped around the hockey captain's shoulders while Bucky nods every once in a while and says something you can't understand.

Bucky smiles and grabs the side of the door that leads off the ice. His eyes move to the seat you were sitting on; a frown appears on his face when you're not there. You smile softly, noticing the way he lets his ocean blue orbs roam all the way from your seat to the booth where his teammates are sitting — and where you're standing next to.

“Steady,” Bucky grins at you, walking over with his ice skates still on. You lean your head back to look your boyfriend in the face. With his skates on, he's even bigger than usual. Bucky places both of his big hands on your waist and pulls you flush against him. “I fuckin’ kicked the jerks ass.”

“Mhm, but you’re bleeding, Pengu,” you mutter, letting your hands run up and down his broad chest. Bucky smirks, shrugging slightly before he lowers his head even more to kiss you. With a soft sigh and a shake of your head, you let him kiss you. Bucky’s lips are soft and warm against yours, a grin forming on his lips when you grumble in the kiss.

“You’re grumpy, Steady, aren’t you?” Bucky chuckles, pulling back slightly. You roll your eyes, earning a soft digging of his fingers into your sides until you squirm and giggle. “How about I clean it, huh?”

You nod, pushing him back and taking his calloused hand in yours to walk with him to the locker rooms. Your boyfriend looks at you with a soft, loving expression at you. His fingers are tightly interlaced with yours while he runs his thumb over the back of your hand.

You lead Bucky to the locker rooms, pushing him down on the bench in front of his locker before you rummage through it and look for the first aid kit every player has there. Bucky watches you with his intense blue eyes, smiling softly while he leans back a bit and spreads his legs.

“Have ya seen his expression? Walker was such a mad little bitch,” Bucky chuckles. You roll your eyes, giggling when you move to stand in front of him. You place the first aid kit in his hands and open it.

“You didn’t have to mention such information about our sex life. How do you even— we didn’t have sex; how did you come up with that, Pengu?” You ask, taking a wipe.

You inspect his injuries for a moment; the bruise above his eye is blue and swollen slightly, while the bruise underneath the same eye is swollen and the skin is ripped open. The blood is already dried, covering his cheek around the wound.

You wipe the pad over the bruises, cleaning off the blood. Bucky hisses slightly when you add a bit more pressure, causing a slight stinging feeling. You smile apologetically, kissing Bucky’s forehead.

His hands find their way back to your waist, gripping you tightly and digging his fingers into your soft flesh. “I’m just a man, Steady. My imagination is runnin’ wild sometimes, especially when ya are not wearing clothes.”

You feel your cheeks heat up under his intense gaze and his honest words. You place the wipe to the side and close the first aid kit again. Only then do you look him in the eyes again, locking yours with his.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, Steady?” Bucky asks, placing the first aid kit to the side before he pulls you into his lap. With a giggle and a soft shriek, you straddle his lap. Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer toward him. He’s still keeping some space to be able to look at you.

“Do you ever… regret anything? I mean, because I don’t… because we haven’t had sex yet?” You whisper, searching Bucky’s blue orbs for every sign of a lie when he opens his mouth to answer you. But instead of a weird look or anything, he only shows you the softness and honesty he always shows you.

“No, Steady, I would never regret anything with ya because of some sex. Yeah, I get hard when we cuddle in the tub or naked sometimes, but that’s nothing bad. It’s just like ya getting wet, and I bet ya were dripping for me often already, huh?” Bucky teases, making you gasp. You lift your hands, covering your face with them before you lean against Bucky’s shoulder to hide further.

“PENGU!” You growl, squirming in his lap. Bucky laughs softly, knowing he’s right. But saying it out loud is something different than just thinking about it.

“Nothin’ to be ashamed about. But, anyway, no matter how hard I am for you or how much you’re dripping. As long as you don't say you want it, I can use my hand or just wait and take a shower,” Bucky explains; he knows that you’re smart enough to know it yourself. But it’s his way to assure you — and it does assure you. “I don’t regret anythin’ just because of some sex. I love you, not for your pussy, but for being the sweet, precious girl ya are — my girl.”

“I love you too, Pengu. And you kicked his ass so bad,” you smirk. Pushing yourself backward to grin at Bucky. He nods his head, a proud expression on his face when he thinks about the way he has beaten John. “But who’s gonna pay for the glass the two of you smashed?”

“The coach… the school? The team? They are allowed to tackle and fight during hockey games. They only step in once one is on the ground and the other throws himself on them. So they know that sometimes we break glass while we fight,” Bucky shrugs, pulling you closer. His breath is warm against your lips, and your heart skips a beat when he inches closer.

His tongue darts out, licking his lips before he captures your lips with his. His soft lips moving against yours, Bucky’s tongue sliding over your lips, but before you part your lips, the door to the locker rooms opens, and the voices of the other echo through the room.

“Bucky! That’s better than a porn here,” Sam laughs, looking at the two of you. You try to pull away, but Bucky keeps your lips pressed to his, deepening the kiss once more. You can imagine Sam rolling his eyes while Bucky grins against your lips and even makes you moan with his tongue twirling around yours in the most delicious way possible.

Taglist: @sergeantbarnessdoll @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @pono-pura-vida @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @iris-xoxo-juhu @fckedupandbeautiful @hisredheadedgoddess28 @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @kandis-mom @peachy-satan00 @armystay89 @queen-honeybee-stories @alexxavicry @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men [tag yourself]

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cosmica-galaxy · 3 days ago

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I feel that this would turn stardew into a little bit of a horror game. Especially since he would probably show up there because of his "neighbor" living there, ae: the farmer. His events will probably be unsettling and a little disturbing, but never fully goes into horror territory. I have thought up a few things he may do while in stardew. +He will probably live in the community center, and it may come alive just like Home. (This is for those who think Wally/Home are the same entity...plus, it would be hilarious to see a community center home) +Unintentionally creeps out the townsfolk because they keep mentioning things that Wally does, like== ="That Wally fellow...he seems strange, doesn't he? I saw him staring at me from the dark while I was taking a night walk last night..." ="Be careful, Farmer. That Wally guy is a weirdo. I don't think I have ever seen him eat anything else other than fruit and when Gus offered him a burger....he just...glared at it." ="That newcomer Wally...I feel a strong negative energy surrounding him, but I can't explain why. I would be cautious, Farmer. That character is showing signs of being rather ominous." +Wally is the only person that doesn't have friendship decay or dislikes. He enjoys whatever you give him, no matter if it's a piece of junk or a diamond. His friendship can only go up and it will only go down if you get married to someone else in the town other than him. +Wally has no known "birthday". Instead, his "birthday" is on Spring 1st, the day you arrived in Stardew Valley. +If the Player dates and marries Wally, the community center will go back to normal...and the Player's house will come alive instead. +Wally will probably start out with max friendship, since you're supposed to be "best friends" with Wally. +If the joja route is picked instead of the community center route, the joja shop will come alive, Wally will become the owner, and the joja salesman will mysteriously disappear. Asking the townsfolk about him will only give you ominous messages like "What are you talking about? Wally has always been the owner of joja mart!". +Walking around after dark will have a chance to trigger a cutscene with Wally or show the more ominous side of him following you after dark, like the townsfolk said before. +If you are romancing Wally, other townsfolk will be slightly concerned that you are mingling with him, but won't prevent you from loving or marrying him. +Wally will send you gifts constantly into your mailbox. This could be just rocks, money, or even ores he has found. +Wally will paint on non-rainy days as his idle animation when he is out and about, however, he will still talk to you unlike other townfolk that get "engrossed" in their tasks that they ignore the farmer. +The option to divorce Wally is completely removed after the marriage event. Divorce becomes impossible and other routes will be locked from ever occurring. Trying to romance someone else will simply give you the message that "a force beyond your control makes you crush the bouquet in your hands". +If you return late at night, and if you're married to Wally, he can be seen standing in your shared bedroom, waiting for you to arrive. +The only towsnfolk not bothered by Wally are the children, The Dwarf, and Krobus. They don't seem to find him as scary or unsettling as the adults do. +Wally can take care of farming tasks and children are possible, and it's something he mentions a fair bit in passing, so he's a very decent husband. His section of the house is themed with art supplies and painting utensils. +Fainting in the mines while dating Wally will have him pick up the farmer instead and will heal you free of charge. Which makes him useful even before marriage. +Due to him having a high friendship at the start of the game, Wally can be married within a week of starting your game. Making all the townsfolk confused and uncertain of what happened between you both to get married so fast after moving to Stardew Valley. =--- Sorry for the mile long ramble. It's 4am.

Remember the time when I was trying to made stardew valley mode? I give up 📑 because I not the best coder haha, so here are the sprites that I made!

(Maybe I'll return to this mod in the summer? Not sure haha)

Why not you know(?)

#welcome home #stardew valley mods

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luvvictoria · 3 days ago

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The Jealousy Game

+ pairings. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader

+ tags. romance, angst, slow-burn, action-packed military romance with angst and tension

+ summary. Ghost is struggling with feelings of jealousy as he watches Soap become closer to you, who is laughing and interacting with him freely. Despite his attempt to suppress these feelings, Ghost is faced with the painful realization that he's bothered by your closeness. Price notices Ghost's discomfort and teases him about being in denial, but Ghost tries to brush it off. However, deep down, the emotions he's been pushing away are becoming harder to ignore, and for the first time, he's uncertain whether he can keep them buried.

+ materialist ; prev. part ; next part.

+ a/n. Reblog with your favorite line! It would help me to grow my account !! Thank you in advance. Thank you so much for your support ! It means very much to me! Also if you want to take a little peek at the next chapter here is my ko-fi !!

The mission had settled into routine again after your extraction. Back on base, the worst of it was over — your ankle still ached, wrapped tight beneath your boot, but the bruises were fading, and the jungle was just another ghost in the past. You moved like you always did, like the weight of near-death had already slid off your shoulders. Like the close call hadn’t left any kind of mark on you.

Ghost couldn’t say the same.

He stood near the edge of the hangar, arms crossed, his fingers flexing idly over the material of his gloves as his eyes tracked your movements. Watched the way you tilted your head back, laughing — loudly, easily, like you weren’t just inches from death days ago. Like nothing was weighing on you the way it was on him.

It made something twist deep in his gut, something unfamiliar and unwelcome.

The mission had been a mess from the start, but the moment that stuck with him, the moment that played over and over in his mind like a cruel fucking loop, was you on the ground, back pressed to the mud, breath shuddering as you clutched your ankle. His radio crackled, shouts and gunfire filling his ears, but his focus had tunneled in on you — your narrowed eyes, the tight clench of your jaw, the way you had still tried to get up despite the obvious pain.

And now, here you were. Whole. Moving on like nothing had happened.

Ghost wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

And worse? You were laughing with Soap.

Ghost’s grip tightened around the handle of his knife, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure. Across the hangar, Soap leaned in too close, flashing that damn smirk of his as he gestured wildly, telling some ridiculous story that had you clutching your side, gasping for breath between laughter. Your head tilted back, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth stretched into a grin so unguarded, so fucking effortless, that it made something inside Ghost clench tight.

It was… a good look on you. One he rarely saw. One you rarely showed him.

And it made something in his chest twist and pull and burn.

The rational part of him told him it was nothing. Just banter. Just the way you and Soap had always been. You cracked jokes. You trained together. You teased each other like it was second nature, like it had been this way since the beginning.

But it hadn’t always been this easy.

This familiar.

Ghost had been there when you first joined. He’d seen the way you kept your distance, the way you measured your words, weighed your trust. He knew what it looked like when you let your walls down, piece by careful piece. And he knew that not everyone got to see you like this — free, open, unburdened. Not everyone got to make you laugh like that.

But Soap did.

Ghost had seen the way the sergeant looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Like he wanted more. Like he could have more if he only reached out. Like he was waiting for you to realize it.

And Ghost hated that. More than he had any right to.

Hated the way his stomach twisted at the sight of Soap inching closer, dropping his voice just enough that you leaned in to hear, your shoulder bumping his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hated the way you looked at Soap with warmth in your eyes, with trust, with something dangerously close to fondness.

Ghost swallowed hard, the weight in his throat thick and suffocating.

He had no claim to you. He knew that. He was your lieutenant, your teammate. Nothing more.

And yet, watching you now, he felt like he was losing something he never even had.

