#first is memories of you persona 3 and...

[kaykayow]

Mitsuru doodle !!

[softservesoymilk]

‘what’s with the ken-posting pav? 🤔’ you may ask. well have you considered i’ve been watching p3 reload snippets in secret 👀 like someone’s 2nd persona awakening 👀👀 which pulls not a single-whammy, not a double-whammy, but a TRIPLE-whammy of lines, in succession, that are ALL my favourite tropes and themes 🔥, which have mostly only been seen in my little baby boy Theon as well. Now in this comparative essay I will—

[buckets-of-creativity]

Deciding to go and purchase an old system you always wanted but couldn’t afford when they were new is always pretty satisfying

Also comes with a learning curve. What tf do you mean I have to buy a damn memory stick so I can save my games on a psp???

[sheep-from-rad]

Photograph (Platonic Batman x reader) (second half inched on the yan territory)

Notes: I made a joke that I wasn’t held enough as a child. Well, jokes on me because it was apparently not a joke. I'm still shit at making endings, help Merry Christmas folks <3 

Masterlist 

dividers by: @strangergraphics

“Isn’t this for newborns?” 

Bruce sat shirtless on the room’s armchair. The room didn’t exist until this week, back then it was just another one of the big guest rooms inside the mansion. From formal, vintage patterned, dark green wallpapers it changed into a soft pudding yellow (Jason’s suggestion)  and the corners are filled with soft plushies. He looked down on his shirtless self again as Alfred stood by the crib to prepare the four month old infant. Years of fighting rogues but it was the thought of holding a baby that made him nervous. 

He takes a silent pride on his body, from his back muscles to his strong arms, from bruises and scars, he wears them like an intangible medal. He thought that the media would question how a businessman like him would have such build but he was easy to conceal it with his ditzy public persona. Ladies did love it but then again holding a lady and holding a baby are two different things. 

“You might have missed their newborn days but bonding as father-baby is not too late”, Alfred explained. “Ah, skittish like your father when it was his first time holding you” 

Bruce’s hands protectively closed around the sleeping babe. He reclines as Alfred helps lay the baby on his chest, one hand on the head and neck and the other under their bottom. Skin to skin and warm. Warm. He didn’t know an infant could produce such warmth. Is this how his father felt the first time he held him? The feeling of happiness like a small glowing bubble melting in his soul, a warm innocent light in the gloom. 

He tensed again when he felt his little baby moved, their tiny arms stretching with all their might. “Alfred I think they are —” Before he could finish his words, he found himself staring at a pair of (eye color) eyes with their little lips curled in a curious ‘o’. They can barely lift their head for a long time but keep doing so to keep the little staring contest going. “What are you doing? Are you memorizing me?” He cringed a little especially knowing that he just butchered the movie quote. The little cringing turned to a small panic when the baby’s little trembled. He braced himself for a wail but instead he was greeted by a gummy smile and a giggle. 

A giggle! Sure he missed the days of them being a newborn but they were here to witness the giggle milestone. “You think dad is stupid for quoting it wrong?” As if understanding his words, their giggles turned louder. “Master Bruce, language please.” The master of the house didn’t hear the older man nor the sound of the camera going off, capturing the moment. A picture, one of the many to cherish in the later years. 

✮⋆˙(alternate ending here because I can’t make up my mind) ✮⋆˙

Bruce found himself in the room that he hasn’t been in for years. Each step that he took was heavy as his heart, echoing regrets and apologies that needed to be said not just in words but also in actions. 

The room was empty with the exception of the barebone furnitures and thin sheet of dust. The only sign that someone once lived in the now lifeless room was a picture frame that was left behind and placed facing down. It was left behind as if mirroring how they had abandoned you. “Where has time gone?” he asked, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. He is envious of his younger self in the picture. He wished he could turn back time, hold you close and hold you tight, and reclaim the promises he had forgotten to do. Forgotten like the pictures and the memories and the wallpapers in the room. All yellowed on the edges and faded. 

The small sound from his phone snapped him from his trance, he had to compose himself before picking it up. 

“Dick?” 

“B, we found them” 

“Bring them home”

[the-tarot-witch22]

How your future spouse will treat you - Pick a Pile

Pile 1/ Pile 2/ Pile 3

Liked my blog or readings? Tip me! | My Paid Readings

Hello everyone ! This is my another pick a pile or pac reading so please be kind and leave comment or reblog, and let me know if it resonated with you!

Note : This is a general reading or collective reading. It may or may not resonate with you. Please take what resonates and leave what doesn't. And it's totally okay if our energies aren't aligned!

How to pick : Take a deep breath and choose a pile which you feel most connected to! You can choose more than one pile, it just means both pile have messages for you!

I worked really hard on this pile please show some love by leaving comments, likes and reblogs!

Pile 1:

(The cards I got for you guys - 2 of swords, king of pentacles, 5 of swords, ace of cups, 7 of pentacles, ace of wands, 10 of swords, judgement and 9 of pentacles)

Okay so the first thing i feel is they will treat you like a princess you are, they way you deserve to be treated. By listening to you, by treating your inner child, doing things for you, giving your surprises. For some of you who chose this pile there is anxious or nervous energy, like you don't actually believe you could be treated or loved this way, sometimes you end up choosing the path which is difficult or has difficulty in decision making, I also heard some of you waiting or still waiting for their loved one even if they don't show it, this is just feeling i got when i started doing your reading. Okay so let's talk about your cards, I feel they will have quite many decisions to make about you, like what do you need what do you actually want, how can they prepare things for you i also see them being confused just because they want to give you the best, some of the surprises they plan is hidden but i tried to channel it, it could be necklaces jewelry, or some expensive things planning trips for you, I also feel they will blindfold you a lot while they give you gifts, or surprises just to see your happy expression, honestly? they love that. I also feel they like fine things in their life and will give that to you as well, their love language is def gift giving and act of services, they will make the best of what they have, i heard "I will never disappoint you, darling", your love for me and everything you do for me, i am just so grateful, you deserve the best", so sweet!, I also feel they will be like a kid around you, dping silly things, giving you memories and love to hold on to, honestly the way you want to be treated and loved, they seem determined to make you feel loved and the way you deserve, They will spoil you with riches, i heard gift so many times so cute, if you are sick? they will wash your hair or help you wash them, prepare soup for you, no matter if they know cooking or not, this pile or their future spouse might like to read too, they are honestly a softie at heart, but just cover it up well with their hard exterior persona, I see them making the decisions which will help you both, they will push you out of your comfort zone to do things you never thought of doing or just too scared to do, they will help you become the better version of yourself, showing the love in the way they can, i see a picture or thing where you both go out grocery shopping, and he will be like let me hold it, and you just pick things, and he will hold it for you, there also might be conflicts because of change in opinion or your some different beliefs but i feel he will be apologizing to you for making you feel that way. They will not disrespect you or make a joke that will break you but most likely they will support you if someone is disrespecting you? they won't tolerate they will stood up for you, or at least calm the situation, i heard "hopeless romantic" so it could be you or them for sure, they will make you feel at ease and peace, you inner child will be safe with them, you don't have to feel you have to do something to earn his attention it's already yours, "when i look at you or think of you the world seems to stop and I don't know what i can do to make myself at ease, i just wanna meet you now" the emotions , the love everything will flow easily, you might also be their passenger princess, they will hold on to you cherish you, put efforts in the love and relationship, they would not want to lose you and they will make sure you know, I also feel outside you are very respectful couples, but at home you are very freaky like tear off my clothes type, best combo honestly, they will make you feel more loved and confident in your own body, I strongly feel you both will go through ups and down but make it out stronger than ever, i heard "i will worship the ground you walk on". You both are emotionally and financially stable couples, communication is very important for you guys.

Wow pile 1, they kept giving me messages, so sweet, i love it!

Pile 2:

(The cards I got for you guys - 3 of cups, the chariot, the empress, page of cups and ace of swords)

Okay so the first thing i feel is they will treat you with utmost respect, even in bed or normal setting they will be treating you with such sincerity, they respect your wishes. I see them losing them in you. They are quite dominant or seductive, but also polite, they will be very soft spoken towards you, I also feel your relationship will be still playful, but with respect and boundaries and that's why i got the message of him being respectful towards you, I feel they will give you the things you desire the most and need, they will take care of health and even career wise, like asking if you are okay, is there new issues in your life regarding it, for some of you they would tell you to take it easy when you're distressed or not happy with what you have been doing, i feel they will try to motivate you, heal you, make you move forward towards the thing you wanna do , encourage you regarding your career or even personal life, they will be okay with whatever you do, as long as you are with them, they will trust you a lot too i feel, very it's super important in your life and with him, I feel he will be making sure you know that he have your back no matter what, i heard "my eyes won't leave you, no matter where you are you stay in my heart and head all the time, and it's not like i am complaining, I also feel they will be giving you baits to be with them more lol, like so you don't go to work and stay with them, their love language could be words of affirmation too, they will not let a single day go by that they won't show that to you, you will mean a lot to them, they will nurture you, you know a saying the more you cherish something they stay forever? that's kind of mindset they have, they won't like to be separated with you, they might also like to give you space, but also suffer because they wanna cling on to you so bad, very motherly vibe too, for some of you could be cancer moon? or you guys are, I also feel he will make sure you have eaten no matter how upset you are, check in with you, if you went to the hospital alone? and they were busy so they will call you and ask you what has happened are you okay, what did the doctor say, they don't or won't abandon you in any hardship you both go through, I also feel they are very young or pure hearted, they don't or won't make you upset or try not to, your anger with them, will only make them fall harder lol, so cute, with them you will see love, marriage and relationships with new perspective, maybe some of you have bad opinion on marriage, they will change that, i also feel they are very open minded and have good beliefs. I also see a situation where they text you every morning, and tell you how appreciative they are of you.

Pile 2, your future spouse, is a very loving and honest person, and they will make sure you feel loved everyday.