His jaw tensed. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his knife, the rhythmic scrape of steel against the sharpening stone doing little to calm the storm raging inside him. The noise was nothing more than a dull hum in the background, his mind too far gone, too consumed by the image in front of him.

He wasn’t thinking about the mission, or the debriefs, or anything even remotely important. Not the way he usually did when he wanted to quiet the thoughts that clawed at him. No, he was fixated on you.

The way you nudged Soap playfully, the way your body leaned into him with that careless ease, like nothing was ever going to tear you apart. Your guard completely gone. It was like watching you turn into someone else, someone unrecognizable to him.

Ghost knew you. Knew how sharp and deadly you could be. He’d seen you in action — how you could gut a man in under ten seconds, never flinching as you wiped your blade clean. He knew the way your hands wrapped around a rifle, steady and sure, each pull of the trigger surgical in its precision. He’d watched you assess a battlefield in seconds, calculating every risk and every chance with brutal efficiency.

But here? With Soap? You weren’t that soldier. You weren’t that deadly, sharp version of yourself. You were just... you. Soft in a way that Ghost had never let himself be.

The way your eyes softened when you looked at Soap. The way you laughed — truly laughed — your shoulders shaking with it, your head thrown back like the weight of the world had never once touched you. The way you touched Soap, so casual, so easy.

Ghost felt the hollow pit inside his chest grow deeper, a coldness spreading through him like the creeping chill of an early morning fog.

His stomach burned. Tight. Coiling like an invisible wire, threatening to snap. It was the kind of ache that made his ribs feel too tight around his lungs, made it hard to breathe, hard to think. The kind of ache that said something was wrong but never quite gave him the words to explain it.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t possessiveness. Not exactly.

It was the fucking emptiness of watching you become someone else in front of him — someone he couldn’t reach, someone he couldn’t have.

And that burned worse than anything he’d felt in a long time.

“Ghost.”

Price’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade, sharp and clear.

Ghost blinked, snapped back to the present with a grunt. His fingers had pressed the knife so hard against the whetstone that the leather of his glove had torn slightly, a chunk of it gouged out by the edge. He hadn’t even noticed.

Price’s sharp eyes narrowed at the scene unfolding across the hangar, his brow lifting slightly. “Something on your mind, son?”

The question was casual, but the tone, the weight of it, made Ghost’s jaw tighten.

“No.” The lie was too quick, too stiff, and Price’s gaze sharpened.

Price didn’t buy it for a second. He followed Ghost’s line of sight, his gaze settling on you and Soap. Soap’s hand brushed your shoulder, a touch too familiar, a touch that lingered just a little too long. The way you didn’t pull away. The way you leaned in closer.

Price let out a low, knowing hum, like he’d seen this before. “Mm-hmm.”

Ghost scowled, something sharp and frustrated cutting through him. “It’s not—”

“Uh-huh.” Price clapped a heavy, callused hand on his shoulder, the weight of it almost painful. “Listen, you can pretend all you want, but I know a man in denial when I see one.”

Ghost bristled, the flush of frustration creeping up his neck. He didn’t like this conversation. Didn’t like the way Price was peeling him open with a few words. Didn’t like the implication that he was something he wasn’t supposed to be. But as much as he wanted to deny it, maybe Price was right.

And that realization burned deeper than any mission failure.

Price exhaled, shaking his head like he was disappointed, but not in the way Ghost had expected. “Jealousy’s a hell of a thing, mate. Makes even the best of us act like idiots.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Price arched a brow, his eyes gleaming with something close to amusement. “Sure you’re not. And I’m a ballet dancer.”

Ghost bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. He didn’t have a response. Didn’t know how to explain it, how to untangle the mess in his chest. Instead, he turned back to his knife, dragging the blade across the stone with a mechanical precision that didn’t soothe him at all.

He wouldn’t be jealous. Couldn’t be. It wasn’t who he was.

He’d trained himself to shut it down, to suppress the flickers of emotion that threatened to disrupt the wall he’d built around himself. It wasn’t safe to feel, not with the life he led. Not with the people he trusted.

But as Soap threw his arm around you, pulling you in close with that wide, teasing grin, something dark and sharp coiled in Ghost’s gut.

You didn’t shy away from him. Didn’t pull back, didn’t create any distance. And that feeling — cold, possessive — gnawed at him with a hunger that unsettled him.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if he could push it down.

Wasn’t sure if he even wanted to anymore.

And that terrified him more than anything.

tag list : @hao-ming-8 @jajouska @pinkpookiebear

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delulustateofmind · 1 day ago

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With All My Heart, Will You Be Mine?

Sum: Happy Valentine's Day!

Yan! Yakuza Gojo x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Graphic violence/torture, Terminal Illness (Reader), Blood, Gore, Dubcon kisses, Masturbation (Gojo), Manipulation, Forced Surgery, mentions of murder. MDNI

WC: 5.8k

A/n: Thank you 💖 anon for feeding me yummy ideas, lots of smoochies for you. You will receive my kidney for Valentine's day, keep it safe, use it for school! MWAH!

Really, truly - Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Absolutely. Intrigue at first sight? Happens all the time. But love? The heart-pounding, palm-sweating, head-spinning kind that made fools of otherwise rational men? No.

He was a romantic, sure, but not delusional.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a dingy little house in Tokyo, meant to be handling business like the good little Yakuza heir he was, only to be hit with something so absurd, so world-altering, so utterly ridiculous that it left him breathless.

And on Valentine’s Day, no less.

It was almost poetic, if not for the fact that he should have been spending his evening hunting for buy-one-get-one-free desserts, maybe stuffing his face with something obscenely sweet, letting powdered sugar melt on his tongue instead of dealing with this nonsense.

Instead, he was here, wasting time on a pathetic excuse of a man who had made one too many promises and delivered on exactly none.

The debtor knelt before him, flanked by two of his men, the poor bastard's shoulders hunched, his body shaking so violently that the faint sound of his teeth chattering filled the otherwise silent room.

Satoru sighed, rolling his shoulders, letting his hands flex, testing the weight of his own strength. A simple knockout, maybe - if the guy was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, there were other ways to collect.

If you can’t pay up, surely your organs can.

His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles shifting beneath his skin, ready to land a single, decisive blow. His arm swung back, muscles tensing, the force behind it measured yet lethal.

He missed.

His knuckles cut through empty space.

The Gojo Satoru, who never missed, whose strikes always found their target with effortless precision, had missed.

Something lurched inside him. Something sharp, something foreign, something completely uninvited. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his chest seizing up with a feeling that sent his pulse stammering, erratic.

The air in the room shifted, charged, like static clinging to his skin, humming beneath his fingertips, curling tight around his throat like an invisible wire. His breath hitched, a sharp, unexpected inhale that felt too much, too rapid, too overwhelming.

His body, his very existence, felt like it had been shoved off balance.

And all because of a picture frame.

A broken one, at that. Glass shards, littered the floor, glinting under the dim overhead light. His gaze flickered downward, catching the jagged fragments scattered like slivers of ice against the worn wooden planks.

And nestled between them, half-buried beneath the wreckage, was you.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, forcing himself to move slowly, as if rushing might break the spell of this moment. His gaze briefly flickered toward Ijichi, who stood stiffly near the door, face pale, fingers twitching at his sleeves.

Satoru ignored him, poor Ijichi's silent pleas to please get this over with. Instead, he bent down, his long, gloved fingers ghosting over the broken glass before carefully lifting the frame from the mess. His movements were strangely reverent, cautious in a way that had nothing to do with avoiding injury and everything to do with the image trapped behind the cracked glass.

You.

Oh.

His throat tightened.

A snapshot of softness. A moment of warmth and light and everything gentle in a world that had only ever been sharp edges and raw violence to him. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the frame over, gloved knuckles brushing against the broken glass, the sting of tiny cuts breaking through the protective barrier. Satoru barely noticed. The world had already tilted.

His breath came faster, shallower, something hot and unfamiliar crawling up his spine. His face felt warm. Too warm. Heat bloomed beneath his skin, creeping up from his chest, spilling up the curve of his throat, flushing the tips of his ears. His pulse—normally steady, untouchable—stammered, then slammed against his ribs, hammering like a war drum inside him.

His brain wasn’t working, actually Satoru's entire body was doing things it shouldn’t be doing. The way his fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like something precious, something irreplaceable, something already his.

And then—before he could stop himself—

He giggled.

A soft, breathless little sound, slipped past his soft pink lips without his permission, without his control. The feeling was utterly foreign to him, so completely out of place in this bloodstained room, that even the lackeys flinched.

The debtor—poor bastard, still kneeling, still hoping for mercy—dared to look up. His breath stuttered, a trembling, desperate sound escaping his lips when he caught the sight of Satoru, hunched over the picture frame, grinning like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

And then, in a panic-stricken voice, hoarse and broken, he begged.

“T-That’s my daughter,” he gasped, voice cracking, his entire body lurching forward before the men at his sides yanked him back into place. “P-Please! Please, don’t - d-don’t hurt her, please!”

Satoru stilled for a few beats. His long fingers twitched against the frame, his grip tightening just slightly. Slowly, he raised his gaze, sharp blue eyes gleaming, amusement flickering beneath something far, far more dangerous., a fool in love.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Satoru let out another breathless, giddy laugh.

“Oh,” he murmured, his voice a shade too light, a whisper too smooth. “Your daughter?” tilting his head, lips parting slightly, like he was tasting the words, rolling them around on his tongue just to see how they felt. Satoru's pulse was still racing, breathing still felt too fast, face still burned.

What a beautiful feeling. Love was truly a beautiful thing, he was a fool for thinking overwise. His lips curved into a lazy, lovesick smile. A slow exhale left him as he traced his thumb over the crack in the glass.

“What a lucky man you are,” Satoru mused, voice warm, teasing, almost affectionate. “To have someone so precious.”

Satoru's fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like he could sink it into himself, steal you away, make you his. Careless to the shards of glass pressing themselves into his shirt, sodden with blood.

And then, with a soft, almost dreamy sigh, he whispered into the room -

“Oh, I think I’m in love.”

The debtor was still babbling, breath coming in ragged little gasps, his face pale and sweat-slicked, as if he expected Gojo to snap him in half at any second.

Poor guy.

Satoru’s expression shifted the sharp gleam in his eyes melting into something lighter, dreamier. His lips curled into a soft, almost fond smile, the heat still high on his cheeks as he turned his attention back to the trembling man kneeling before him.

A soft chuckle left him - light, airy, amused.

"I think we got the wrong guy, Ijichi-san," he mused, voice kept casual, lilting as if discussing the weather. Ijichi stiffened from his place near the door, blinking rapidly behind his fogged-up glasses, clearly unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. Still kneeling, leaned in just slightly, one gloved hand reaching out to cup the debtor’s jaw.

The man flinched hard.

His entire body shuddered, a choked sound spilling from his lips, but Satoru’s touch was shockingly gentle - a stark contrast to the raw strength curled beneath his fingers. His thumb stroked slowly along the man’s cheek, a featherlight touch, almost affectionate as if comforting a dear old friend.

Then - he patted his cheek. Soft. Reassuring. And yet, something far, far worse than a punch.

Because Gojo Satoru was smiling.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the smug little grin of a man who enjoyed toying with his prey - but something softer.

Something warm.

Something that didn’t belong in a bloodstained room.

His head tilted slightly, bright blue eyes twinkling, the blush still lingering across his pale skin as he murmured, voice dipped in unsettling fondness -

"My apologies, father-in-law."

The debtor let out a broken sob.

The room was silent, tense, like everyone was waiting to see if their boss had finally snapped. He swallowed hard, forcing down the giddy little laugh bubbling up his throat. He needed to—no, he had to—figure this out. He had to figure you out.

Satoru was still thinking about you, even during his long day of hard work. Ah, he should be charging your rent for invading his mind like this!

The poor businessman in front of him wailed, body jerking violently against the restraints, but Satoru barely acknowledged it. He twirled the bloodied pliers between his fingers, splattering droplets of red onto the floor, his mind elsewhere.

“You guys ever been in love?”

The lackeys standing near the wall exchanged uneasy glances.

“U-uh… boss?”

Satoru hummed softly, affectionately as if he hadn’t just ripped a nail from the man’s hand a second ago. He turned to one of the lackeys, holding up the pliers like a microphone.

“Be honest with me. What’s the best way to impress a girl?”

Silence.