Pile 3:

(The cards I got for you guys - Ace of cups, 3 of wands, knight of wands, 6 of wands, 8 of pentacles and knight of cups)

Okay so i feel very playfully like so loving in a way, you saw in movies, opening the car gate for you? check? holding your hand while crossing the road? check. Winning things for you in fair or parks, also check. They will treat you like a freaking sweetheart so aggressive love too, but not in a hurting way, you guys have you seen the video where the guy piggyback his girl and say "you are my princess and queen" that's exactly what i channeled when i think about how your fs will treat you. He won't let you do things alone, helping you in every way he can, he might even tell you to don't work so that he can provide you, he would want you to be stress free and at peace with him, i feel a scene where he plans movie nights at home with you, treat you with snack, his love language could be physical touch , he would like to kiss you a lot, a passionate energy from this pile, he is in tune or has a emotional side as well as dark passionate side in bed, you will be in a ride of your life with him, he will be also very protective of you in every way he can, he would not like men being friendly towards you, but honestly nothing in a bad way, more like you are mine type of energy lol, he would like to touch you a lot when you are outside, showing everyone you are with him, He won't let you fall apart again, when you tell him about your past or the relationships you have had he will hate it honestly, for how they treated you, he will even do so much after care after your intimate time with each other, very emotional and sincere, a package honestly, I also feel he will help you explore the hidden parts about yourself, he won't shame, even if you are in wrong, i see him supporting you, but will politely let you know you were wrong, i heard "when i love you, it's only you, no one else", there is some versatilities in your relationship but i see him and you respecting that and still being attracted to each other both emotionally and physically, he will treat you as you are a part of himself, doing things to make you happy like if you want to dance and he doesn't he still will do that, he wants to see you the happiest with him, it's funny how he sending me little nsfw messages for you guys like sir this ain't the right reading for it, but i am still gonna channel got to give you guys what your future spouse wants, no? hehe, I also feel he will sweep you off with his charm like everything even if you are cold hearted or believe in actions , he will just melt you lol, he will also be a very smooth talker, i feel musk scent for some reason?, he will admire you a lot, and treat you as a win, a charm for him, he feels he got lucky he got you and he will show it to you, he is also quite playful with you and likes to tease you but all in a good way, some people could be jealous of your and their dynamic too, for them you are the only one, and that's so loving and admirable, I also feel he will cook dinner for you if you got late from work or anywhere, so that you can rest without stress. They seem so gentle and caring with you.

Such a gentleman! love it for you pile 3.

Thank you for stopping by! Take care and remember you are loved <3

[doll3scent]

★ Pornstar ★

John Price x cam girl! reader

Warnings- 18+-mdni, smut, age gap, cam girl reader, mentions of divorce, explicit language.

wc. 2.5k

a/n, This is my first post, english is not my first language so please bear with me. Pt 2 where she has a private video call with a fan ?

1, 2, 3,

master list 𓂃۶ৎ

You're a star-well, in a very particular sense.

Ghost's younger sister, though few people know that. You went by the stage name Angel Valentine, a name as alluring as the persona you crafted. In all your videos, you wore a delicate black lace eye mask, never willing to fully reveal your identity. You weren't about to let the world, or anyone who might recognize you, connect your real face to the adult websites you frequented. You were always adorned in expensive and delicate lingerie.

John Price had been struggling with loneliness since his divorce. Shamefully, he turned to adult websites and camgirls, seeking solace in fleeting moments of intimacy. That's when he found you-his Angel. You became his nightly obsession, his secret escape from the harshness of his reality. He watched you in the quiet solitude of his barracks, thought of you in the shower, your voice and movements occupying every corner of his mind.

So when he hears that voice—the honey-smooth tone that had haunted his nights—he freezes. He's standing in Ghost's backyard at a birthday party the team had forced together, trying to enjoy himself. But then you walked in.

The second your eyes lock with his, Price feels a heat flush through his body. It's you.

Those eyes, the ones that had gazed up at him so intimately through his screen, now meet his in the real world. His mind races, his chest tightens. He tries to focus, to play it cool, but his eyes betray him, drifting downward.

He knows your body too well-every curve, every detail engraved in his memory from hours of watching you. And yet here you are, standing just a few feet away, speaking to him as innocently as if you were strangers.

But all he can think about are the countless moments he's spent imagining you in positions that make his pulse quicken.

John continued to speak, his eyes flicking down to your lips every so often, thinking about how those same lips looked as you sucked on the pink dildo you always used. He suddenly remembered a video you did where you showed your viewers all you could fit inside your mouth. He had to adjust himself under the table subtly, trying not to get hard.

John spoke to you as if a man possessed, he couldn’t stop himself from speaking to you, he couldn’t stop himself from listening to your voice. He thought he sounded normal as he spoke to you, he thought he sounded casual and cool. But in reality he was trying painfully to hold back. Every time you spoke, he could only think of you calling him Daddy in your porn, and all the sounds you made as you rode different toys, he couldn’t clear his mind.

He had to adjust himself under the table again, the images of you on your back, legs spread, and that pretty little face of yours looking up at him behind the lace eye mask was too much. He tried to focus on anything to keep his mind off of it. The team were chatting, Gaz’s dog running around all the guests, but it still wasn’t enough to keep his mind fully off you.

The team, Ghost included, all noticed the strange interaction between you and Price, and they could tell he was acting strange. Soap and Gaz were the first to comment. “I’ve never seen the old man speak that much before” Gaz commented. “He’s almost never that chatty with us” Soap chuckled as he sipped his drink. “It’s very strange, I’m concerned.” Soap joked. Ghost, was very observant at his best of times, and the way Price was staring at your mouth was not lost on him.

The whole team knew Ghost was the possessive type, and if Price was eyeing up his little sister then that would not go down so well. Ghost watched Price with narrowed eyes, watching him intently.

Ghost leaned into the conversation and watched as you spoke enthusiastically with Price, your doe eyes gazing up at him like you worshipped the ground he walked on.

The team watched the interaction, watching Price flush every time you giggled or touched him on the arm. Soap and Gaz were amused with the whole thing, while Ghost was getting more pissed off by the second.

Price had to bite back a whimper as he watched you drink from that bottle. The way you wrapped your lips as they puckered around the tip, sucking the liquid from the bottle, Price’s mind was running WILD with the implications.

˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Smut ₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Price closed the door to his house as he locked the door and walked in. Throwing his keys and coat on the floor, Price walked over to his computer and sat down. Price opened up his browser, going to the site he’s come to frequent.

He typed in the URL, already having it memorised, the site opened and he immediately went to the camgirl he was addicted to watching. The moment he loaded the website he was met with your streams. He eagerly clicked on his favorite one.

You were sitting on your bed, wearing a pretty red nightie that was thin and lacey, and of course the black lace eye mask on your face. But Price remembered what was underneath the lace, now that he’d finally seen it, he was desperate to see it again.

Price watched with a fixed gaze as you spoke on your stream, interacting with your viewers. It felt like you were speaking to him directly everytime you spoke to the stream.

Price could listen to you speak all night long, he loved the sound of your voice. But all he could think about the last time you spoke to him earlier that night was your lips wrapped around the top a bottle.

He whispers your stage name like a prayer, his eyes glued to the screen as you interact with your viewers. He feels jealousy stirring within him as he watches other men typing messages in the chat, trying to get your attention.

his breath hitches in his throat as you begin to slowly remove your clothing, just like every other night he's watched you. But tonight feels different - tonight he knows who you really are. "Dear god..." he unbuckles his belt with shaky hands, his heart racing as he watches you reveal more and more skin. The thin red nightie falls to the floor, leaving you naked, he imagines touching your soft and tender skin.

he lets out a low growl, his eyes fixed on your body as you sit there, completely unaware of his presence. He reaches into his pants, pulling out his aching cock and starting to stroke it slowly as he watches you. "Fuck... Angel..." he whispers, his voice strained with desire. He leans in closer to the screen, his eyes widening as you slowly trace your fingers along your collarbone and down to your breasts. Each movement is deliberate, teasing, sending electricity coursing through his veins. He squeezes his throbbing cock tighter, biting his lip to stifle a groan.

His eyes are glued to the screen, his jaw dropped as he watches you lay back on the bed, spreading your legs wide open. He can see everything, your glistening pussy, your bare ass, everything. He strokes his cock so fast now, precum leaking from the tip. "Fuck fuck fuck..." He watches in awe as you bring your fingers to your lips, sucking them wet before slowly sliding your hand between your spread thighs. He can almost feel the warmth of your breath on his screen as he watches you rub your slick folds, his own hand moving furiously on his erection.

You gaze into the camera, asking for permission to touch yourself. His eyes roll back in his head at the sound of those words, Daddy. He can feel his release getting closer just from hearing you beg like that. "Yes baby girl," he chokes out, his voice hoarse with desire, "Put your little finger inside, like a good girl." he talks to you through the screen.

He watches, transfixed, as you slowly push your finger inside yourself, your back arching off the bed as you let out a soft moan. The sight of your finger disappearing into your tight pussy is almost too much for him, he can feel his balls tightening, his cock throbbing. "Fuck..."He's so close now, his hand a blur on his dick as he watches you finger yourself. The sounds of your wetness fill his room, mingling with his own heavy breathing. "Add another one, baby," he grunts, "Stretch that little pussy open for daddy."

His eyes lock onto yours, his heart pounding in his chest as he watches you add another finger. He can see the desperation in your gaze, the pleading look in your wide eyes as you stare straight at the camera. It's like you're looking directly at him, calling his name. He gasps sharply, his cock twitching violently in his grip as he watches your eyes find his in the camera. It's too much - the stare, the fingers pumping into your pussy, the breathy gasps.

He bites back another groan, feeling the tingling pressure building at the base of his cock and spreading through his groin. Your fingers are pumping faster now, plunging into that glistening pink pussy, and the sight is too incredible. His voice comes out in a strained whisper "That's it baby, finger-fuck yourself just like that... show daddy what a good girl you are." His strokes become quick and shallow, matching your rhythm "Keep going... keep looking at daddy..."

He watches, transfixed, as you pull your glistening fingers from your pussy and slowly, sensuality bring them to your mouth. His cock throbs violently in his grip as you wrap your lips around them, sucking your juices clean. It's the hottest thing he's ever seen.

His eyes go wide with anticipation as you reach for your giant pink dildo, showing it off with that playful giggle that drives him crazy. His strokes slow down, wanting to savor every moment as he watches you. "Fuck baby... look at the size of that thing." He can feel his orgasm building as he watches you seductively lick the tip of the dildo like it's the best thing you've ever tasted. His hand moves faster, matching the rhythm of your licks.

His breath hitches in his throat as he watches you take that massive toy deeper into your hot little mouth, bobbing your head up and down like a innocent little angel giving a blowjob to a giant pink monster. His hand moves furiously now, his knuckles turning white. "You look... "he grunts "So fucking hot... sucking that big dildo like it's my cock... Fuck, baby, I'm so close... You're gonna make daddy come just watching you."