Even the poor bastard tied to the chair stopped whimpering. The loan sharks shifted uncomfortably, like they weren’t sure if this was a trick question.

Gojo sighed, tapping the pliers against his chin. Careless to the blood staining his pale skin.

“See, I’m thinking flowers - girls like flowers, right? But that feels so… normal.” Voice coming out light, thoughtful, as if he were discussing dessert options instead of dating strategies while actively torturing someone.

A lackey gulped. “Uh… I-I guess girls like grand gestures?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. Oh. Ohhh. That was good. That was so good. Satoru's grin stretched wider, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s what I was thinking too! Maybe I could make a little event out of it.” He flexed his fingers around the pliers before suddenly plunging them back into the man’s hand, gripping tight around another nail. The man wailed, body convulsing, but Satoru just clicked his tongue.

“Stay still, I’m having a moment here.”

He wrenched the pliers back with an almost theatrical flourish, watching as the nail came free, dripping red. He turned it between his fingers, examining it as he continued, “Like, I could just show up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend,’ but I dunno… that lacks finesse, don’t you think?”

Another lackey hesitated. “Uh… maybe you should… get to know her first?”

Satoru gasped. Ohhh. His fingers twitched, his pulse spiking, excitement crawling up his spine. “That’s a great idea! I should do some research. Find out what she likes, where she goes, who she spends time with - ”

He sighed dreamily, resting his chin on his gloved palm, pliers still in his grasp. “Ahh, this is so exciting. Who knew I’d find love on Valentine’s Day?”

The lackeys exchanged horrified glances.

The man in the chair sobbed.

Gojo barely noticed.

He was too busy imagining what kind of flowers you’d like.

Like any devoted future husband, he did his research.

By the time he finally stepped out of the shower after his long, excruciatingly confusing day—one he would rather you never know about—he had already started planning.

Steam curled in lazy ribbons around the dimly lit bathroom, clinging to the warm air like a ghost of the heat that had soaked into his skin. Water dripped from his snow-white damp hair, collecting in cool rivulets as they rolled down the sculpted lines of his collarbone, tracing the dip of his spine before vanishing into the plush towel slung around his waist. The overhead light flickered faintly against the condensation beading along the mirror, his reflection hazy and unfocused.

Satoru dragged a hand through his messy, damp white locks, pushing them back from his forehead, his fingers catching briefly on stubborn strands. He let out a slow breath, watching as the fogged-up mirror distorted his image, his usually sharp features blurred at the edges. For a moment, he simply stared, tilting his head slightly, his glowing blue eyes piercing through the humidity with an intensity that felt foreign, even to him.

His face felt… different.

He knew himself, had spent years looking at this very reflection - at the striking symmetry of his features, the lazy curve of his mouth, the effortless charm that had always drawn people in. But now? Now there was something wrong.

Or maybe something right.

His cheeks were warm, a soft flush spreading across his pale skin, settling stubbornly beneath his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. His lips—usually curled in an easy smirk, something smug and sharp-edged—felt softer, stretched into a stupid, giddy smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless, barely contained energy coiling under his skin. He could feel the uneven rhythm of his own pulse, the unsteady way it hammered against his ribs - too fast, too eager, like something wild and untamed.

A shaky laugh slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, and immediately pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to stifle the ridiculous giggle that threatened to bubble up again.

Oh, what the fuck was this?

His stomach clenched - not in discomfort, not in anger, not in anything he could name. The feeling felt like being electrocuted. It felt like a freefall, plummeting into something dark and bottomless, with no hope of stopping. His chest ached, a tight pull between his ribs, something raw and desperate.

This wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal.

Satoru’s fingers curled into the edge of the sink, gripping the cold marble, but it did nothing to steady him. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the haze filling his head, thick and suffocating. He needed to focus.

His smirk twitched, wavering for just a second before solidifying again, as he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here in the first place.

He had a plan.

Of course, he already knew he’d have to privatize a lot of your information. It wasn’t safe for someone as delicate, as beautiful as you to be left unprotected.

A beauty like you? Out in the open?

Far too dangerous.

You were just waiting to be taken, waiting for someone less deserving to snatch you up before he had the chance to make you his. The very thought sent an ugly, seething heat curling low in his stomach, his jaw tightening at the idea of someone else even thinking they had the right to look at you.

And then there was your father. Reckless. Stupid. Careless. Gambling away money, selling away your future with every thoughtless bet. If someone had to pay for his mistakes, it wouldn’t be you. It wouldn’t ever be you.

Satoru sighed, wiping the condensation from the mirror with the heel of his palm, only for it to fog up again seconds later. The humidity clung to him, soaking into his flushed skin as his gaze flickered toward the glow of his phone screen.

His research was proving… interesting.

His body froze.

The warmth in his chest twisted, coiling tighter, tighter, tighter, something sharp lodging itself behind his ribs. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the cold marble of the sink.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The words didn’t change.

Waitlisted for a heart transplant.

His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his vision blurring, as if the letters themselves were somehow wrong, as if seeing them enough times could make them disappear, could make them not real.

His throat was dry, the earlier lightheaded giddiness evaporating, replaced by something heavy and unfamiliar.

A slow breath, shaky and uneven, pushed past his lips.

Then another.

His heart stuttered.

Then picked up again, pounding, throbbing, screaming against his ribs with a force that almost hurt.

His lungs felt tight.

This—this wasn’t—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

His stomach twisted violently, sickening nausea curling through him as he forced himself to swallow, his fingers digging into the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

He could fix this.

Of course, he could.

It was so simple.

Well.

He could just give you his.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His own ridiculous, hopelessly lovesick heart—wasn’t it already yours?

Wasn’t it already beating for you, racing every time he thought about you?

He wanted you to have it.

Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be romantic?

A tremor ran through his shoulders, something between a laugh and a shaky exhale, his body shuddering under the weight of the thought. He grinned, wide and almost delirious, his fingers drumming absently against the counter, a restless, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

Oh.

Different blood types.

The air seized in his lungs.

An awful thing, really. A tragedy. A fucking crime.

It would have been the greatest honor - to have his very own heart inside your body, keeping you alive, keeping you safe, ensuring that he was always with you, always the one keeping you beating.

His grip on the counter tightened, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror. His stupid, desperate, lovesick heart was still hammering, pounding so hard it hurt, and—

And he just knew.

No one else could have you.

You were his.

And if fate wasn’t going to let him keep you safe the way he wanted, then— - He’d just find another way.

A soft, breathless giggle slipped from his lips.

It was almost sweet.

Oh.

Oh, he loved this.

You were going to love him too.

Satoru wasn’t sure how he ended up here, standing in the soft glow of your hospital room, arms full of entirely too many roses, pretending he didn’t just spend weeks memorizing everything about you.

This was supposed to be casual. A natural, effortless, totally normal meeting where he charmed his way into your life like it was meant to be. And it was meant to be, of course - he already decided that long before you even knew his name.

But none of his meticulous planning, none of the hours of preparation, none of it prepared him for this.

Because now that he was actually standing in front of you, he could feel his carefully constructed mask cracking at the edges.

And it was all your fault.

You blinked up at him, your wide, curious gaze unraveling him completely. Even in your frailty—IV drips, hospital gown, the telltale exhaustion clinging to your frame—you still managed to look like the single most perfect thing he had ever seen.

Then, it happened.

A smile.

A soft, hesitant little thing, warm enough to make his knees feel weak.

And then - the monitor.

The steady beep, beep, beep of your heart rate suddenly spiked, an unmistakable, rapid rhythm filling the otherwise quiet room.

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Oh.

The realization crashed into him like a freight train.

Your heart was racing.

Because of him.

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the roses tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate stems, the thorns pricking at his skin, he barely noticed. His own heartbeat had gone completely wild, hammering so loudly against his ribs that he was sure the entire hospital could hear it.

Heat rushed to his face, a creeping blush crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his entire body betraying him. He could feel it, the warmth spreading under his skin, the dizzying, giddy sensation that made him want to scream into the nearest pillow.

You were flustered over him.

Him.

Gojo Satoru.

A helpless, breathless giggle bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he barely managed to cover it with a light cough, turning his head slightly as if that would somehow hide the absolute mess he was becoming.

He had to pull it together.

His entire existence led up to this moment, and he would not be the reason he messed it up.

Clearing his throat, schooled his expression into something softer, gentler, the perfect image of a man who had no idea what was happening.

"Ah," he started, voice almost too smooth, though there was an undeniable waver at the edges. He made a show of looking down at the roses, adjusting his grip as if suddenly realizing he was still holding them. "I… didn’t expect anyone to be here."

Your lips parted, the faintest hint of surprise flitting across your features. He wanted to frame the moment, keep it forever.

He forced himself to keep talking, keep lying, before his knees actually gave out, even if they did, he'd crawl to you, rest his head on your lap - He'd be your dog if you'd just ask.

“It seems the room has already been cleared a while ago,” he continued, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “I used to leave roses here for my mother.”

The words left his mouth too easily, even as his pulse refused to slow down. Satoru's fingers twitched, gripping the flowers just a little too tight because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you wanted him to stay.

And that damn monitor -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Each sharp little sound sent heat straight to his face. He could feel it, the way his blush deepened, the way it spread down his neck, his body completely betraying him in real time.

You liked him.

You were crushing on him.

You were falling for him.

Satoru had to physically stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to tighten his grip on the bouquet, had to plant his feet firmly on the ground because he swore to god if he let go of his restraint for even a second, he would throw himself at you and never let go.

This was dangerous.

You were dangerous.

Because he had barely even spoken yet, and you were already his.

And oh, you had no idea what that meant for you.

His stomach did another awful, fluttery thing, his entire world tilting as he dared to meet your gaze again.

“Would it be alright… if I left these here?” he asked, voice lower, smoother, betraying absolutely none of the chaos screaming inside him.

You nodded, still watching him with soft, wide eyes, and Satoru had to bite back a whimper. His stomach twisted, something fluttering, tightening - something unbearable and all-consuming. He had barely spoken to you, and yet, here you were, already accepting him, already letting him into your space. It was almost too much. Almost devastating.

He placed the roses carefully on the side table, arranging them with precision, as if they were an offering, as if their placement mattered more than anything else in the world. His fingers lingered on the petals, smoothing them down, before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

Your gaze was still on him. Soft. Trusting. Beautiful.

Operation: True Love had been enacted.

And it didn’t stop there.

It had become routine. Every morning, without fail, he made sure you had your favorite coffee in your hands before the sun had fully risen. Even on the nights when sleep barely kissed his eyes, when exhaustion tugged at his limbs, when his body ached from handling the scum that threatened the delicate world he was building for you, he always stopped by that little café.

It was such a simple thing, really - just a cup of coffee. But for Satoru, it was a symbol of devotion. Every single action, no matter how small, was done with you in mind. He memorized your schedule, your favorite flavors, the way you liked it just a little sweeter when you were feeling under the weather. He took a sip of it each time before handing it to you, just to be certain that it was decaffeinated, that your already delicate heart wouldn’t be forced to work harder than it needed to.

He had memorized everything about your condition, studied every prescription bottle by your bedside, traced his fingers over the labels when you weren’t looking, committing them all to memory. He knew your dosages, your restrictions, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when the medication began to wear off.

That was why, when the first drop of coffee hit his tongue that morning, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

The perfect order wasn’t right.

The bitterness was too strong, the warmth that settled in his stomach too telling. He pulled the cup away from his lips and stared at it, Satoru's mind running over the implications. The barista had switched it - either through incompetence or indifference, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

If he had been careless if he had handed it to you without checking if your poor little heart had struggled against the caffeine -

His hands began to shake, a slow, curling fury unfurling in his gut. The weight of what could have happened, of what he almost allowed to happen, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him. His fingers curled around the coffee cup, the lid creaking under the pressure as he slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just a mistake.

This was a threat.

Satoru's grip on the cup remained eerily calm as he turned and walked back to the counter, each step measured, deliberate. His head tilted slightly, a soft, almost playful smile curving at his lips as he met the eyes of the barista who had handed him the drink. The poor fool didn’t even realize what they had done.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, voice light, almost teasing, like he was about to share a secret. “Quick question.”

The barista looked up, confused, but obliging. “Uh, yeah?”

Satoru took another slow step forward, resting his arms against the counter as he leaned in slightly. Bright blue eyes studied the poor barista, carefully, searching for a flicker of remorse, of understanding, but all he saw was ignorance.