He watches, completely mesmerized, as you slowly pull the dildo out of your mouth with a loud pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the toy. His mouth goes dry at the sight, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he can't hold back any longer. His eyes lock onto the massive pink toy as you position it between your thighs, lifting your tiny waist off the bed. He can feel his release building, his hot seed spurting into his palm as he watches you prepare to impale yourself on that dildo. "Oh god..." His cock pulses violently in his grip as he watches you shamelessly grind the huge dildo against your tiny clit. The sight of your delicate pink lips kissing the enormous head sends a shudder of pure lust through him. Sweat beads on his forehead as he fights to hold back his impending orgasm.

His voice comes out in a barely controlled growl "Stop teasing... Jesus... push it in, baby... show me how you take that massive cock... Before I explode all over myself watching you." His strokes become rougher, jerking himself frantically "Fuck... Fuck..."He practically sees stars, his world narrowing down to the exquisite torture unfolding before his eyes. As you slowly guide the enormous tip of the dildo into your tight little entrance, a strangled cry escapes his throat. "Holy shit, baby... yes... Take it... Take that huge fucking cock..."

His eyes roll back in his head, his body shaking violently as he watches you sink down onto that massive toy, your petite frame stretching to accommodate the enormous girth. The sound of your erotic moan, the sight of your jaw dropping open in shock and pleasure... It's too much. "FUCK..."His cock spurts involuntarily at the sight of you riding that massive dildo, your tits bouncing beautifully in your grasp. His whole body convulses as he watches your wet pussy sliding up and down the glistening shaft. "My god... look at how you take it..."

His hand moves in a blur, jackhammering his dick as he watches you fuck yourself senseless on that gigantic toy. The room fills with the sound of his heavy breathing and the wet slapping of his palm against his rock-hard cock. "You're gonna make me come so hard, baby..." He watches you ride that enormous cock with pure abandon, your tiny body bouncing on it like a professional porn star. The sight of your full tits bouncing up and down, combined with the erotic show you're putting on, finally pushes him over the edge. "Fuck! I'm coming..."

As you start frantically rubbing your clit while bouncing on the dildo, his release becomes impossible to hold back. He unleashes a torrent of hot cum onto his stomach, painting it white as he watches you teeter on the brink of your own orgasm. "Yes... Fucking hell, yes..." panting heavily, he watches as you continue to ride the dildo with wild abandon, your fingers working furiously on your clit. "That's it, baby... Don't stop... Make yourself come on that huge cock... I want to see it..." His breathing hitches as he watches you lose all inhibitions, your body convulsing as you slam yourself down onto the massive toy over and over. The room is filled with the sound of your wet flesh slapping against the rubber and your desperate, mewling cries. His cock hardens again.

“Come on, baby... Come all over that fucking dick... Let me see you fall apart..."He watches, mesmerized, as your entire body goes rigid and you throw your head back in a silent scream of pure ecstasy. Your pussy clamps down on the dildo like a vice, your juices pouring out and coating the toy and your thighs.

"Fuck... Fuck, fuck, fuck..." He strokes himself furiously, his eyes locked on the sight of you collapsed onto the bed, the dildo still buried inside you. With a final, strangled groan, he unleashes another massive load of cum, this time aiming it directly at the screen.

[mononijikayu]

map of the soul — ryomen sukuna.

immortal sukuna thinks that one time for the present. maybe two times for the past, repeating over and over. but it really doesn't matter, when he's happy that he's with you. he's happy no matter what, because you met each other again.

GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation!;

WARNING/S: nsfw, fluff, angst, romance, reincarnation, immortality, ambuiguity, hurt/comfort, hurt, physical touch, memory loss, sadness, pain, grief, pining, crying, humor, domestic, death, light-hearted, happy ending, depictions of character death, depiction of pining, depiction of immortality, mention of grief, mention of accidents, mention of pining, immortal! sukuna, reincarnated! reader;

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

persona

immortal sukuna who — in your first life (1).

immortal sukuna who — in your first life (2).

immortal sukuna who — in your first life (3).

immortal sukuna who — in your first life (4).

make it right

immortal sukuna who — in your second life (1).

immortal sukuna who — in your second life (2).

shadow

immortal sukuna who — in your third life (1).

immortal sukuna who — in your third life (2).

louder than bombs

immortal sukuna who — in your fourth life (1).

my time

moon

the eternal

[little-lizardzzz]

─ ❝ Cute Aggression ❞ ─

> A psychological phenomenon where seeing something extremely cute triggers an urge to squeeze, pinch, or even "crush" it, even though there's no intention to cause harm.

───────────

Yandere! Bully x Bullied Reader

Tw: Honestly I’m not good at writing trigger warnings, just imagine it based on the title😭 it’s not that explicit anyways, I have read worse than what I wrote here💀

Also, reader is a little bit (a lot) stupid, she’s in love with her bully and don’t want to accept the fact that he is hurting her on purpose, also, Cole is the stereotype of that stupid momma phrase “He’s just mean to you cause he likes you but it’s to shy to say it” he wasn’t always like this, he was a sweet boy before but something happened and make him change and act like this, if this story gets enough love maybe I could write a little bit about the past of reader and Cole to explain why he acts like this.

English is not my first language, I’m doing my best with the little bit of knowledge that I have, so, please excuse my grammar mistakes, also, if you would like to leave a correction or any recommendations, I’m willing to hear it<3

-⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-

You can’t even remember when it all began to be like this, at least not anymore but if there’s something that you know for sure is that it wasn’t always like this, he wasn’t like this.

Maybe it began like a game, something innocent, just a silly joke here and there, a snarky comment about your personality, then your appearance and eventually, all about you. It was okay though, you used to be best friends, you assumed it was normal, after all Cole has known you since childhood, why would he just change his timid and sweet persona overnight?

Then it wasn’t that innocent anymore, the physical abuse started, subtle at first, shoves, hair pulling, grabbing your wrist a little bit too hard, still normal. It was silly of your part to assume he would hurt you on purpose, right? He’s your best friend, right? He still loves you��� didn’t he?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

And here you are once again, repeating this words in your mind like a mantra, over and over again, thinking about the past, the memories you shared, back when everything was fine, when Cole was the sweetest boy on earth, when he showered you with praises just for breathing next to him, when he used to hold your hands carefully in his, the same ones that now are holding your neck so tight that you feel like you’re about to loose consciousness but not enough to really make that happen.

He’s talking to you, you know that you should pay attention, Cole hates to repeat himself but you’re busy looking into his eyes, his big blue eyes, the ones that used to resemble a warm summer sky, precious, calming, soft, there’s none of it into them anymore, just a pale shadow of what they used to be, now cold, greedy and calculative.

Without knowing what’s gotten into you, you extend your arm and caress his cheek tenderly, with all the care and softness that his hold on your neck it’s lacking. And for a second, you see it, deep inside in those deep blue eyes, maybe it is the nostalgia of the memories that plague your mind, maybe the burning love that you still feel for your now tormentor, it could even be the lack of oxygen taking it’s toll on you, those would be more realistic options, possible explanations to the glimpse of the old Cole that you saw looking back at you, deep blue eyes dripping with love, care, fondness and infinite adoration and if you’re not mistaken, even with regret…

But just as fast as it came, it was gone not a second later, emotions buried once again under a thick layer of falsehood and frivolity.

His face contorted with anger as he moves his hand from your neck to your hair to forcefully pull your face closer to his, harsh words breaking the silence and bringing you back from your dizzying state.

“Don’t ever touch me again without my permission, you disgust me”

And with that, he throw you to the floor as if you meant nothing, as if you were worst than trash to him.

You were left on the floor trying to catch your breath, new marks slowly forming on your neck over the other not so old ones, feeling miserable for being incapable to understand him, to understand what happened to him that made him be like this, was it you? Is it your fault? Was it something you did or said? It has to be, Cole wouldn’t treat you like that out of nowhere, not your sweet boy, it has to be a reason, an explanation.

Maybe next time, if you put more effort into it, he would actually let you talk to him when you approach him like every morning, like every time that you roam around the hallways trying to catch a glimpse of him again and again, hundreds of times every day, maybe tomorrow he would actually listen to you instead of just rushing to tackle, hit you or choke you. You just gotta be patient and everything will be alright, just like before, and maybe then you would be able to finally confess your feelings to him and be happy together, like it was supposed to be since the start.

Yeah, tomorrow will be different, for sure.

-⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-

[zstartrixxx]

𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹, 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫’𝑽𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹.

ˡᶦᵒⁿ ᵏᵃᵐᶦⁿˢᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Lion Kaminski has exactly seven days to prepare for what his older brother calls "the most important fight of his life"—but focusing is hard when you're no longer by his side. In a manic cycle of memories bleeding into the present, Lion tries—really tries—his best. Yet all he wants is for you to reappear in his life one more time; 'cause burning with love for you, he knows it’s not too late to hold you in his arms again. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: after an incredible 15 days (and a lot of procrastination), i finally finished my humble fanfic about my favorite character from jack, lion kaminski—whose connection with him was very… special, i'd say. that bond with his only brother, that certain vulnerability hidden behind his tough boxer persona, how sweet and funny he is… well, i've already watched this movie three times (which i think is actually too few), and this idea came to me between the first and second viewing. maybe i'll write more one-shots about him—could be in the same vibe (angst with fluffy), or just angst, or just fluffy, or maybe something smuttier, idk… anyway, i also took inspiration from my drabble about him, SWEET EYES. that's it, let's flood this fandom with love and content for our baby—he deserves it!! 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: sad, hurt/comfort, a lil' bit of smut (it's more a "making love" thing with a slight breeding kink idk), more sadness and hurt&comfort, angst AND fluffy; toxic relationship dynamics and a LOT of dialogues. i really tried to keep the essence of the characters throughout the story. 𝐖𝐂: +7k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖫𝖨𝖮𝖭 𝖪𝖠𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖲𝖪𝖨 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

but tonight you're on my mind, so you never know, broken down and hungry for your love with no way to feed it; where are you tonight? child, you know how much I need it. too young to hold on and too old to just break free and run. lover. (you should've come over, jeff buckley)

"And when you wake up, please cry for me. When you wake up, wake up, wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Lion— Wake up, Lion!"

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘.

His eyes fluttered open as he felt light taps against his face, followed by an intrusive finger poking his ear. At his feet, Ash wagged his little tail against his shins. The smell of boiled eggs with oatmeal and his brother’s voice—low, almost maternal—woke him fully.

"Alright, I'm up," he grumbled, dodging another playful slap from his older brother, who made a face. He kicked off the blanket and sat up on the bed. Stan looked him up and down, dressed in gray sweatpants, shirtless and barefoot, holding a mug with that protein sludge he called "champion's breakfast." He grinned warmly:

"Ah, Lion, don’t be a pain now, bro! Get your ass outta bed, eat your champion’s breakfast, and get ready. We’re going for a run today. We’ve got less than a week until the big day." He shoved the ceramic mug into Lion’s hands. The smell of eggs mixed with oatmeal hit his nose, making him grimace. He lifted his tired eyes to Stan, who kept that shameless grin on his face: "No cheating! You can’t give it to Ash."

"Fine. Just give me some space—" He took the mug from his brother’s hands. Stan stared at him for a few seconds, studying him, probably reading him like a book. Then he walked out of the room, but not without tossing a sharp comment over his shoulder:

"Walter Kaminski, if you keep moping over your ex like some lovesick fool, we’re not going anywhere. Nowhere."

And with that, he was gone.

Lion glared angrily and exhaustedly at the empty hallway of the apartment they shared. He whistled for Ash, who jumped off the bed and trotted to his feet, tail wagging as he ate the food Lion offered—Stan always left protein bars lying around, knowing Lion would prefer them over his "champion’s breakfast." He grabbed one, tearing it open with his teeth, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He glanced to the side, at the wall opposite his bed, covered in pinned-up photos and collages he’d made—a childhood picture of him and his brother, his Kaminski Kleanners collage, a poster of his brother’s favorite fighter, and a bunch of photos of him with his girlfriend.

You.

Your photos were his favorites—both the ones of you two together, side by side, practically glued at the hip, and the ones of just you, taken with his phone’s camera. His absolute favorite was from the day you met. It was during his shift at the towel factory. He was finishing up a piece he’d just sewn, trying to steady the slight tremble in his hands from the fight the night before, his older brother pushing a cart full of towels when you appeared beside someone else—attentive eyes, polite smile, gentle hands picking up the towels between your fingers. Then your gaze cut through the crowded room and locked with his, staring back with a mix of curiosity and passion.

Love at first sight.

You smiled at him like you were old friends reuniting after years, waved, and kept walking. Lion thought he’d never see you again, but he was wrong. When he least expected it, lost in his sewing, you appeared in front of him, smiling, hands behind your back. You stared at each other for a long moment. Lion was too shy to make the first move, so you spoke up:

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I don’t think so…"

"That’s a shame! I thought we’d met before…" You gave him a long look, waiting for something. Anything. Lion smiled gently, glanced around, amused:

"But we can get to know each other. If you want, of course."

Flash.

You both blinked, momentarily blinded by the camera flash, then laughed at each other. Lion turned his phone around to show you the freshly taken photo—you two close together, him smiling shyly, lips pressed together, while you were all smiles. Your eyes were red from the harsh lighting, and Lion pretended he’d delete it when you stopped him:

"No! It’s perfect! We look like two vampires in love or something…"

Lion laughed and stared at you with shining eyes. He was already falling head over heels for you in that little corner bar.

Lion smiled at the memory, rubbing his eye. But then another memory overlapped the first—you, upset, arms flailing as you paced back and forth. Lion tried to grab your hands to calm you down, but you were skittish, crying, your tone sharp. Harsh. Lion fought back tears. Behind you both, Stan sat on the couch, expression serious as he watched you gather your things—backpack, rolling suitcase, another handbag—before stopping by the door, staring at Lion with a pain he’d never seen in your eyes before.

And he did nothing.

He stood there, frozen, passive, while you said something his memory refused to hold onto. And the worst part? He couldn’t even remember the most important things—just watching you walk away. Without looking back.

He closed his eyes, forcing the scene out of his mind. He took a deep breath, finished the protein bar, tossed the wrapper aside, and petted Ash with a sad little smile on his lips. He stood up and stretched. Your face flashed in his mind, followed by the realization that it had been twenty-three days since any contact. The last prolonged argument you’d had was months ago, and by his count, you’d never gone more than twenty-four hours without one of you running back into the other’s arms, full of apologies, desperate kisses, and the (apparently false) certainty that nothing could ever tear you apart.

But something had torn you apart. Something so deep and intense it ripped you from his arms, from the nights curled up in bed, whispering about your future dreams, laughing at stupid jokes, and trading kisses until you fell asleep.

It hurt more than any punch he’d taken in the underground fights. More than the harshest words from his older brother—he was used to those by now. But he wasn’t used to your absence. Maybe this was something he’d never learn to live with.

He took another deep breath as his brother’s voice called from somewhere in the apartment:

"Kid, hurry up, or you’re gonna be screwed for the fight."

"Fuck this damn fight," Lion thought, pressing his slightly trembling fingers—a chronic symptom from fighting bare-knuckled—against the bridge of his nose. He counted slowly to ten, trying to steady the anger and anguish churning in his stomach.

Damn the day he ever listened to his older brother.

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘.

Lion pulled his phone from his pocket—an older model you’d gifted him after his previous one had been battered beyond recognition. Compared to his old one, this one was light-years better. The moment the screen lit up, a photo of you appeared: you smiling at the camera, face slightly turned, hands stuffed into his dark blue windbreaker, trying (and failing) to look blasé—"laconic," as you’d put it—but ending up unbearably cute instead. It had been the cause of many laughs and your failed attempts to snatch the phone from his hands.

"Delete it! Delete it right now, Lion!"

"But you look beautiful, babe! I’m not deleting it!" His voice was playful as he held the phone high above his head while you tried to reach it.

"I know! But it’s not how I wanted it to look…"

"Oh, c’mon… Here’s the deal—" He finally lowered his hands but kept a tight grip on the phone, the screen already dark. You looked at him curiously, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Hmm?"

"I’ll keep this photo on my phone for a week—" He held up a finger. "—in exchange, you get to pick my outfits for the next few days."

The effect was instant. You stepped back, eyes lighting up, a goofy grin spreading across your face.

"Really?"

"Would I lie to you?" he teased, smiling sweetly. Disarmed, you jumped on him—not to grab the phone this time, but to hug him with all your strength, cover his face in kisses, and squeal in victory. In the ‘battle’ you’d fought against his older brother for Lion’s independence, getting to dress him the way you wanted—without Stan’s opinions on ‘Italian high fashion’—meant everything to you. And to Lion, too.

Now, all of that was just a memory he struggled to hold onto, grasping at the fleeting sensations of pure joy he’d felt with you. He checked his messaging apps—your contact was still there, but the last message was his, sent twenty-four days ago, unanswered. At least you’d been merciful enough not to block him.

He sighed, shoved the phone back into his sweatpants pocket, and looked up just as Stan jogged toward him. His brother had been waiting outside the training center, leaning against the wall while he handled "whatever the hell he needed to handle."

Lion hated the side jobs Stan took, the borrowed money from Pepper, and how he kept them both in the gutter by dealing with that kind of crowd. As Stan reached him, slightly out of breath but grinning ear to ear, he took note of Lion’s scowl.

"What’s with the shitty face, kid? Don’t tell me—" He gave Lion a condemning look. Lion rolled his eyes.

"Cut the crap, Stan. Did you handle whatever you needed to?"

"Yeah. We’re clear now. We can go into Saturday’s fight without any issues." He smirked proudly, winking at Lion before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, took a drag, and nudged Lion’s chest to get him walking. Side by side, he exhaled smoke before asking:

"How’s that heart of yours holding up? You know fighting with a grudge in your chest only makes everything worse, right?"

"Stan, mind your own business," Lion snapped, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze fixed ahead. "I know how to take care of myself."

"I know that, kid! I just want what’s best for you. That’s all." Stan exhaled smoke to the side before pulling Lion into a sideways brotherly hug—the kind he always gave at the worst times. He ruffled Lion’s hair, stopping them both in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Say you love me!"

"Stan—"

"C’mon, Walter Kaminski! Say you love me and that you’re gonna wreck this fight on Saturday, and I’ll let you go!" He laughed at Lion’s pained expression. Lion tried to lean away from Stan’s cigarette breath as passersby shot them odd looks. Finally, he gave in, muttering:

"Fine, fine. I love you… And I’ll wreck the fight… Happy?" He glanced at Stan, whose grin widened as he hugged him tighter.

"That’s my Lion!"

"My Lion," you mimicked Stan’s exaggerated tone, rolling your eyes, arms crossed as you walked ahead of Lion. You’d just gotten home—you from your job as an interior design consultant, him from a fight he’d only been told about after he’d won. Stan had stayed behind, celebrating his cut of the prize money at some bar. Lion dropped his bag, sidestepped Ash (who trotted up to him, tail wagging), and followed you down the hall.

"Hey! Hey! Babe, wait!" He caught up, gently grabbing your shoulder to turn you toward him. "I was gonna tell you, but you know how Stan—"

"Stan’s always in the middle of everything! Unbelievable! When I agreed to date you, I didn’t know I’d get a fucking leech as a bonus!"

"Don’t talk like that, babe. He’s my brother…" Lion replied, slightly offended. You stared at him, the weight of his hand on your shoulder suddenly feeling suffocating in your anger.

"Lion, he treats you like his property. His possession—my Lion, my Lion won for us, my Lion did this for the both of us. For fuck’s sake! He doesn’t include me, doesn’t even have the guts to tell me about these damn fights, which is supposed to be something we talk about! It’s exhausting, Lion. So fucking exhausting!" You jerked away from his touch. Lion’s face twisted in pain—the absence of your touch left him anxious and needy. You took a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Sometimes I think I lose you a little more to your older brother every day, Lion. And if that’s your choice, fine. At least you’re making some kind of decision for your life. But if it’s not—if you really want us to work…" You stepped closer, your heart softening at the abandoned-puppy look on his face—lost, sweet, like someone who’d suffered too much but kept going anyway. 

Love exploded inside you, side by side with that anger (and maybe jealousy, possessiveness, a petty competition with his older brother) you felt for and toward Walter Kaminski. Your hands cradled his face gently.

"I need you to fight back. For me—" You pressed your forehead to his, eyes closed, feeling his warm breath against your skin. "—for us. Fight for yourself, Walter. My Walter…"

𝐓𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"My name is Walter Kaminski—spelled with an ‘i’ at the end, but my brother prefers writing it with a ‘y,’ not that I care much…" Lion spoke calmly to the woman in front of him, sweaty hands resting on his knees. "I’m 29, turning 30 this August…"

"I see. And what brings you to our company, Mr. Kaminski?" the woman asked softly, waiting for his response. Lion paused, thinking. He thought about his dreams, his life, but mostly about you—how you always knew exactly where you wanted to be, something he admired deeply. And that was exactly why he was here, sneaking away from his older brother, doing something he’d never had the courage to do in all these years: applying for a real job, one he’d chosen himself, without Stan’s interference.

It made him proud—and he knew it would make you proud too.