That wouldn’t do.

A wider smile traced his lips, tilting his head as if in thought. “Tell me,” he said, voice still honey-smooth, still light as air, as if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface. “Do you know what happens when a heart stops beating?”

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The barista blinked, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Uh - ”

Satoru didn’t wait for an answer.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the barista’s wrist before they even had a chance to flinch. He pulled them forward with terrifying ease, dragging them halfway over the counter, ignoring the startled gasps of the people around him. His grip tightened, just enough to feel the fragile bones beneath his fingers shift under the pressure, just enough to send a message.

He could hear the barista's pulse, feel the steady rhythm beneath their skin.

Pathetic excuse of a life.

“You see,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against their skin, “a little thing like caffeine doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just a tiny mistake.”

The barista let out a whimper, their free hand scrambling against the countertop, desperate to pull away.

Satoru grinned.

“But when the person drinking it has a heart that’s already struggling?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Well… then it’s a problem.”

He pressed down, just a little.

Just enough for something to pop.

The barista screamed.

Satoru sighed, shaking his head. “You almost killed someone very, very special to me,” he mused, watching the way their face twisted in agony. “And that makes me so sad.”

His fingers flexed.

The wrist in his hand gave way with a sickening crack.

The barista’s shriek pierced the air, loud and raw, but the café remained still.

No one moved.

No one ever did.

Satoru leaned in, crystalline eyes manic, lips just inches away from their ear, and whispered, soft as silk, “Do you know what that means?”

Their sobs were answer enough.

The next morning, Satoru entered your hospital room as if nothing had happened. The coffee was warm in his hands, a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth, exactly the way you liked it. You were just beginning to stir, your soft hands rubbing at your sleepy eyes, body curled up under the thick blankets.

You looked so sweet, so untouched by the world, that for a moment, he felt like he was burning alive. The moment your eyes landed on him, you smiled, slow and shy, and Satoru swore he felt his heart explode.

“Good morning, dumpling,” he greeted, sick with love, drowning in it, choking on it. You blinked up at him, looking so grateful, so happy, as you took the coffee from his hands.

He watched as you took a sip, watched as you sighed contentedly, watched as your heart monitor picked up just a little.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The world around him faded, the memory of bloodied hands, broken screams, the useless little stumps where the barista’s fingers used to be all vanishing in the wake of your soft, wide eyes.

Nothing else mattered.

Not when you were safe.

Not when he was the one keeping you that way.

You still didn’t know.

But soon, you would.

He was waiting for the perfect moment - something grand, something special. Something that would tie you to him forever.

He loved watching over you.

He loved the way your eyelids would flutter, lashes casting delicate shadows against your cheeks as the medication coaxed you into sleep. He loved the way you’d sigh - soft, breathy little noises, so unaware, so vulnerable, your fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve as if you knew you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

Because this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Pressed into him, into his warmth, trusting and unguarded. His perfect little angel, unknowingly tucking yourself into the arms of the only man in the world who could love you properly.

You didn’t know what he had done to make sure you were safe.

Didn’t know how many hands he had taken, how many screams he had silenced, how many unworthy bastards had been erased for so much as looking at you too long.

Didn’t know how many times he had sat here, in this exact position, staring at the fragile line of your throat, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, watching the way your lips parted slightly as you exhaled.

Didn’t know how much it hurt to love you like this.

Because it did hurt.

It ached.

It burned, it devoured, it twisted inside him like something feral, something unsatisfied.

You were so small in his arms. So delicate.

And yet, his love for you was so enormous, so all-consuming, that sometimes he felt like he would crush you under the weight of it.

Every time your fingers twitched against him, every time your body relaxed, every time you made those tiny, sleepy noises, something inside him curled tight, so tight, too tight.

It was adoration.

It was devotion.

It was worship.

And yet, beneath that softness, beneath the aching love, there was something else.

Something darker.

Something needy.

Something filthy.

Because sometimes, when your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, when your lips parted just slightly when your warm, sleepy body curled into his, something unbearable coiled in his stomach, something starved and desperate, something that made him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The heat would pool low in his abdomen, coiling hot, tight, a restless hunger, a pressure that made his breath come faster, shallower.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that you were so sweet, so trusting, so untouchable - and yet, your body fit against his so perfectly.

It wasn’t fair that you were right here, so warm, so soft, so completely his—but he couldn’t touch.

Couldn’t have.

Not yet.

Not the way he wanted to.

Not the way he needed to.

And God—God, what an awful man he was.

What a disgusting, depraved, vile creature he had become.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

You were pure, delicate, untouched.

You needed protection.

You needed his care.

And yet, his traitorous body was already reacting, already stiffening, already pressing painfully against the fabric of his slacks, already begging for relief.

The feel was humiliating, sickening.

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself to stop - Satoru couldn’t.

Couldn’t because you were so fucking beautiful. Because you were so fucking his. Because even long after he had gently laid you back against your pillows, even after he had stroked the soft strands of your hair away from your face, even after he had kissed your forehead so gently, so reverently, he still felt that sickening vile feeling, the pressure of his hardened cock against his slacks. That unbearable heat, that sickening desire, the overwhelming need to relieve the pressure before it drove him insane.

So he would excuse himself.

With the calmest smile, with the gentlest voice, he would whisper, "Sleep well, sugar."

Then Satoru would slip out of the room and head straight to the hospital restroom.

Lock the door.

Pull out his phone.

And scroll through the hundreds of photos he had taken of you.

Some were from your walks in the park, when you were strong enough to leave the hospital, your face turned toward the sunlight, your soft laughter trapped in still frames, preserved just for him.

Others were taken without your knowledge, stolen moments when you were distracted when your lips were pursed in thought, when your fingers played with the frayed edge of your hospital bracelet, when you gazed out the window with that distant, dreamy look.

And God, his angel, his girl, his everything -

With shaking hands, he would unbuckle his belt, slide his hand into his pants, stroking himself to the images of you, barely able to breathe, biting his own lip to silence the pathetic little noises threatening to escape.

It felt so wrong.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And when he was finished, hot and sticky, Satoru would take a moment to look at your photo, his release streaked across your delicate face, your soft smile, your innocent little eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, he would draw tiny hearts in the filth, circling your cheeks, tracing the outline of your lips.

Soon he will be able to be a bit more selfish, to feel those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock, be able to coo at you to take more into your mouth, to feel the swirl of your tongue around his hardened length.

Oh, Satoru couldn't help but feel his heart pound against his chest at the idea of your sweet warm cunt wrapped around him, he'd be so gentle. Take his sweet time, he knew he had to be gentle, you were a sick little thing. Should he cockwarm you first? Get you used to him? Get you used to feeling so full, to the stretch, to the feeling of having him deep inside you.

Fuck looks like he has to give it another go, you little minx. Raiding his thoughts as always - a slight giggle escaped his throat before he began to stroke himself once again.

Satoru had made sure you both were exclusive, ensured your father understood that no other man would come near you. Because when he finally was able to confess his undying love, when he finally gave you everything, the action would be in a way that you would never forget.

A grand gesture.

A symbol of his devotion.

And as Valentine’s Day approached, everything was falling into place.

Because love wasn’t just words. The notion wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t something to be given halfheartedly. Love, real love, demanded sacrifice. And he - he was willing to give you everything. Even if it meant murdering an innocent individual, claiming the poor saint had wronged the clan. Because he had found the perfect match for your heart transplant, a saint of a person, someone who had never smoked, never drank, never told a single lie. Someone pure, untouched by vice, someone worthy of becoming a part of you. Someone perfect, just for you, so you both could live your lives together.

Because a love like this? It was eternal.

And you would love him.

And you would be his, forever.

No one would take you away from him.

Not even death.

Not even fate.

Satoru had never known love like this how it had seeped into his veins like poison, sweet and consuming, twisting around his heart until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You had become his everything, the reason for his existence, the reason he woke up each morning, the reason he killed, the reason he breathed.

And now—now, you were here.

Laid out on the pristine white sheets of the underground medical table he had so carefully prepared, your delicate wrists bound with silk restraints, not to hurt you, but to keep you from thrashing, from making mistakes, from delaying the inevitable.

Because you were scared.

And that was killing him.

His sweet girl, his delicate little princess, his angel, was crying because of him.

Satoru's breath hitched, vision blurring with tears, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob tore from his throat. His fingers trembled as he cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing frantically over your damp skin, trying to wipe away the pain.

"No, no, no, my love - please, please don’t cry." His voice cracked, wavering between soft pleas and manic devotion, his lips quivering as he leaned down, pressing frantic kisses against your damp cheeks. He licked away your tears, swallowed your little whimpers, inhaled your soft, hiccuped breaths as if he could consume your fear and turn it into love.

His fingers stroked your hair, tracing the curve of your face, his touch tender, adoring, desperate.

“I can’t take this, sunshine. You’re breaking my heart.”

A shaky giggle slipped through his sobs, his fingers still trailing down the curve of your jaw, tapping gently against your chin like he was teasing you like this was just another one of his games.

His hands slid behind him, reaching for the small, heart-shaped box he had placed so carefully beside your bed. Satoru's breath hitched, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with sheer, dizzying excitement as he held it between you both. His tear-streaked face lit up, his lips parting into an eager, breathless grin despite the shattered, desperate look in his eyes.

This was it.

The ultimate proof of his love.

His grand gesture.

His devotion, laid bare before you.

The soft velvet of the box rubbed against your trembling fingertips as he guided it into your hands. Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You didn’t want to open it.

You didn’t want to see what was inside.

But Satoru - was watching you so closely, his radiant, unearthly blue eyes brimming with an intensity that demanded you obey. So, with numb fingers, you lifted the lid.

Your stomach lurched.

The room spun. The sharp, metallic scent of blood curled into your nostrils, thick and suffocating, coating the back of your throat, making your body convulse in disgust.

A heart.

A real, human heart. The flesh was still fresh, still glistening, nestled inside the plush velvet like a grotesque, bloody jewel. Thin, severed arteries dangled from the muscle, the tissue dark, rich, and far too real.

Your breath hitched in a choked, wet gasp.

The air rushed out of your lungs, your vision narrowing as cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around you. Your fingers trembled violently, nearly dropping the box, your hands refusing to function, refusing to believe what they were holding.

No.

No, no, no -

You could feel your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, erratic, uneven, weak. You could feel the sting of tears welling up, blurring your vision, pooling in your lashes as you tried—desperately tried—to make sense of the unthinkable.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to wrench yourself away, shove the box back into his hands, throw it, crush it, anything—

But you couldn’t move.

Your body refused.

Terror had turned your limbs to dead weight, keeping you frozen as if one wrong move might make this nightmare even worse.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you. That flicker in your eyes.

Horror.

Fear.

Rejection.

His grin faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

That look shattered something inside him. Satoru's breath caught, his smile wavering at the edges as his fingers twitched, his entire body stilling. For the first time in his entire, untouchable life, Gojo Satoru felt small. Like a child who had spent days, weeks, months crafting the perfect gift, only for it to be thrown away before his eyes.

A slow, breathy laugh fell from his lips - unsteady, cracked at the edges, but still so devoted.

“Aww, baby,” he whispered, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the side of your wrist, thumb dragging over your rapid, panicked pulse.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His voice was soft, teasing - but his grip on you was tight. The air grew heavier and thicker, the scent of blood still hanging between you like perfume.

You wanted to move.

You wanted to run.

But his fingers curled tighter around your wrist, and those crystal-clear, feverishly bright blue eyes locked onto yours, swimming with something too deep, too raw, too unhinged for you to break away.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His voice was gentle, cooing, like he was humoring you, like you were simply being shy, overwhelmed, unsure of how to accept such an important gift. His free hand reached out, brushing your trembling hair away from your face, tucking a stray strand behind your ear.

“I mean, I did all this for you,” he murmured, voice feigning innocence, his lips curving into something softer, something that might have been mistaken for genuine hurt if it weren’t for the twisted madness shimmering beneath it.

His fingers slid down, grazing your cheek before resting against your collarbone, pressing - just slightly. Feeling the erratic flutter of your weak little heart, the heart he was so desperate to protect.

The heart that could have failed you at any moment.

The heart that was soon to be replaced.

"I went through so much trouble," he continued, his voice quieter, sadder, fraying at the edges. "Just to make sure you’d be okay, sped up the process even, to make sure we can be together."