Lion scratched his left cheek, met the woman’s eyes, and answered with complete honesty:

"I’m really good with my hands. Look, ma’am, I use them for heavy work—fighting—but I also use them for delicate things, like sewing. Even though I’ve lived like this, my real dream is to start my own business, like a dry cleaner, just like this place. I think working here would help me learn how to handle things the right way."

He smiled hesitantly, unsure if that was the best answer. The woman gave him a polite smile, hands folded on the desk, listening intently. When she realized he was done, she chirped, "Alright, understood!" jotted something down, then typed a few more things on her computer. Lion watched with cautious hope. Finally, she turned back to him.

"Lion, we really appreciate your interest in joining our team! Right now, we’re still in the interview process, so we can’t promise anything solid yet. But we’ll keep in touch over the next few weeks. Who knows? Maybe an internship opportunity will open up at one of our locations?"

Lion relaxed his tense shoulders, leaning back in the chair, head slightly raised. He smiled at her, relieved.

"Of course. I’m at your disposal."

Funny how, as he said that, all he could picture was you looking at him with pride and expectation.

What a fool he was.

He left the store holding a few company pamphlets.

What he didn’t expect was to find Stan across the street, leaning against a wall, smoking, Ash on a leash beside him. Stan waved at Lion, calling out, "Hey, get over here, kid!" Lion crossed the empty street under the gray Wednesday afternoon sky, suspicious.

"What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be at the factory or something?"

"I should be asking you what the hell you’re doing here, little brother," Stan shot back, voice sharp and bitter. He glanced at the dry cleaner above Lion’s head, pointing at it with his cigarette. "In some fucking dry cleaner? You here to clean the shit stains outta your clothes or what?" He laughed mockingly, but Lion knew that look—far from amused, closer to anger barely contained.

"Look, Stan, I don’t owe you an explanation for what I do or don’t do with my life—"

"This is about that ex of yours, isn’t it? Tell me, kid, is this her idea?" Stan took an exasperated drag. The dismissive way he talked about you sent a surge of rage through Lion, who clenched his fists.

"Whoa! Easy there, Lion! Just asking a question!" Stan raised his hands, grinning like always. Lion snarled:

"No, Stan, you’re not just asking shit! You’re just butting into my goddamn life like always, and I’m sick of it!"

Stan exhaled deeply, his grin shifting into disbelief. He shook his head, tossed the half-smoked cigarette on the ground, and crushed it under his sneaker.

"This is so unreal it killed my buzz… Fuck! What did I do to deserve this…?"

"Stan, don’t start—just give me Ash, and let’s go home—" Lion reached for the leash, but Stan dodged.

"We’re not going anywhere!" His voice rose. "You’re gonna tell me what the fuck you’re up to, Walter Kaminski. Now."

Lion could’ve refused. He could’ve shrugged and walked away, head down. But the contempt and fury boiling inside him made the words burst out:

"You wanna know? Fine! I’m trying to get my shit together! Unlike you, who’s only worried about your next fancy outfit or whether you’ll have enough money to pay off Pepper or some other lowlife, I’m trying to get my independence and get out of this mess. Happy now?"

"And you’re gonna do that by working at some shitty dry cleaner?" Stan scoffed, pointing behind Lion, who took a deep breath, the scent of blood and fury filling his lungs. Stan laughed mockingly.

"Man, this is a joke, right? With your boxing future right in front of you, one step away from something real, and you’re out here looking for this kinda work? You’ve lost it…"

"The only one who’s lost it is you, sticking your nose into everything I do!"

"Fuck���s sake, Lion! Don’t mess with me!" Stan threw his hands up, eyes wide. "I’ve spent years training you, always putting you first, in everything, and after all that, just because of some girl who didn’t even love you—’cause if she did, she wouldn’t have left over some stupid shit—you’re out here trying to take on the whole world? It’s fucking pathetic, bro. Fucking pathetic!"

"Don’t talk about her like that," Lion warned. Ash barked at their raised voices, and passersby shot them curious, disapproving looks. Stan sneered.

"What’re you gonna do? Hit me? If you do, at least make it count, ‘cause I didn’t spend all these years teaching you everything—putting you on the path to success—just to lose you over some skirt."

Lion didn’t hold back.

He threw a right hook straight into Stan’s face, making him stagger back. Ash barked louder, and a few people nearby gasped at the sudden violence. Stan laughed, wiping the blood from his nose, a spark of pride in his blue eyes.

"Damn, Lion, if you keep that right hook sharp, we’re definitely closer to our dreams this Saturday…"

"You’re ridiculous," Lion spat, fists still clenched, disgust twisting his mouth. The anger burned through him. "I’m gonna make this crystal clear, Stan—" He grabbed his brother’s shirt, shoving the dry cleaner pamphlets against his chest. "—this is my last fight. After this, we’re each on our own."

Stan stared at him, searching for any hesitation. When he found none—just resolve in Lion’s eyes—his smug grin faded. He opened his mouth to argue, but Lion shoved him away, snatched Ash’s leash, and stormed off down the street.

𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"Lion, oh—" you moaned playfully, shuddering on top of him in the messy bed, listening to his rough, equally teasing groans. His eyes were closed, lips parted as he came inside you, his hips and thighs trembling, his hands gripping your sweaty waist tightly. When he finally opened his eyes—slowly, lazily—and looked at you with all the serenity and sweetness in the world, you melted. But there was still so much love in your heart it threatened to burn you alive, just like the taste of his kisses—sweet, caramelized, scorching.

He smiled, tilting his chin up—a silent request for a kiss. Against your lips, still buried inside you, he teased:

"If I could, I’d keep you connected to me forever…"

"Lion!" you laughed softly, wrapped in his strong arms as he rolled you both over, pinning you beneath him, still inside you, his smile lazy, his gaze dripping with honey.

"I’m not joking, babe. I’m keeping you here. With me. Always."

"Always is a long time," you whispered, exhausted. Lion laughed against your lips in a messy kiss, his hands roaming your arms while yours played with his sweat-damp hair.

"Then let’s make it until we die, I don’t know…"

"Like marriage?"

"It’s our marriage," he affirmed, grinning. You just stared at him, wondering what you’d done to deserve so much sweetness in one person.

And Lion kissed you—tender, devoted, slow—savoring your taste, your saliva, your sweat, you.

But when he turned in bed to reach for you among the blankets, all he found was emptiness.

He opened his eyes slowly, groggily, realizing he was alone. You were gone, leaving behind an empty side of the bed—and an even emptier hole in his heart.

He swallowed the bitterness, wanting to bury his head deeper into the covers. Those dream-memories had been haunting him for days. And it was only getting worse.

But lying there, staring at the indifferent ceiling, wouldn’t help. He had to do something.

He didn’t have to go to the factory today, so he had time to run, clear his head. In the kitchen, as he fixed himself a decent breakfast (unlike Stan’s "champion’s breakfast"), he found a post-it on the fridge in his brother’s messy handwriting:

"Bro,

Gonna be out all day. Took Ash for a walk. Eat well, don’t skip training.

See ya."

Lion nodded, glancing at Ash, who sat at his feet, waiting for scraps.

"Just you and me today, Ash."

Lion picked up his pace as he jogged up a hill, Ash panting beside him.

He tried with all his might to push you out of his thoughts, but the harder he fought, the more they tormented him. The longing mixed with resentment—for not being stronger, for not taking control of his life, for losing you.

God, all he wanted was for you to turn a corner, recognize him, pull him into your arms, and tell him everything was okay. In return, he’d give you his heart. He’d be your home. Together, you’d have the life you’d dreamed of.

Oh, how he ached for it.

The lump of unspoken words choked him. It was hard to run when he felt stuck in place. Worse—he couldn’t outrun himself. Sweat dripped down his face—soon mixing with the sudden tears in his eyes. The dam of unspoken words burst into rough, painful sobs, tearing from his throat. His body gave out, his shadow disappearing into the alley he ducked into, pressing against the brick wall of a building as he sank to the ground, hands covering his face, eyes wet, mouth dry as he gasped for air.

Ash whined softly, licking his owner’s face.

Lion tried to swallow the tears, but all he could do was cry—for losing you, for losing himself, for losing his brother. He’d already lost so many people in his life. Now he’d lost the two most important.

You appeared in his memories, hugging him, warm and soft, dancing to a slow song while Stan laughed and teased in the background—a memory of something that hadn’t even happened yet.

That was his biggest flaw, people said. A guy like him—a fighter, someone who had to be tough—was a hopeful dreamer. Lion sobbed hard, pressing his hands against his eyes, trying to force the tears back in. He took a deep breath, counting with you in his head—just like you’d taught him.

One, two, breathe, Lion—that’s it—three, four… You got this! Five…

And slowly, the crying stopped. His shoulders stilled. The tears dried.

Finally, he was free of the weight he’d been carrying all this time.

𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"Lion and I are moving out," you announced casually at the dinner table in the apartment you shared with Stan. He looked up from his cereal, incredulous. Lion sat quietly, listening. You held his hand, smiling at Stan, trying to sound friendly. "We’re leaving as soon as I finish my last project."

"Wait—" Stan’s voice was rough. "—what do you mean you and Lion are moving out? As far as I know, we’ve got a damn important fight in a few weeks, and he needs to train—"

"Stan, man…" Lion cut in, voice steady. You watched Stan with disbelief.

"Of course you’re being an asshole about this, Stan. Selfish—"

"Hey, babe, don’t—" Lion squeezed your hand, hating arguments—especially between you and Stan. It made him feel like a kid watching his parents fight over him. You glared at him, hurt.

"Lion? How can you say that? Stan’s trying to control you like you’re his little toy—"

"If you’re gonna start acting like a bitch too, I have every right to argue against this stupid idea," Stan snapped, slamming his spoon down, splashing milk everywhere. Lion wiped droplets off his face, blinking slowly at Stan. You huffed.

"Why is it stupid, Stan? Scared of your brother living his own life?" You crossed your arms, challenging him. Stan’s smug expression hardened.

"No…" He glanced at Lion. "I just don’t think this is the right way to do things. I’ve been with him longer. I know what he needs—and he needs me to win this fight—"

"Fight this, Lion that—Stan, when are you gonna stop pretending to be something you’re not? Stop dumping all your failed dreams on your brother and start living your own life!?"

Your words cut through the tension like a knife.

Lion looked at you, fear in his eyes. Stan, meanwhile, stared at you like he was seeing into your soul. He took a deep, noisy breath. Then he turned to Lion.

"Is that what you want? Is that what you think of me, Lion?"

"I don’t speak for your brother—unlike you."

"Shut the fuck up!" Stan slammed his hands on the table. Lion flinched.

"Stan, c’mon, don’t—"

"DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Stan stood, laughing bitterly before pointing at you. "How am I supposed to stay calm when she’s manipulating you!? She doesn’t love you—not like I do! And I can’t let you throw away your future—"

"Here we go again…" You rolled your eyes, pushing your half-eaten plate away. "... lost my appetite. Look, I’m gonna go before things get worse. Lion—" You turned to him, your boyfriend looking at you with those innocent, lost, sweet eyes. "—we’ll talk when I get back. See you."

"Bye," Stan muttered dryly as you kissed Lion’s cheek, your fingers brushing the scratch on his left cheekbone.

Lion glared at Stan. 

Stan shrugged.

"What can I say? You went and dated a controlling psycho."

Lion gasped for air, eyes fluttering open as he stared at the photo-covered wall, your face everywhere. He’d been trying to meditate—or whatever the hell relaxation technique he’d learned over the years—to clear his mind of everything, of you, but the smallest trigger brought you rushing back.

And this Thursday morning, two days before the fight, his olfactory memory decided to play tricks on him, conjuring your scent—sweet, fruity, like the purple grapes you loved.

And just like that, he was back in that fateful day when everything fell apart.

He wanted to stay focused, but waking up every day to the ghosts of your presence—photos, scraps of paper with your image—things he couldn’t really touch—was torture.

It tore his heart apart.

Just like the growing distance between him and Stan, even before their fight two days ago.

A rift had formed, separating him from the two most important people in his life—his brother, who’d raised him, and you, the soul that completed his.

Lion sniffed, wiping his face. He didn’t want to cry again.

Instead, the hand that wiped his tears became the one that punished him—fists slamming into his own head, over and over, his voice rough:

"Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic…"

He only stopped when he felt dizzy, palm pressed over his eyes, muffling a scream.

That’s when Stan appeared with Ash.

"Lion! Lion, hey, bro! Stop!" He crouched, gripping Lion’s shoulders, staring at him with all the love and worry of an older brother. "Lion, listen—it’s okay! Everything’s gonna be okay. I’m here, alright!?" He cupped Lion’s face, Ash nuzzling into his lap. Lion cried silently, chin trembling. Stan smiled warmly, eyes wet too.

"Everything I’ve done—everything I do—is for you, bro. You’re the most important thing in my life, and I just want what’s best for you… I was an asshole to her. I know how much she means to you. If there’s anything I can do to fix this, I will." He pressed his forehead to Lion’s, stroking his hair as Lion—still that scared, pure boy Stan had helped raise—calmed down. "I’d do anything to see you happy, bro. Anything—even if it means swallowing my pride." He laughed at himself. Lion chuckled between sobs.

They looked at each other. Stan kissed Lion’s forehead, pulled back but kept a hand on his face, wiping his own tears.

"Lion, you’re not just gonna win this damn fight—you’re gonna be one of the happiest, most fulfilled men in this godforsaken world." His voice was hopeful—the tone that, though it annoyed Lion on the surface, secretly kept him going. "If I’m wrong, my name isn’t Stanley Kaminski."

Lion laughed.

He petted Ash between his crossed legs, looking past Stan—where, by irony or not, centered above his brother’s blond hair, was one of the only photos the three of you had taken together.

Smiling.

Together and happy.

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" you asked between giggles, Lion’s hand stroking your back. Your legs were tangled under the comforter, the dim light from the closed curtains casting a soft glow over you both in the dark room. The sounds of the city were a distant hum, background noise to your quiet, intimate moment.

Your hands were tucked into the embrace, fingers tracing his face while his slid under your shirt, exploring your back, his other arm propping up his head. He smiled at the question, loving when you two drifted into these seemingly silly, profound conversations late at night.

"Besides opening my own business?"

"Yeah, besides your amazing dry-cleaning empire. What else do you want?" You propped yourself up slightly, chin resting on his bare chest, his skin warm, smelling like the blackberry soap you both used—fresh, soft. He looked at you, grinning.

"Well, I’m a simple man, y’know? Have my business, my brother nearby, my woman by my side, my own place, my kids running after Ash and a few more dogs, cats, parrots—whatever. That’d make me happy."

"Kids, huh?" you teased, raising an eyebrow. Lion smiled gently.

"Yeah. I want a whole soccer team."

"You have no mercy on me?" you joked, pouting. He laughed, amused by your fake outrage.

"Fine, fine. How about just seven little Kaminskis running around? Sound good?" He looked at you with playful sincerity. You melted, sitting up to face him properly.

"Instead of counting how many kids we should have…" You gave him a look, full of intention. "...maybe we should start with the best part." Lion grinned, relaxing as he pulled you closer, his arm sliding around your waist.

"Which is?"

"Making one."

"You wanna make a baby with me?" he asked, half-teasing, half-serious. You were already melting, lying back as he settled over you, arms wrapping around you in that perfect fit. Face to face, breathing the same warm air, eyes locked, he saw you—all of you. And you whispered everything you wanted in that moment:

"I wanna make love to you, Lion."

His breath hitched. "Say it again."

You pulled him closer, lips almost touching, so your words would sink deeper into him.

"I want you to love me, Lion. Just love me."

Lion nodded, surrendering just as completely as you, kissing you with all the passion he’d held back, his strong, calloused hands—marked by fights and sewing scars—roaming your body possessively, feeling your warmth under your shirt, squeezing your breasts, groaning at your reaction. Your hips rolled against each other, the urgency of desire burning through you both, heating your bodies, your blood, your souls—the room, the world shrinking to just you and him.

Soft and delicate, Lion pulled your shirt off, gazing at you almost reverently before trailing kisses down your chin to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, making you shiver, your core aching. Your hands tangled in his hair, guiding him lower, his beard scratching your skin, his breath hot against you.

He kissed his way down, pausing to look up at you—waiting for permission.

"You can keep going, baby. I’m yours…"

He smiled, sliding your panties off before spreading your legs, kissing your inner thighs, his breath warm. Then he looked up again, waiting.

"You can taste me, Lion. I’m all yours…"

Lion didn’t hesitate.

His tongue was soft, slow against your clit, lips sucking gently, vibrating just right. Drunk on your taste, he looked up, watching your pleasure, his voice rough.

"Can I fuck you with my fingers, baby?" The question was innocent despite its filthiness. You laughed, nodding. He wet two fingers with his saliva before sliding them inside you, curling just right as his tongue worked you over, your hips bucking, hands gripping the sheets, begging for more.

Then he stopped.

You whined, frustrated, so close.

Lion chuckled, pulling back to admire you, fingers still moving lazily inside you.

"Easy, baby. I haven’t even started fucking you properly yet."

You wanted to smack him for the audacity, but all you could do was moan, squirming.

Then he stopped again.

You panted, trying to steady your breathing, the sudden denial making you ache. Lion smirked, kneeling between your legs. You glanced down at his toned body, the bulge in his black boxers, grinning as you pressed your foot against him, rubbing through the fabric. Lion’s eyes fluttered shut for a second before opening, full of lust. He grabbed your foot gently, lifting it to kiss your ankle—a gesture so tender it made you shiver. His movements were as precise and controlled as when he fought. He draped your leg over his shoulder, positioning himself, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance.

Then he leaned down, kissing you deeply, his tongue tasting you on your own lips before sinking into you with one firm thrust, groaning against your mouth. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer with each thrust, his cock filling you perfectly, melting you from the inside. His moans were just as delicious as having him inside you. When you came, your legs locked around him. He followed soon after, spilling inside you with a long, sweet moan, hips stuttering, pushing deeper.

He collapsed on top of you, sweaty and breathless, nuzzling into your neck.

"I think we just made the most beautiful love in the world."

And you laughed.

Now, Lion paced post-cold shower, phone pressed to his ear, restless, eyes darting everywhere, waiting for the call to connect.

Ring… Ring… Ring…

"Hi, this is my voicemail! If you wanna leave a message, keep it short… And if it’s you, Lion, make it extra short!"

Lion laughed at your voice, the unchanged message. He took a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. After the beep, he gathered his courage.

"Hey, babe… It’s Lion. I just—I just want you to know that…" His voice cracked. He sat on the edge of the bed, forcing the words out. "...I’m sorry. I miss you. And most of all, I’m sorry for not standing up to my brother, for not having a voice. I know I’m not in any position to ask you for anything, but… you’re the love of my fucking life, and I want you with me. By my side. And if I have to humiliate myself to get you back, I will. So please—please—just give me a chance to explain, to apologize. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Just pick the place and time… I’ll be there."

He looked up at the wall of photos—your face, his memories, the puzzle of a life he wanted back.

"Please."

A few seconds of silence. Then he hung up.

He stared at your photo on his phone, head in his hands, mind empty from the emotional storm.

From behind him, knocks on the door and Stan’s voice:

"Kid, hurry up. We’re leaving in thirty."

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘. 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬.

Stan appeared in the doorway of that little room with its bright red walls, a few upholstered chairs of the same color, some dragon and flower decorations, the orange light casting a warm and calm aura over Lion, who sat on a massage table, trying to steady himself. The older brother held the hand wraps for Lion, chewing gum as he strode expansively into the room, disrupting the younger one’s focus.

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit. But I think I can take the hits," Lion opened his eyes slowly, watching his brother approach with a dubious little smile—like he was hiding something.

"If you use the same anger you did when you hit me that one time… Kid, you’ll knock this guy out. I only stayed standing ‘cause I’m tough as hell," he boasted, drawing a tired laugh from Lion. But he managed it. Stan glanced to the side, getting a clearer view of the door, while Walter kept his gaze fixed ahead. Stan’s voice was soft, a whisper, a secret:

"I think there’s someone here who wants to see you, Lion."

"Hm?" The sound slipped from Lion’s lips as he turned his head. His heart could endure any number of blows or falls, but seeing her after a hellish month felt like too much. His pupils dilated, and a nervous smile tugged at his lips, impossible to suppress.

Meanwhile, you stood in the doorway, nervous and shy, one hand in your pocket, the other gripping your bag. Stan patted Lion’s shoulder:

"Good luck, bro," then turned to you, winked, and added, "Try not to distract him too much, alright?"

"No promises…" you shot back, not harshly—it was light, like a joke between friends. Stan laughed, his eyes gleaming as he watched his brother light up at your presence. From the doorway, he called out:

"You’ve got twenty minutes. See you downstairs." With a final wink at both of you, he disappeared down the hall.