A tremor ran through his shoulders, his lips parting like he was about to say something more, but instead, he only let out a soft, shuddering exhale. His princess was rejecting his love.

But he had to be strong.

He had to be brave.

For you.

And so, he forced himself to smile, to press another kiss to your forehead, to whisper sweet nothings into your skin, even as his heart shattered.

"I promise, my love, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing."

Satoru's soft lips hovered over your ear, his voice a trembling whisper, thick with the kind of love that could ruin a man.

"And when you wake up, you’ll be all better." His fingers trailed over the silk restraints, his touch lingering against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

Everything was going to be okay.

You were just scared.

You loved him too.

Major heart surgery is a scary thing. You’re just scared.

And if the doctor made a mistake - if you so much as whimpered in pain, if there was a single second where you suffered, where the operation was anything less than perfect -

Well.

There was a reason he had a backup doctor waiting in the next room.

A little extra insurance.

Because nothing could go wrong.

Everything had to be perfect for you. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him, pressing a lingering, feverish kiss to your trembling lips - a kiss full of devotion, of desperation, of a love so strong it had become a sickness.

His heart raced, his breath shaky, uneven, manic.

And then, in a voice so soft, so full of adoring madness, he whispered against your lips -

"Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart."

As the medication in the IV lulled your eyes to sleep, all you could feel were soft kisses - featherlight, desperate, pressed against your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips.

A lover’s touch.

A farewell.

#Valentine's day #yandere jujutsu kaisen #Yandere JJk #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #yandere gojo x reader #yandere gojo satoru x reader #male yandere #yandere satoru #yandere satoru x reader

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quarterlifekitty · 2 days ago

Note

This is super random but I thought of this today and I wanted your opinion! You know how when women sometimes go to shake a man’s hand occasionally some men will grip the Womans hand too hard and purposefully hurt her as like some weird power trip (and they know women are shamed by society to not confront them about things like that so they know they’ll get away with it) and because no one else can tell that it happened. Okay well I was taught that when that happens to say “ow!!🥺” and like gently cradle my hand/lightly shake it out while generally giving off the energy of this “🥺” emoji. It alerts people around around you and turns it back on the ass who did it. Anyway I can’t help but think of how the COD men would react to some ass trying to pull that stunt and their girl doing that (general) reaction. Like they’re suddenly alerted to her being hurt?? Their sweet girl!! purposefully hurt??By some ass of a “man”? And one who tried to get away with it??

Anyway, feel free to ignore this!! Just wanted to share my thought🤍

I’m in love with the idea of siccing a man on someone. And being kind of an evil bitch about it. Call me a master female manipulator, but it’s very easy to make me cry. That’s it. I don’t use it for anything, I’m just a pussy.

Anyways. Love this for Price specifically because I think he’s a little bit of a traditionalist at heart, to be honest. Like if you were to ask him what he really thinks, he doesn’t believe in hitting women no matter the circumstances (makes him cringe on the field when he has to). Like, it doesn’t matter how many men he’s seen you bend and break. If you’re a woman, he thinks you should be treated gently. That people shouldn’t be saying crude things around you.

So when you’re meeting someone for the first time and he hears that little ow! as you pull your hand away like you got burned, pouting and big eyed. You’re not looking at John, of course not, it’s all just a coincidence that he’s within earshot. The way he whips around and nearly stomps over.

“Just what do you think you’re doing? Y’think it’s funny to bruise a lady’s hand when you’re introducing yourself, hm?”

And he doesn’t really give a fuck about what’s considered abuse of power when it comes to you. Whatever punishment is in his power to bestow, he’s resorting to that. And as soon as he’s seen to that, he’ll turn to coo over you and cradle your hand and kiss it better. This man has supersonic hearing when it comes to the slightest discomfort caused to you. “Didn’t hurt you too bad, did he, darl’?”

#writing #cod fanfic #cod #john price x reader #John price

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mggslover · 11 hours ago

Text

Valentines Savior

In which Spencer saves his best friend from a failed Valentines date.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff x slight angst Content warnings: friends to lovers, mutual pining, reader is tipsy, reader curses, confessions of love, vague mention of reader having abandonment issues, suggestive joke Word count: 3,6k A/n: happy valentines my lovers! 💛

Everything seemed perfect. And maybe that was the problem.

The restaurant you found yourself in had the perfect setting. There was the right amount of background noise: the clinking of wine glasses, muffled talking, occasional laughing in the back, and a jazz band playing the most atmospheric tunes. The lights weren’t too harsh—a pet peeve of yours—and the food was delicious, which you knew was a reason for you to return some other time. Just not with the person you were seated in front of now.

Kamil Everett was a good-looking guy. Slightly older than you, but not enough to doubt his reasons for being into you. He had the perfect jaw structure, covered in the perfect amount of neatly trimmed stubble. He had nice, white teeth, not the kind that you could tell was fake. He wore a cologne that was strong enough to notice, but not overpowering enough to bother you. He’d put effort into his hair and outfit, and he asked questions that showed interest but weren’t too invasive. He was perfect. Again, just perfect.

Still, the little devil on your shoulder nagged at you that this wasn’t what you were looking for. That something was missing, something neither Kamil nor the restaurant could give you.

You jumped in your seat when a pocket-sized Penelope with pink wings suddenly popped onto your right shoulder. Fuck, you’d been drinking too much.

“I am sick of this! Truly!” Penelope’s chipmunk voice peeped right into your ear.

“How many times have you come to me, saying, ‘Oh Penelope, someone has put a curse on me. There are no cute guys anywhere. The universe hates me’, and look at you now! Perfect guy, right over there!” Her small finger pointed at Kamil, and you pulled a sour face.

Angel Penelope responded by shaking her head in disapproval. “I will never hear you complain again. Now make sure to turn the poor thing down nicely and send him over to my place so I can give him some love.”

You chuckled at her comment.

“Are you okay?”

You choked on your red wine as Kamil spoke up. Devil you and Angel Penelope disappeared from your shoulders in a cloud of smoke. You coughed a couple of times before nodding, “Yeah, I am so fine.”

You looked at Kamil, seeing the genuine concern in his brown eyes. You knew you couldn’t continue keeping him on like that. “Actually, I think this is not going to work.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean us,” you answered, pointing your finger between the two of you. “You’re a great guy. I just don’t feel… the spark.”

He scoffed under his breath, immediately standing up and pushing his chair back to the table. You grabbed his wrist as he tried walking off.

“I swear, you’re great! I’m the problem. It’s always me, actually.”

Kamil didn’t get soothed by your words, pulling his arm free out of your grasp and turning his back to you, walking toward the exit.

“I have a great friend!” you yelled after him. “She’s an angel. Literally!” He kept walking, ignoring your pleas.

“I could send you her address! Kamil!”

“Ma’am, please tone it down or I’ll have to call security.”

You looked up to find a stern-looking woman standing in front of your table. When you looked around, all the couples at the surrounding tables were staring at you. You offered them a tight-lipped smile and mouthed a small sorry.

Once the critiquing whispers calmed down, you grabbed your phone from out of your purse, finding Spencer in your emergency contacts as you clicked on the call button.

“Hey, how are you-”

You shushed him. “I’m in a restaurant, whisper, or they’ll kick me out.”

Spencer listened and lowered his voice. “The new one downtown? I’ve been meaning to go there.”

“Well, consider today your lucky day. If you can make it in fifteen minutes, I’ll have dessert ordered for you.”

You chuckled as you heard his keys jingling from the other end of the line. “I’m heading out right now.”

“Good,” you laughed. “I’ll see you then.”

-`♡´-

A sigh of relief escaped you when Spencer walked into the restaurant. He gave you a smile and lifted his hand as he spotted the table you were seated at.

You stood up from your seat, letting out a satisfied groan as he enveloped you in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too. I can’t wait for ice cream.”

You chuckled, leaning back to see his face.

“You smell nice,” he complimented.

“Oh why, thank you,” you playfully responded, grinning as you both sat down.

Spencer observed the cutlery and half-drunk glass of wine in front of him, raising an eyebrow. “I assume I’m not the first person you offered dessert to.”

“Nope,” you answered, exaggeratedly popping the p. “Was on a date.”

Spencer lifted his eyebrows. “Another one?”

“Hey, don’t judge me! At least I go on dates.”

“Does it count if they all run away before dessert?”

You scoffed a laugh in surprise, not prepared for his burn. “You’re such an ass.”

He cheekily grinned. “What was his name?”

“Kamil,” you deeply sighed, knowing you’ll be getting chills every time you hear that name from now on.

“Did you know Kamil is derived from the Arabic element kāmil? Which means “perfect” or “complete”.”

You rolled your eyes, picking up your glass before taking a sip. “Of fucking course.”

You thanked the waiter as he set two neatly made plates of dessert down on the table.

“I thought you gave up on dating,” Spencer wondered out loud, humming as he took his first bite of ice cream.

“I was,” you responded, taking a bite yourself. “Valentine’s an exception, though. I don’t want to be sitting at home by myself.”

“You could’ve asked me to come over. We still haven’t seen all the Star Wars movies,” he responded, commenting on the movie marathon you started last month. Then he pointed his spoon at you, “Well, you haven’t.”

“I know. I just meant spending the day with a lover.”

“I could be your lover.”

Before you knew it, the wine shot out of your mouth, painting your dress and the white tablecloth red.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked in worry, hurrying to your side as you continued coughing.

“Spencer-” you coughed a couple more times, and his arms made their way around your body, your hands reaching out to pull them off. “Spencer, I swear to god,” you sputtered out, “do not perform the Heimlich on me.”

The fact that you were able to talk reassured him enough to loosen his grip around you. Still, he didn’t leave your side.

You looked down to see the inevitable: your dress was ruined.

“Fuck, I loved this dress,” you groaned in annoyance.

“Here, let me-” Spencer grabbed a napkin from the table, turning back to you and tapping your chest dry. His eyes were focused on the low neckline of your dress, and the movements of his hand slowed, as if hypnotized.

��Spencer?”

“Hm?” He hummed as he continued tapping the now non-existent wine droplets.

“Can you stop touching my boobs?”

He dropped the napkin like it caught fire.

“I-, I wasn’t-”

“You totally were,” you widely grinned.

“No!”

“Yes, you were. You’ve been staring at my boobs all night.”

Spencer swallowed. His gaze quickly landed on your cleavage before he blinked up at you. “Well, I can’t help it when you’re wearing a dress that’s showing décolletage.”

“Ha! You admitted it.”

A red flush crept up his neck, spreading over his cheeks. “That was a ploy! You were tricking me!”

“Ma’am, this is your last warning; I need you to leave the restaurant now.”

-`♡´-

The moon hung low in the sky, the streets cast in a warm yellow glow of the lampposts. A slight breeze caught your skin as you walked out of the restaurant.

“Well, that was a disaster.”

“You shouldn’t have kept insisting on a doggy bag.” Spencer laughed.

You let out a chuckle, turning to him. “Did you see the look on her face?”

Your comment spurred more laughter from Spencer, making him fall against you in response. You widely grinned and nudged his shoulder, feeling proud of getting him to laugh like that.

“This reminds me of the time when I first joined the team and you asked me to have dinner.” You recalled once your laughter had calmed down, still trying to catch your breath.

The moment felt like yesterday. It was strange to be reminded of the fact that it happened years ago. Spencer had caught your attention the instant you joined the team, which was surprising considering the fact he wasn’t a big talker. Well, he talked most out of everyone, but it always stayed on the case, rarely sharing something personal.

That’s why it surprised you that one day, on the jet after finishing a case, Spencer moved from the couch he usually found himself on to the empty chair opposite you. You remember finding it endearing how nervous he looked as he asked you to have dinner with him in a restaurant downtown.

You’d overheard the several times he asked other team members to join him in activities, whether it was a new food chain opening or a movie screening. You didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Besides that, you were curious to get to know the so-called genius Spencer Reid better. He amazed you again when the dinner turned out to be one of the times you’ve laughed hardest in your life. Since then, you knew Spencer would be at the top of your friend list.

“You seem to have a habit of spitting out your drink.” Spencer mused with a grin.

You returned his smile. “That’s because you seem to have a habit of trying to make me spit out my drink by acting like you’re in love with me.”

Due to your tipsy state, you didn’t notice the way Spencer broke eye contact, the way he nervously tapped his fingers against his pants, and how he seemed to look anywhere but at you.