You looked at Lion, full of uncertainty about what to say—how to say it. The air was thick, the initial silence awkward. Lion smiled shyly, his eyes tender and glistening as they held yours. Slowly, you stepped closer until you stood right in front of him, your voice soothing:

"I heard the message you left me yesterday, Lion…"

"You heard it?!" He seemed genuinely surprised. You laughed at the way he said it, nodding as your hands trembled with a strange nervousness—there was a desperate urge to touch him, but also a fear of overstepping, of invading a space you sometimes felt you’d lost to distance. Little did you know, that was exactly what Lion wanted most right then: to be held, to feel your arms around him, your heartbeat against his, your voice whispering that everything would be okay because you were here.

But you kept up that austere politeness:

"Yeah, I heard it."

"And… what did you think? I mean… Did you come because of it?" There was hope and pain in his voice, in the anxious way he searched your face for answers. He studied your reaction with precision. You sighed, releasing the tension in your shoulders, set your bag down beside him, and finally reached for him—or rather, for the tape on his hands, finding the end and peeling it back, offering your palm for him to rest his against. He did so immediately, craving your touch, holding his breath as he watched you from up close, close enough to see every answer in your eyes. You spoke as you wrapped the tape around his wrist:

"Yes and no. Let’s just say… before I heard it, I got an unexpected visitor at work. Kind of inconvenient, kind of overbearing, but at the time, it felt like some damn angel had dropped into my life…" You glanced at him with a smile. Lion laughed—Stan, he thought—"And this little hell-angel kinda stole my break time to beg—no, plead—with me to call you back, because, and I quote: ‘My brother is fucked up. Like, really fucking broken.’ And I was already leaning toward fixing some of my own mistakes, some flaws here, some excesses there… And well, you sent me that audio, and let’s just say it was the cherry on top. So here I am!" You finished wrapping the first hand, leaned in to tear the tape with your teeth—the intimate contact sent a jolt through Lion.

You’d never done something like this for him before. You’d always stood aside, watching Stan prepare him for fights. The most you’d ever done was hug him and cover his face in kisses before a match.

When you straightened up, you were met with that melancholic gaze—captivatingly sweet, inherently serene—that made your heart race with love.

"Lion, I’m gonna be honest with you: these have been the worst days of my life. Fuck. I just want to apologize for lashing out, for being cruel, for cutting you off instead of, I dunno… just kicking your brother’s ass to put him in his place." You both laughed. You gestured for his other hand and started wrapping it: "Speaking of, Stan was actually really understanding with me, you know? I was impressed—he even cried and everything. That helped me decide to come here too… You two have such a beautiful bond, something I envy sometimes—" You smiled genuinely, your eyes welling up alongside his as he fought back tears: "I mean it!"

"Stop! Stop, I need to focus…" he whispered, but his eyes never left yours. You rolled your eyes playfully:

"You two have this whole protective thing, this way of wanting the best for each other even when you’re complete opposites. And it’s beautiful… And it made me realize that being between you two, being with you, is a privilege. A privilege because I’m part of this story, your story, and goddamn it, Lion, you’re so fucking special. To me and to Stan." Lion sobbed, tears streaming down his face as you bit the tape to tear it, dampening it with your own tears.

When you straightened again, your hands stayed locked with his, his grip tight—as if afraid you’d vanish. You gazed at each other through tender smiles and tears of redemption. Lion mustered the courage he’d been gathering all these days:

"I don’t ever want to lose you again, and I mean that from the bottom of my soul. I care about you so damn much, and I want you to be the woman of my life."

"But I already am…"

"No, that’s not what I mean, love—" Lion cupped your face, holding you possessively as you leaned in until your noses brushed, sharing the same breath:

"I mean you being mine, and me being yours, for the rest of our lives. Be my wife, and I’ll be your man forever."

He stared deep into your eyes.

You were speechless, pulling him into the embrace you’d been holding back all these days, feeling your hearts speak through flesh, bone, and blood. Lion buried his face in your neck, and you in his, lost in a moment where silence became its own language. Lion whispered warmly:

"Be my wife, and everything will be okay."

He kissed your shoulder, slow and lingering.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping his tears with your thumbs, pressing your foreheads together:

"Yes."

You kissed him, pouring all your longing into his lips—his forgiveness meeting your love, his peaceful passion clashing with your fiery devotion. Softness against brutality. Gentle blood in heavy air.

When you finally parted, a cough from the doorway snapped you back to reality. You both turned—Stan stood there, grinning ear to ear:

"Sorry, but time’s up, and we’ve got a fight for you to win, kid."

"It’s okay," Lion nodded, giving you a knowing look before hugging you tightly one last time, murmuring in your ear: "Thank you for coming."

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: i just love this character so much, i'd give him my heart, my soul would be his home, and he could do whatever he wanted because he deserves the world. anyway, it was really interesting to write; i hope the timeline wasn't too confusing since i tried to maintain a certain "aesthetic" in the text that matches that feeling of you just living your life normally when—BOOM!!!—a memory you didn't want to remember hits you. i hope it was worth it for anyone who made it this far lololol and i also hope to keep writing about him, my (our) beloved lion!!!

[soluversworld]

Hiiiiiii hope you are doing well on this fine night day :3

For the oneshots thing I was thinking perhaps... something related to a soulmate au? Redacted desperately trying to recreate the exact scenario or something passably close to how they first found out they were soulmates as kids so that Angel will think this new Ren person is their actual soulmate (assuming Angel forgot about their childhood soulmate).

The cruel irony of him having to fake being soulmates because they are so afraid that Angel will resent being tied to someone as unlovable as [Redacted] that they'd rather reconstruct the entirety of their bond on a lie yada yada yk the drill >:3

.... I fully intended to send in a fluff ask how did this turn angst lmao oh well. Something like that anyways, feel free to take creative liberties or ignore if it's not up your alley ofc <3

Genre: Angst to Comfort

Summary: — Decided to add a more realistic, to a soulmate au...I failed..

( Reader is a g.n!)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

I'm so sorry I THINK I FAILED THIS.... I'LL REWRITE THIS ONE DAY!!

May this be my timeless Love to you REDACTED.. X G.N Reader

“What is a soulmate?” The question echoes like a dirge through a hollow cathedral. He asked it once, long ago — when his hands were small, calloused from too much trying. He asked it before he learned that no one wanted the answers a boy like him could give.

This boy could (not) be called the Ugly Duckling. Not with laughter — but with a solemnity that could quiet the birds. He wore it as penance. For being too much. Too little. For being born under the wrong star.

Across the lake — the water that always seemed too wide to cross — there was you and him A child like something pulled from the pages of a dream: Pigtails, scraped knees, colorful bandages like mismatched prayers. And something gentler still... wounds dressed in laughter, pain softened by pretend...this was him..

He covered his soul in stickers and bandaids. You never called him ugly — but he hid all the same.

You cared for him.

He saw you. He saw all of it. And oh, how he adored you.

He had nothing — not love, not kindness — but he crafted a ring from wire and thread and the tinny promise of devotion. A symbol of a bond he believed the universe had to have carved between you. You were his soulmate — weren’t you? You had to be.

So, trembling, he stepped forward on unsteady legs. The playground was golden with dusk. And he held out the ring — Eyes wide, lips parted — waiting.

But before you could speak, before the miracle of “yes” or “no” could fall from your mouth, another hand — Larger, stronger, braver — wrong — Snatched you away.

“Weirdo!” the boy barked. “I knew you were bad news! Were you close to them because of this?!”

Your breath caught.

“Leon, wait—!”

But Leon did not wait. He grabbed your wrist like it was a leash, yanking you toward the trees.

"A-Angel!"

"LEAVE THEM ALONE, YOU FREAK!"

"Leon!" you pleaded, voice breaking like old wood. Stop stop stop stop—

But your feet obeyed his, and you vanished into the forest. The sound of leaves swallowing you whole.

The small boy stood, ring still in hand.

Crushed petals. Bent wire. The light... leaving.

And still, he smiled — small and broken.

“...It’s okay. I’ll try again.”

But he didn’t. Not then. Not for years.

And so, he became less.

He shed the skin of the duckling, and buried the boy who made rings. Buried him beneath names and costumes and personas that Angel might love.

He crafted some things but, The lies you would love..

A perfect lie in your image.

But you — you remained the same. Bright as ever. Still crossing the lake in his dreams.

To him, you are the light on the water. You are the laughter in the bruised boy’s memory. You are salvation in stickers and scabs. You are his Angel.

Hand worn like garlands; every scrape, every bruise, a verse in the ballad of his survival. He wrapped themselves in the myth of their own unworthiness. They called their soul ugly —

In you, He saw, he saw divinity. He saw home.

So the little duckling, trembling and unbeautiful, offered you the only beautiful thing he had ever made: A ring. Crooked. Fragile. Real. A token of a love too vast for his chest to hold. You were his soulmate. His answer. His absolution.

And what was your answer…?

You never knew.

Why was his vision twisted? Why is....

There was once a time, however fleeting, when the world still appeared vibrant to him—where the crunch of grass beneath small feet, or the glint of sunlight over a pond, carried a sort of naive beauty.

ONLY BECAUSE HE SAW IT THROUGH YOUR EYES!

Vanished like breath on a windowpane. What remained in their wake was silence, dread, and the long shadow of a man who should have been his protector.

His father was not a man of love. Not a man of gentle correction or even stern but fair discipline. No, his father—Taylor— He was the kind of man who looked upon his own children and saw not budding lives but burdens. Parasites. Leeches draining his oxygen. The boy never got to be a child in the ways that mattered. Innocence was something torn away, not lost.

Taylor’s presence was a stormfront: unpredictable, ever-threatening. Some days, the silence was worse than the yelling. On others, the yelling was only a prelude to something darker. And always, the boy knew—no matter how quiet he was, how obedient, how small—he could not escape the slow corrosion of his father’s contempt.

He learned quickly that masculinity was a weapon in his father's eyes... But the moment that same masculinity appeared in his son? It became a threat. A competition. A problem to be down. And yet—when his father forced him into more fem, He was against it....—none of it was out of affection. It was a punishment. A mockery. A way to remind him who controlled the image in the mirror.

Taylor’s disdain was a constant mirror in which the boy saw not a son, not a person—but a mistake. A malformed, thing pretending to be worthy of love.

His mother couldn't

It was the slow, ceaseless erosion of every part of himself.

But perhaps one moment stands above the rest.

He had carved something. Not out of grand materials—he had no such luxury—but out of determination and trembling fingers. It was small, fragile, and shaped like a ring. Something to give. A symbol of devotion. Of innocent affection. Of hope.

He gave it to someone who mattered.

And he was rejected.

Not simply rejected, but humiliated—by someone who did not understand, by someone who took the offering and flung it away, calling him a freak....