If it wasn’t for the subtle shudder of your shoulder against his, he might’ve never gained the courage to look you in the face again.

“Are you cold?” He asked considerately, his eyes taking over your form.

You looked down at your outfit, reminded again that you were just wearing a sleeveless dress. “Kind of.”

Without saying another word, Spencer took off his corduroy jacket. He held it open by the sleeves, making it easy for you to slide your arms in. His hand grazed the back of your neck as he tugged the collar up, then pulled your hair out from underneath the material, letting your locks fall over the jacket.

You softly mumbled a thanks, and Spencer responded back with a sweet smile.

“It looks better on you anyway.”

You chuckled, “Such a sweet talker.”

“Just to you,” he replied, a little too fast for his liking as he saw your gaze drop to the ground.

What he wasn’t aware of was the rush of butterflies that soared through you at his words, ambushing you in a way so surprising it made you feel nauseous. Or maybe you were still feeling the effects of the alcohol.

It was ironic how naturally the compliments rolled off of his tongue, how effortlessly romantic gestures came to your friend — actions you longed for in your dates.

Spencer Reid was old-fashioned, a gentleman, sure, but you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more than just kindness to his acts. If Derek and Penelope were right every time they gave teasing looks when Spencer brought you your favorite coffee, or when he’d made sure the seat next to you on the jet was always occupied by him.

“Are you okay? You seem quiet.” Spencer noted after the two of you had walked in silence for the last couple of minutes.

“Yeah,” you breathed out in a sigh. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

His question slipped in your ears just as easily as it went out, as your attention was taken by the neon gelato sign across the street. The brightly colored flavors stood on display, a harsh white light shining down on it, luring you like a moth to a flame.

“Gelato.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, but before he could make sense of your answer, you took a leap, crossing the street as if invincible to any vehicle that was speeding on the road.

“What are you doing?!” Spencer yelped in panic, eyes flicking over the road before sprinting after you, ignoring the honking cars.

His warm hand caught yours, and in a hurry, he pulled you onto the sidewalk, spinning you around so that your back was pressed against the brick wall, Spencer hovering over you as he caught his breath.

He blinked at you in disbelief, jaw tense, and you couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your mouth.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“We’re all mad here,” you dramatically quote, pointing to yourself, “I’m mad,” and then placing your hand on his chest, “you’re mad.”

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” he mumbled.

You nodded your head, a wide grin displayed on your face.

“So… gelato?” you asked, wiggling your brows.

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh. “You just had ice cream.”

“Actually, I just had half an ice cream before they kicked us out. And it is not to be compared to gelato. You should know that.”

“Well, gelato does have a lower milk fat content. It usually varies between 4 to 9%, whereas ice cream has to have at least 10% of milk fat. The vast majority of brands have an even larger percentage, some even going up to 25%. Actually, now that you mention it, there are a lot more differences between American ice cream and gelato, for example, the use of eggs-”

You hummed in response as you took his hand in yours, letting him continue his ramblings as you guided him into the parlor.

-`♡´-

Your feet were dangling off the high chair you were sitting on as you licked the red plastic spoon clean that came with your dessert.

“I haven’t properly thanked you for helping me earlier. You really are my Valentines savior.”

Spencer smiled, pulling a lock of hair behind his ear. “I didn’t mind. You can always call me.”

“I know,” you replied just as honestly. “I wish it could be as easy as this with others. I wish I could just date you.”

A flush crept onto his neck, red skin showing on his chest where his top buttons were unbuttoned. “Why-” he hesitated before continuing, “Why can’t you?”

“Why can’t I what?” you asked back in oblivion, scooping another spoonful of gelato.

His fingers fidgeted with his spoon, his gaze nervously fixed on his empty cup as he spoke the next words: “Date me.”

Oh.

The longer you remained silent, the thicker the tension grew in the air. It wasn’t like you didn’t have any thoughts; hell, your mind was full of them. Your earlier theories flashed through your mind again, now getting the confirmation that all his attempts to be close to you meant more than solely friendship. How he had indeed tried telling you about his feelings all this time, and how you’d been blatantly oblivious. How you kept telling him about going on dates with other people while he was pining over you. There were too many thoughts to articulate, to even make sense of.

“Please say something,” his voice cracked in a soft beg, his eyes twinkling with hope, or maybe an emotion closer to desperation.

“I- I don’t know what to say.”

The spark in his eyes flickered out. Spencer mouthed okay while giving you an awkward, tight-lipped smile, his hands finding their way into the pockets of his pants.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he said to you, “Let me walk you home.”

-`♡´-

People always say fresh air is the answer to everything. Feeling sick as a dog? Go outside! Feeling depressed? Go outside! On the verge of a nervous breakdown? Go outside! Turns out whoever invented going on long walks had a point.

Your mind cleared with every step you took. Your initial anxieties around Spencer’s words fade around you in a blur. Slowly coming to peace with his feelings and your own.

Dating your best friend could work.

Spencer, on the opposite, felt more tense after each second that passed in silence. It wasn’t that he regretted being honest with you; the weight of his love for you was overwhelming. It was inevitable that there’d come a time where he’d spill his thoughts. However, he shouldn’t have done it like this, with you not even sober enough to understand the gravity of his words.

So, when you rounded the corner of the street and he spotted your house, which was all too familiar to him, he knew he had to retract his confession.

“I shouldn’t have said that earlier. I just… like you. A lot.” He rubbed his forearms, either in a nervous habit or because the cold was getting to him. “And I thought you felt the same, but I’m aware that it’s irrational because, well, you go on dates. And you go on dates with people you like and-“

“Spencer,” you interrupted, having to catch his eyes to get him to focus.

“I know it was inappropriate to confess that I’m in love with you when you’re not even sober. Alcohol interferes with the communication pathways of the brain, so this might be the worst moment possible to admit to something like this.”

“You’re in love with me?”

This caught Spencer’s attention. He focused on you with a puzzled look. “Well, technically I asked you why you wouldn’t want to date me, but I-”

The words died on his tongue the second your lips found his. It felt like you finally got the confirmation you’d always longed for. Someone that knew you inside out, who understood you, and who wasn’t afraid of showing you.

Spencer’s mind was spinning. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air before he settled them on your cheeks, holding you as if afraid you’d disappear.

It was only after a couple of seconds that his IQ regained from 60 to 187, using his hands to gently pull you back from his lips.

His lips remained slightly parted, pink and swollen from the kiss, and his eyes narrowed in overwhelming confusion. “What was that for?”

“That was to show you that I love you too.”

“You can’t just say something like that.”

“But I mean it, Spence,” you stated in confidence. “I was stupid for not seeing it before. For some reason, it felt like you and I were impossible. The thought never occurred to me that we could date. We’ve been friends for so long. But you’re the only one who actually cares, the only one who stays, and I see that now.”

His eyes watered at the creaking of your voice, but he blinked the upcoming tears away. He took a deep breath. Selfishly, he didn’t want to say the next words, satisfied living in the delusion that you loved him back, but he knew he had to stay objective.

“Alcohol consumption also heightens emotions.”

“I know what I’m feeling, Spencer,” you assured. “I’ve just… I’ve been afraid of you leaving me as well, of seeing me as not lovable enough, that I didn’t even consider it a possibility.”

You let out a small self-deprecating laugh, making his heart ache.

“Just give me another chance, please. I will not be so oblivious this time,” you spoke, the corner of your mouth slightly lifted.

His expression mirrored yours, and he gently grasped your hands, his thumbs running over them to bring you comfort. “Can you call me tomorrow?”

You looked up at him.

“If, uh, you still feel the same when you’re sober, we could talk about it.”

There was nothing you were more certain of at that moment. Still, you nodded.

-`♡´-

The buzzing of his phone on the nightstand was enough for Spencer to wake up with a pounding headache. His mind had worked overtime yesterday, rolling in bed in anxiety, waking up every fifteen minutes, and now he was experiencing the physical side effects of it.

“Hello?” he answered, pressing the device against his ear, too sleepy to have checked who called.

“Spencer?”

At the sound of your voice, he sat straight up in bed, his back leaning against the wooden headboard.

He cleared his throat. “H-hi, yes, it’s me.”

There was no pause on the other end of the line, your words determined. “I still love you.”

He leaned forward, pressing the phone closer to his ear, in an attempt to absorb your words.

“I’m really happy to hear that.” His fingertips skimmed along his jawline, in need of proof that he was awake, that this was actually happening. “I love you too. Still. Right now. Always, probably.”

You chuckled at his nervous rambling, hearing him breathlessly laugh in reply.

“Good. Because I don’t want to waste any more time second-guessing.”

“You shouldn’t worry. You won’t be able to get rid of me. I won’t leave you.”

He meant the words in a light, joking manner, but still your heart happily pounded at the sentence.

“Neither will I.”

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lemonsoured · 3 days ago

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A Statement on @patricia-taxxon

After recent events over the past couple of months, my co-director and I have decided that we are no longer working with Patricia Taxxon, and her score/sound design will not be used in the final release of our animated student thesis In Your Orbit. She has rights over all of the audio files that she created, and she is free to use or alter them for whatever other projects may come up for her. We only retain the rights to our visuals. On the off chance that the last festival that is showing the current version of the short gives us any prize money, she will still get a cut of it. She is free to continue to state publicly that she worked on the film originally, and use the soundtrack in her portfolio, but we will not be posting it or promoting it.

Patricia Taxxon has proven to be a person who is irresponsible at best. She has allegedly had inappropriate sexual conduct with minors as young as 13. She also regularly posts her extreme sexual fantasies on her main Tumblr, and has made claims regarding the nature of pedophilic art that she is not qualified to be making. She has also posted from behind closed doors that she has intentionally been manipulative regarding her apologies for her alleged sexual misconduct.

The original victim who accused her was harassed off the internet both times she came out about this, and no longer wishes to be contacted on this matter. However, the idea that any of the allegations were ever rescinded due to misinformation, or proven untrue, is false. In my opinion, I believe the victim’s testimony. It lines up with what I remember the environment of Taxxon’s discord server being like when I was there.

During the production of the short film, I was already aware of some of the accusations made towards Taxxon, but as I was a close friend, I wanted to believe they weren’t true. I was told that she was groomed into doing these things, that she didn’t remember doing them, and that she was likely to commit suicide. She told me she was suicidal on a regular basis during production, especially when the alleged victim was making and then posted a video recounting the allegations. Before that video even came out, she was telling me it was likely to ruin her life irreparably. She had a mutual friend with the victim who was supposedly playing double agent for her, so I heard all about it before and after it came out. I was under the impression that she was in imminent danger of harming herself several times. You can imagine what this might do to a person who cares about her. So, I willfully ignored the allegations for a long time, up until the point that Taxxon showed outward bigotry towards my demographic in a Tumblr meltdown. I deserve criticism for this, and I won’t begrudge anyone who feels like I waited too long or came out with the leaks that I did for selfish reasons. That is your right, and I’m sorry. I decided that all I could do was come out with what I do know and stop supporting this person, even if it costs me opportunities down the line.

Taxxon has also repeatedly shown herself to be extremely unprofessional, even for the standards of an internet drama cycle. She started by vaguely posting about myself on her Tumblr, stating that I am a threat to her, implying that I used her only to “dump her without warning,” and has repeatedly twisted my actions in order to gain sympathy from her Tumblr audience. She even begged her followers for someone else to take her to the Omaha Film Festival, before deleting that addition because she realized it made her look bad.

Her newest gripe with me is that I did not pay her for her work on the film, supposedly finding out partway through the project that she was not being paid. This is untrue. Luka and I were forthright with the fact that we were a team of two college students in Missouri with very little spending money. Thus, we offered her a cut of whatever we ended up making from the film in the festival circuit, planning to split any possible winnings among the three of us based on creative input. We also stated that we would not be taking a cut of any earnings she made off of the sale of the soundtrack, and that it would belong completely to her, just as my characters would to me. If any film companies approached us about the film to license it and the soundtrack, or if they wanted to use her music for another project involving these characters, that money would have gone to her. If she was confused about or had an issue with this arrangement, the time to bring that up would have been when we were discussing the agreement with her, or after any of the many critique sessions we went through with our professors and we were all discussing next steps, or really, any time at all during the year and a half that we were discussing and working on this project. But at no point before, during, or after production did she bring it up. She never suggested a rate, asked about other forms of payment, or anything. I was not holding a gun to her head. She could have brought it up with us at any time, and I am not a mind reader. Her only bringing up the subject now, after all of this time, points clearly to her attempting to extort me or use this issue as a way to gain sympathy from her Tumblr audience. It comes off like she wants to hold this over my head.

All of this not even mentioning that Taxxon was the one to say she wanted to work on the film, years before production started. This started as a collaboration between friends. Luka and I structured our agreement to be a partnership, where none of us were making guaranteed profit off of this project, especially since it is a student work, and we are not established artists with an audience. If anything, the person most likely to make any money off of this arrangement was Taxxon. We considered her an equal participant in this short film, and we wanted it to lift us all up. We gave her full artistic control over what vision she had for the soundtrack, and we often tried to cater our animation to best match it. This is why I found it strange when I asked if she was willing to contribute to festival fees, that she was very flippant with me about it. She stood to gain just as much as us from the film festival circuit, and I had already taken on the workload of doing research on and writing cover letters to each festival. Especially given that I pitched the festival circuit to her as a method to help her get her career offline and away from Kiwifarms, she had a lot to gain from all of this. As someone who had considered her a creative partner, her dismissal felt weird.

This screenshot from the time shows what she said to me regarding the fees, and also shows that she was aware of the arrangement. Thankfully, a lot of this took place on her new Discord account, so I do have the evidence for this portion.

Then, a couple of days later, she asked me if she could stay in my co-directors house or mine for the duration of the Kansas City FilmFest International (or KCFFI). Given she had not contributed to us submitting to that very festival, and had been flippant with me in that same week about the subject, I found it disrespectful. A good friend of mine compared it to “staying at a friend’s house and refusing to help with the grocery tab.”

And the fact that she decided to contribute to the DCP of all things because she “had a vested interest in [the film] sounding good,” as if festival fees were beneath her, but this, now this was something she could be bothered to care about… It was very telling with regards to how she viewed this film.

If she wants to get her 30 bucks back, I can PayPal it back to her.

I stand by everything I said in my testimony on the stream with CrimsonEnder. Honestly, I feel I was much too forgiving on the subject of sexual misconduct, especially since at the time, all of us were trying to gloss over the specific allegations for the victim’s sake, as like I said, they did not want to be involved. As much as Taxxon blustered about “ad-hominems,” I never called her names during the stream. I didn’t even directly call her a transphobe or any kind of bigot. I did not diagnose her with a paraphilia. I specifically stated that her being a trans woman should have nothing to do with why she does the bad things she does. I discussed the things she said and the actions she took. I stated what I remember of our relationship and the events that took place during production, because she had already taken to misrepresenting me in her Tumblr posts. I wanted to lay everything out for full transparency, as she was telling a very specific story about me and who I was. I wanted to present my counter-narrative. I got vulnerable, upset, and fiery at times, but for a public crashout taking place very soon after my falling out of a six year long friendship, I think it gets my points across fine. Especially considering I was still freshly feeling the shock of her outwardly going on a tirade about trans men. The stream is still available on Crim's channel for those who want to hear what I said. Taxxon only presented a couple of my basic notes on the subject that were made to keep me on track.

Taxxon also, notably, sent her followers after CrimsonEnder in a purposeful attempt to incite a harassment campaign against him. She reblogged a reply from him, implying as much, and then he immediately received an anon referring to him with a slur, and saying he was now in “a Panopticon.” Taxxon would later be seen replying in a different but related conversation, misusing the word “Panopticon” in the exact same way (Hint: the term for many people watching one would be a “Synopticon.” A Panopticon refers to one person watching many). You can find Crim's full statement about this incident on his blog.

She also referred to him as a “violent misogynist” who "threatened her in public" in a DM with me where she waved around the fact that she would be justified in “dragging me publicly” for my “betrayal” but wouldn’t, as if it was some big act of charity from her.

Only to, for some reason, make a request to CrimsonEnder (from behind a block) to take my testimony out of his stream and out of his document in a recent post. She is very vested in sowing division between myself and Crim, for what reason I’m not sure. All I know is that she is not above harassing the people who criticize her, and given that, it’s very rich for Taxxon to posture like her not sending her followers after me thus far is an act of goodwill. If I were to guess, now that I have made this statement and cut her off from the project, she will feel much more comfortable going scorched earth. She no longer has a project to protect her connection to.

In Your Orbit will be released at some point in the indefinite future, with a new score and new foley work. I will not be attaching Taxxon’s name to it at all, positively or negatively. I will not be using any of the work that she produced, and I will never work with her in any capacity ever again. I cannot promote the work of a person who acts like this, who hurts others without remorse and uses her power as an influencer to get away with sweeping serious allegations under the rug. Especially given that none of our agreements were set in stone with a signed contract, I have no obligation to continue to associate with her after all she's done. I would be a hypocrite if I used her clout to profit or to expand my career opportunities. Even if it means I have to lose out on networking possibilities, lose the guaranteed audience, and pay out of my pocket to have the film re-scored and have a new foley track added. I am sticking to my principles on this. I refuse to coast on her coattails, and if this means that the film won’t be as successful, then so be it. Any recognition gained through affiliation with Patricia Taxxon is recognition that I don’t want. I don’t want her endorsement, and I don’t want her audience.

I cannot control what Patricia Taxxon says or does. She can do whatever she wants with her life and career, but leave me and my art out of it.

-Jules Hydes

#patricia taxxon

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lmvari · 3 days ago

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Petty Compensation

prompt. you accidentally take the wrong drink order, and the actual owner demands a sip as compensation

characters. scaramouche / wanderer x gn!reader

tags. modern au, attempt at humor

warnings. none

You don’t notice your mistake at first.

The cafe is busy, and you're distracted. Probably by the group of students arguing over a project in the corner or the fact that you only got four hours of sleep last night. Either way, you hear your name being called, or at least, you think it was yours.

Without giving it much thought, you grab the cup from the counter, take a sip, and wince at the unexpected bitterness. Still, you don’t question it and head back to your seat like nothing’s wrong. The cafe is packed and the staff seem overwhelmed that the barista doesn’t even notice who took the drink.

It’s not until someone clears their throat in front of you that you realize something might be off.

“That’s mine.”

You glance up, only to be met with sharp indigo eyes staring you down. The guy in front of you has striking deep blue hair, sharp jawline, and an expression that somehow manages to be both bored and vaguely irritated at the same time. He gestures toward the cup in your hand. “You took my drink.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Then at him again.

Oh.

In your defense, it looks like your order. You squint at the scribbled name on the side, and sure enough, it’s not yours.

Kunikusushi, it says.

Either his parents had a grudge against him, or the barista completely butchered the spelling.

Still, regardless of how his name is written on the cup, one thing is clear. You already drank from it, which means—

“Oops?” you offer sheepishly.

His brow twitches. “Oops?”

“order for [name]!” the barista calls out.

You glance toward the counter, where another identical cup sits unattended. Your actual order.

You stand up to take it from the counter and offer it to the stranger. His intense stare burns into you the entire time. Shifting under the weight of it, you clear your throat. “Um, sorry. You can take mine instead?”

He looks unimpressed, eyeing the cup with clear disapproval. “My drink is made exactly how I like it. And you’ve contaminated it. I’d take it back but what if you have some kind of disease?”

“I don’t,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “Can’t be sure.”

“Are you serious?”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking to the cup in your hands. “Fine,” he says, holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

You blink. “Wait, what—”

“If I can’t have mine untouched, I want compensation,” he says. “You took a sip of my drink. I’m taking one of yours.”

You gape at him. “That’s literally the same thing you were just complaining about.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s my choice.” He scoffs. “Give it.”

You hesitate but ultimately sigh, handing the cup over. He takes it, and without breaking eye contact, he lifts it to his lips and takes a slow sip.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

As he swallows, immediately, his nose scrunches in utter disgust. “Ugh. How do you drink this?” He sets the cup on your free hand and glares at it like it personally offended him. “It’s sickeningly sweet.”

You raise a brow. “No one forced you to drink it, asshole.”

“Tch.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grimacing. “Consider yourself lucky. I’m feeling merciful today.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Merciful?”

“You should be grateful I didn’t make you buy me a new one.” He smirks, sharp and infuriating.

You roll your eyes, but before you can throw a retort, he steps back, grabbing his actual drink from your hand.

“I’m taking this back. Try not to steal from me next time, thief.”

You sputter out incoherent words in disbelief. He could’ve just taken it from the start. “Petty!” You say back but he ignores you.

And just like that, he walks away, leaving you flustered, annoyed, and (frustratingly) just a little bit intrigued.

Wait. Next time?

You glance down at your drink and feel a small scrap of paper, torn from what looks like a receipt, clinging to the cup’s condensation. Scribbled across it in messy handwriting and bleeding ink is a string of numbers. His number.

Your cheeks flush and your mouth gapes.

Instinctively, your gaze flicks to the exit, searching for him. He’s already by the door, his own drink in hand, but just before stepping out, he glances over his shoulder.

The moment your eyes meet, he smirks. He knows you’ve found it. Then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the crowd outside.

You stare after him. Your heart knocking once against your ribs, skipping a beat.

Did he plan that from the start?

note. just a little something haha you can tell kuni is my favorite character to write. thank you for reading ^^ feel free to send asks! likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #wanderer x reader #wanderer #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche oneshots #genshin wanderer #genshin impact #kunikuzushi #lmvari writes

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cire-things · 2 days ago

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My bed seems more comfortable than normal today, warmer. Even if the alarm from my phone blares, I aim to stay in this warm hug of comfort. Yet, instead, I’m reminded by the low groan behind me that I gained a companion from last night's biweekly trip to the dive bar my friends forced me to go to.

I reach over to my phone, stopping the alarm, not just snoozing it as I normally do, but as I move to begin my day, a strong, warm set of arms keep me in place, “I need to get up, ya dope.” I get a noncommittal groan as a response, along with a kiss placed on the juncture of my neck and shoulder, as well as his arms tightening their grip onto my waist.

“Let me go ya’ fucker, I gotta get ready for my shift.” I say as I try to wiggle my way free from his calloused hands.

“S’not what ya called me last night, birdie,” the man responds, leaving a beat of silence before continuing, “Or did I fuck you too stupid for you to remember my name?” his deep voice rumbles out, a light chuckle accompanying his words as I freeze up in realization. “Stay and cuddle, love, you got time.”

“You pointing out that I might not know your name like you haven't referred to me as two different nicknames, I feel like you don’t know my name!” I state, returning to me trying to get out of his grip, and as I think I finally am about to get free, he let me go only after whispering out my name. Due to me having moved against his grip and him letting me go, on top of him whispering out my name, I ended up sprawled on the floor.

“C’mon y/n, you think that lowly of me?” his deep voice sings out my name like the call of a siren, he sits up in bed, still in shadow due to my blackout curtains keeping the sun’s rays from view. All I see is his bulking silhouette, I can feel his hot gaze staring down at me, messy hair, naked body, blushing face and all, even in the darkness of my room.

I jolt myself up from my position, and rush into my bathroom, lightly slamming the door behind me. I hear from my room a genuine belly laugh from the man. I hold my face in my hands for a moment as I stand there in the darkness of my bathroom, contemplating how I ended up in this embarrassing situation. Thinking over the previous night's moments, I flick on the overhead lights and turn on my shower.

I look over my body in the mirror, hickeys, love bites, and bruises cover many parts of my body. Hips have his handprints ingrained into them, neck has a few bitemarks and hickeys covering them, as does my chest. As the room begins to fill with steam, more of the night's activities come to mind as I look over his markings.

I mindlessly step into the shower, giving my body respite for the coldness I gained leaving his grip. The heat streams down my body, and my autopilot kicks in as I lose myself in remembering the order of events.

Soft brown eyes stealing glances from across the bar.

Face covered in a mask, momentarily moved for a sip from his dark amber colored glass.

Laughs around me, friends asking the same questions yet he keeps my attention.

A drink appears in front of me, mirroring his own. I look at him again, a nod from him, a nod from me.

We ended up in the bathroom at first. Lips clashing like a hate-fucking-ex-couple. Patrons filing in to do their business, ignoring our two sets of feet in the stall we nabbed. “This is a bit dingy, innit love?” He says to me between stealing my breath away.

“I live close by, with a large bed, and no roommates.” I responded back as I continued our addictive motions.

Pushed up against the not so clean stall wall, held up with ease. His lips feel slightly rough, but still plush, moving against mine as if we have done it before. As he finally lets go, his chocolate eyes bore into me with heated intensity. A string of our mixed saliva connects us. He gives me a toothy grin, lips curled upwards, the scars around them, mixed with his patchy stubble makes me want to just lean back in and continue our semi silent conversation.

I am broken from my recollection as the bathroom door opens, the shampoo was just being rinsed from my hair. A slight hesitation comes from him, as if he is worried he is about to overstep, but still is hoping for something. “S’alright for me to join you?” his voice almost whispers out, just barely heard above the rushing water of the shower.

“Yes love, c’mere.” I say, the last of my shampoo finally running free from my locks.

“Now who’s using nicknames?” I feel him step in behind me as I face the showerhead. His warm and bulking figure moves close to me, warming my back up the way it had while we were entangled this morning.

I turned to face him, looking into those brown eyes that first caught my attention last night. “S’only fair… ain’t that right Simon.” As the warm water streams down our bodies together. That same toothy grin from last night paints his face. It’s almost lopsided, almost like his face isn’t used to doing it. But my god if I can’t keep making him smile, I might kneel over and pass on.

“I guess you needed a minute, knew I fucked myself too far into your brain, love” His large hands reach up to cup my cheeks, pulling me into another sickly sweet kiss. I don’t think I can let this end, not when he holds me like glass and his lips feel like the sun is finally shining.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #call of duty #reader insert #ghost x reader #first time posting fanfiction here #ooc #my bad on that #might work on it further but no promises #fanfic #fanfiction #simon riley x reader

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doberbutts · 4 hours ago

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I understand why you don't want to get into the nuance of what privilege is and such but I have been aching to every time I pass by someone talking about this post.

And you know what! I don't feel bad linking it, because it's free! Available for free from the mouth of the woman who gave us the concept itself! And you can pay just $4 for the rest of the essay!

Specifically:

For this reason, the word “privilege” now seems to me misleading. We usually think of privilege as being a favored state, whether earned or conferred by birth or luck. Yes some of the conditions I have described here work to systematically over empower certain groups. Such privilege simply confers dominance because of one’s race or sex. I want, then, to distinguish between earned strength and unearned power conferred systemically. Power from unearned privilege can look like strength when it is in fact permission to escape or to dominate. But not all of the privileges on my list are inevitably damaging. Some, like the expectation that neighbors will be decent to you, or that your race will not count against you in court, should be the norm in a just society. Others, like the privilege to ignore less powerful people, distort the humanity of the holders as well as the ignored groups.

And

Difficulties and dangers surrounding the task of finding parallels are many. Since racism, sexism, and heterosexism are not the same, the advantaging associated with them should not be seen as the same. In addition, it is hard to disentangle aspects of unearned advantage which rest more on social class, economic class, race, religion, sex and ethnic identity than on other factors. Still, all of the oppressions are interlocking, as the Combahee River Collective Statement of 1977 continues to remind us eloquently.

And

One factor seems clear about all of the interlocking oppressions. They take both active forms which we can see and embedded forms which as a member of the dominant group one is taught not to see. In my class and place, I did not see myself as a racist because I was taught to recognize racism only in individual acts of meanness by members of my group, never in invisible systems conferring unsought racial dominance on my group from birth.

You see, it's very interesting to me as I'm sure you're tired of hearing by now, that we've got the theory directly from the people who have coined the words, and for some reason we have a serious, grievous misunderstanding on what the theory is talking about.

To put it bluntly, privilege is about material benefits for being a member of an empowered class, and not simply something that you possess due to your identity. This is not just my understanding but the direct words of the woman who coined the word "privilege" to be used to talk about this exact concept. To say that it is not is actively going against the theory that surrounds the concept in the first place.

As for whether or not trans men have male privilege- that entirely depends on the trans man in question, is highly conditional and individual, and relies on a significant amount of overlapping dynamics of various systems of oppression. I don't know that Julie (but Jack in his head) who looks identical to any other cis woman and moves through life this way has a demonstratable amount of male privilege. I do think perhaps Roger, who looks identical to any other cis man and moves through life this way, probably does as long as he keeps his mouth shut about certain things. I think the same system that harms Julie is the one that uplifts Roger. I think this system hurt Roger quite a bit when he was still going by Kendra. And I think this system turns on Roger the instant it smells blood in the water, and hurt him very badly the moment it gets the opportunity

In this essay, McIntosh goes on to list a number of privileges she as a white woman holds over any and all black people. She relates most to black women- unsurprising as she namedrops the Combahee River Collective and is working primarily through an anti-racist yet deeply feminist lens- but does mention at times how whiteness grants her a shield not shared by black men's own male privilege.

This is why I always ask- what are you (general) defining as privilege? Give me an example, and don't just say it's because the demographic exists or by definition of identity. Identity is not privilege. How the world treats you, how society is structured to either lift you up or grind you under the heel, and the relative safeties or dangers of your life are what privilege amounts to.

If you (general) don't want to hear it from me, you don't have to. But at least read the damn essay so I can stop saying "that's not what privilege means though" every time I read a take like this.

i’m not even gonna break this one down bc “male privilege isn’t a material benefit it’s just literally not being a woman” i think pretty much speaks for itself.

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dreamauri · 2 days ago

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♪ — 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨 - four mafia! charles leclerc x wife! reader ( ??? ) series summary . . . after preparing your whole life to be married off to a mafia boss, you now have the difficult task of figuring out your new marriage and life, ensuring they don't turn out to be miserable.

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous | next )

The atmosphere in the grand hallway was thick with tension, but you focused on Charles, straightening his tie with steady hands. You tugged gently at the lapels of his suit, smoothing out invisible creases, your eyes scanning him with quiet scrutiny. He looked every bit the part—powerful, composed, untouchable. But you knew him well enough to see the subtle weight pressing on his shoulders.

“You’re going to do fine,” you murmured, fixing a stray curl in his hair before letting your fingers trail down to his collar. “No one in that room holds more power than you.”

Charles huffed a soft laugh, tilting his head slightly as he watched you. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said simply, eyes flickering up to meet his. “You’re Charles Leclerc. Your name alone commands respect.”

His gaze softened, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you just a fraction closer. “You always know what to say to me, ma chérie.”

You smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before he could get too sentimental. Charles, of course, was never one to settle for half-measures. Before you could pull away, he caught your chin between his fingers and kissed you properly—slow, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make his point.

When he pulled back, his lips barely brushed against yours as he murmured, “Stay close to me in there.”

You nodded, and with that, Charles pushed open the heavy doors, stepping into the grand meeting hall where Europe’s most powerful crime families were gathered.

The room was a spectacle of wealth—tailored suits, glittering jewelry, designer watches. Wives sat beside their husbands like living trophies, diamonds cascading down their throats. Every glance, every movement, every unspoken word was a statement of power.

The two Leclercs stood tall, unshaken by the silent battle of status being waged around them.

And then, he arrived.

Max Verstappen entered the room like he owned it, his presence commanding attention without him having to say a single word. He was dressed simply, no excessive displays of wealth, but somehow, that made him stand out more. He didn’t need to flaunt anything—his reputation did it for him.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as his sharp gaze swept across the room before settling, for the briefest moment, on you.

Then, he spoke.

“Apologies for the . . . inconvenience,” Max started, his voice smooth, practiced. “But Belgium had to be taken. It was necessary.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. “If anyone has a problem with that, now’s the time to speak.”

Silence.

No one moved. No one dared.

Because they all knew the truth—Max Verstappen wasn’t just powerful. He was dangerous. Crossing him was a death sentence.

And as much as you wanted to look away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, beneath it all, his message wasn’t just for the room.

It was for you.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The moment you stepped outside the meeting hall, the air felt lighter—free from the thick tension and unspoken threats lingering within. You exhaled, rolling your shoulders back as you approached the water dispenser, filling a glass with slow, deliberate movements.

A moment. That was all you needed.

But a moment was all it took.

You sensed him before you saw him. A shadow in your periphery, a presence too familiar, too heavy to ignore.

“Thirsty?”

The voice sent a chill down your spine, not from fear, but from something far more complicated.

You didn’t turn immediately, instead taking a slow sip, letting the cool water settle before acknowledging him. “Is that a crime now, Verstappen?”

Max chuckled, stepping closer—too close. “No,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “But some things are.”

You finally met his gaze, and it was a mistake.

Because he was looking at you like that. Like he used to. Like he still saw you as his, like he still believed you should be.

“You’ve been talking to Victoria,” he murmured, his head tilting slightly as he studied your face. “I appreciate that, you know. Not many people would bother.”

Your fingers tightened around the glass. “She’s my friend, Max.”

“I remember,” he said softly, and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, something unguarded flickered in his expression. “I remember everything.”

His hand lifted before you could stop him, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You stiffened.

He noticed.

But he didn’t stop.

Instead, he let his fingers trail lower, his knuckles grazing your jaw before he held your chin—so gently, so carefully, as if he was afraid you’d break beneath his touch.

There was no malice in his gaze, no roughness, no anger. Just something far more dangerous.

“I could give you a place,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t belong with him, schatje.”

Your breath hitched at the old nickname, and Max caught it.

He always caught everything.

“I know why you married him,” he continued, his grip still featherlight against your skin. “I know it wasn’t your choice.” His thumb ghosted over your chin, his touch achingly soft. “But this? Us? That was.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to steel your nerves. “There is no us anymore.”

Max smiled then, but it wasn’t a happy one. “There could be.”

Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs.

He leaned in just slightly, just enough for his next words to ghost against your skin. “Come back to me.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Come back,” he repeated, voice smooth as silk. “Take your place with me. Where you should’ve been all along.”

You tried to step back, but his hand at your chin kept you still—still gentle, still careful, but firm enough to remind you of the power he held.

“You think he can keep you safe?” Max’s head tilted, amusement flickering in his expression. “You think he can stop me?”

Your fingers curled at your sides, nails pressing into your palms.

Max didn’t miss it. His smirk returned, amused. “I’ll take Monaco,” he said, as if he were discussing the weather. “You know I will. And after that?” He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final blow. “And then I’ll take Italy.” His thumb pressed lightly against your jaw. “And when I do, lieverd, there won’t be anything left for him to protect.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“I’ll give you one chance,” he continued, his voice almost too soft. “Make the right choice.”

Your breath felt too shallow, too quick. “I need to get back.”

Max didn’t stop you. He simply released your chin, his fingers lingering for just a second longer before dropping to his side.

You turned sharply, gripping the glass so tightly it might have cracked.

You didn’t look back.

You couldn’t.

But you felt his eyes on you the entire way back.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The meeting had finally drawn to a close, the grand hall emptying as the various mafia heads and their entourages filtered out into the cold Monaco night. The tension still clung to the air, thick and unspoken, but for now, it was over.

You let out a slow breath, shaking off the weight of it as you turned to Kika, offering a small smile. “See you soon?”

Kika, ever warm and effortless, pulled you into a hug, her perfume light and floral as she squeezed you briefly. “Definitely. Text me, okay?”

You nodded, stepping back as Pierre gave you a nod of acknowledgment, his hand resting on the small of Kika’s back as they left.

Charles stood beside you, his hands in his pockets, his expression carefully neutral until they were out of earshot. Then, with a scoff, he rolled his eyes.

“Some New Year’s gathering,” he muttered, the irritation clear in his voice.

You huffed out a laugh, watching as he strode forward and opened the car door for you, the deep red of the Ferrari gleaming under the soft streetlights.

Before you could slip inside, something pulled at the edge of your awareness. A feeling.

Your gaze drifted instinctively across the lot.

And there he was.

Max stood near his own car, a sleek Honda NSX, his posture almost hesitant—like he wasn’t sure if he should leave just yet. His hands flexed slightly by his sides, but his sharp blue eyes were locked onto you, unreadable in the dim light.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, as if deciding against whatever thought had crossed his mind, Max tore his gaze away, slipping into the driver’s seat and shutting the door. The low hum of the engine echoed through the parking lot as he pulled away, disappearing into the night.

You swallowed, turning back to Charles, who was already watching you with narrowed eyes.

“Let’s go,” you murmured, stepping into the car.

Charles said nothing, but as he shut the door behind you and rounded the front of the Ferrari, you could feel the shift in the air between you.

He had seen.

And he had questions.

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