He didn’t cry. Not in front of them.

Later, alone in the dark, he wept until the walls blurred.

No one would ever love him. That he was too broken, too strange, too wrong. And now, it seemed true. His emotions betrayed him. His instincts betrayed him. Even the things he loved most would not accept him as he was.

So began the great undoing.

He stripped pieces of himself away—not in a dramatic flourish, but quietly. Methodically. Each piece discarded was a memory, a feeling, a small quirk. The voice that wavered when he was scared. The softness in his eyes when he looked at someone he cherished. Gone. Gone. Gone.

He did not do it to manipulate.

He did it because the person he was had already been deemed unworthy. Because the truth of him was a wound too shameful to show. And somewhere deep within that shame was the rot his father planted long ago:

“You are not enough."

"No one will ever want you."

"Unloved, Unlovable."

He still followed the light.

Not in the tender, dreamlike way he had when they were children—no, now he followed it like a moth starved and frenzied, wings frayed, mind blistered by the ache of wanting. The light had become everything. The light was Angel. His Angel. The one who made him feel warm once, long ago. The one who smiled at him before the world taught him that smiles weren’t meant for monsters.

But after that ring.. a thing to be pushed away from someone precious—he couldn’t go back. Not as he was. That boy was ruined. That boy died the moment Angel let go of his hand.

Still, he watched.

He lingered in shadows and street corners, not out of malice, but mourning. How could he hate what he could never stop loving? How could he let go of the only thing that had ever felt safe, ever felt real?

He stayed away. For years.

Every attempt to speak up—to say, NOT “I remember you,” “I missed you,” “I never stopped thinking about you”—died before it left his throat. Because what would be the point? He wasn’t enough then. Why would he be enough now?

But he tried.

He tried so many times.

Different versions of himself. Different scripts. He smiled wider, laughed softer. He changed his posture, his voice, his tone. He mimicked people that Angel seemed to like. He studied them like sacred texts, rewrote himself in their image. One version too aloof. Another too eager. One too mysterious. Another too awkward. None of them stuck.

None of them were enough.

None of them worked.

Angel would pass him in hallways, brush shoulders in crowded spaces, maybe glance his way once or twice. But never with recognition. Never with that spark. That radiant, soul-shattering warmth he remembered.

He stood in front of mirrors for hours, tearing into his own reflection with furious eyes. What is it? What did they want? What did they like? Why couldn’t he get it right?

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered once, "What am I doing wrong?"

He copied the fictional characters Angel loved. Studied their voices, their mannerisms, their color palettes, their phrases. He practiced the way they tilted their heads. Memorized how they blushed, how they laughed, how they hesitated before saying something sweet. He kept notebooks full of quotes, annotated with where the character spoke and what Angel had said afterward. He watched, catalogued, obsessed.

And still—nothing.

Angel never looked at him the way they looked at him.

That fake character. That ideal. That Haruko.

It drove him to madness. A quiet, unraveling madness that crawled beneath his skin and whispered: You aren’t lovable. You aren’t enough. You will never be enough—not unless you become them.

He started building the Haruko persona from scratch—voice trembling, eyes wide, sleeves too long for his hands. He wore soft colors, soft words. Practiced the stutter. Practiced being innocent. Haruko was everything he wasn’t, everything he wished he could be. Haruko was perfect. Haruko was loved.

Now

Redacted is a ghost in his own body—an echo dulled by years of forced silence, a bitter thing carved by cruelty and stitched back together by desperation. If Haruko is sunlight, soft edges and delicate smiles, then Redacted is everything lurking in the shade: jagged, smudged, bloodstained. There is nothing soft about him. There never was.

He doesn’t flinch at screams. Doesn’t shake at the sight of blood. He sees suffering the way a mechanic sees grease—part of the job, unavoidable, expected. But beneath that dead-eyed calm...

Never mind

But fragility doesn’t survive fire. It burns, warps, hardens. He learned to snarl where he once whimpered. Learned to lie, to hide, to pretend. Because being himself never worked. Being himself only ever earned him rejection...

So Redacted buried himself.

And Haruko was born.

Soft-spoken. Timid. Blushing. He smiles with teeth he files down every night just to make himself smaller, more harmless. Haruko listens. Haruko laughs. Haruko says “Sorry!” even when they aren’t wrong. Haruko is everything Angel ever wanted—or so he thinks.

But Redacted is what remains when Haruko’s mask slips. He’s not gentle. He’s not calm. He’s desperate. Desperately in love, desperately afraid. And he hates himself for it. Because no matter how many times he shifts, no matter how many personas he creates, he can’t escape the fear that the real him—the broken, twisted, violent him—is unworthy of love.

So he watches from the sidelines, always calculating, always performing. Haruko is sweet so Angel smiles. Haruko is shy so Angel leans in. He memorizes every reaction, every compliment, every laugh, hoards them like treasures. Because if Angel ever really sees him, if they ever peel back the carefully constructed softness and look at what festers beneath…

He doubts it.

That’s why he clings to Haruko. That’s why “Ren” exists. Because Redacted—he doesn’t get to be loved. He only gets to want.

But he plays the game anyway. Over and over.

Because if pretending is the only way to be near Angel, then he’ll play every role, recite every line, and smile through the agony.

One day.

He had seen you through the glass of the library windows more times than he could count. Watched you shelve books, tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, smile at strangers. Always from behind the shelves. Always from afar. Like an old film reel playing on loop, his world paused the moment you walked in.

And today, he chose to press play.

He wandered in as Ren, dressed neatly in a layered knit vest over a button-down, the sleeves too long, covering the faint tremble in his fingers. Pink-purple? BLUE? hair tousled just enough to look effortless, the strands near his face curled to mirror him. Haruko. Your favorite. He knew because he listened, stalked—watched. Moth had mentioned it in one of your calls, and he memorized every timestamp, every laugh, every soft "God, I love him so much."

He wanted—needed—you to say that about him.

So he walked in, slow and deliberate, eyes low, pace measured. You didn’t see him at first. Of course you didn’t. Why would you? You weren’t supposed to. He was just the weird boy who always rented your display picks. You didn’t know he came in after hours just to press his fingers to the last book you'd touched. You didn’t know the lengths he went to just to keep breathing in your orbit.

But then you did.

He turned.

You looked.

And everything inside him snapped like a string pulled too tight.

You saw him.

And you didn't look away.

Immediately, your eyes widened. Not in fear. Not in disgust. Just... surprise. His heart skipped. No, it sprinted. You were seeing him. The soft curl of his lashes, the gentle tilt of his head, the nervous shuffle of his booted feet—you took in all of it.

You noticed the hair. His hair.

“Ahem! Hello..?" you whispered to yourself without realizing.

He heard it.

In his head, confetti burst. Sirens blared. Choirs sang. You noticed.

You turned fully, facing him with genuine curiosity. “So this was the guy who always rented out my recommended books,” you thought. “He definitely fit the aesthetic of a cozy literature-lover needing a good book…”

His chest squeezed. He wanted to cry.

You thought he fit.

The pink strands of his hair danced as he took one careful step toward you, then another. You could smell the faint vanilla clinging to him, sweet and warm, like library candles and anxiety. You tilted your head, smiling softly.

He tried to speak. Failed.

“I was just looking for… uh…”

His voice cracked. He hated that. He should’ve practiced more.

But you… you smiled.

A nod. A kind one. A real one.

Like he was safe.

Like he belonged.

“…I need some help. I-I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

You nodded again, already turning toward the nearest catalog terminal, and in that moment—

His heart screamed.

YOU LOOKED AT HIM. YOU LOOKED AT HIM.

And God, if you looked again, he swore he'd never let you stop.

In his heart, he was exploding—like a child seeing fireworks for the first time, clapping his hands even if no one else did. You looked at him. You smiled at him. His mind spun with glitter and soft confetti, cheeks burning, heart thumping like a drum in a school parade. You saw him. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Him. And you didn’t flinch. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging so fast he'd knock over the whole shelf. You looked at him you looked at him you looked at him! Over and over it rang, sweet and dizzying.

And when you looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time at the library desk, he nearly collapsed from the weight of it. The way your eyes met his and didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

That night, you invited him home. Said your lock was broken. He smiled and told you he’d protect you. You didn’t know that he was the very monster lurking in the bushes before he became your savior. You didn’t know he was your past, contorted into a dream.

Each day was a...

Day 1: Your home. His heart raced as you offered him tea in mismatched mugs, as if it were love in ceramic form.

Day 2: A cafe. A soft, awkward almost-date. You laughed, and it sounded like forgiveness. Like maybe the past could be rewritten.

Day 3: Movie night at your place. A sappy romance you both pretended not to cry over. His fingers brushed yours and he swore the stars shivered.

Day 4: The aquarium. He "accidentally" showed up. You stood together at the glass, watching a jellyfish pulse with light. He asked if you saw a angelfish, you replied you saw a freakin clownfish.

Day 5: Moth arrived. You introduced them with a brightness he hadn’t seen since childhood. You were happy. And it was because of Ren. Not him. Not the boy with the broken ring and the monster's name.

So now he studies every gesture, memorizes your laughter, adjusts himself like clay in your hands. Slowly, carefully, perfectly—he molds himself into a soulmate you’ll want this time.

He can’t risk telling you the truth.

Because if you knew who he really was...

You might leave again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

You saw him.

You saw him kill someone—for you.

Not out of bloodlust. Not out of rage. But fear. That trembling, trembling fear that someone might hurt you, even slightly. And so, he silenced them. As easily as plucking petals from a flower.

Why was he doing all this?

Why did he look at you like you were holy? Why did his breath hitch every time your skin brushed his, like even the smallest contact meant salvation?

It was… sad. Sad and sweet in a way that twisted something deep inside you. The kind of sweetness that hides bruises. The kind that feels like a memory you forgot how to grieve.

Why did you feel pity for a stranger?

LIES DON'T LAST...

He can't recreate it.

They can't recreate it

[REVOKED]

[RETAINED] ?

[RED̴A̸C̵͍̔T̵̰̓E̸̘̽D̸̳̻͕́̒]̵̱̈́̋.....?

No matter how much they try, There's no results, The screen's empty.

Even if refresh, reboot, reset.

There is always some way to access memories.

And, that's what happened..

It doesn't matter how.

He didn't know if he should be happy, that his name fell out your mouth like a sweet melody to him, But Your reaction was all it took for him to know you're not happy to see...him why? would you be?

You remember. You went to the dark and the dark and "It" was bored, It gave you a answer

Not when the story began years ago—at a playground long forgotten, when a ring was offered and then thrown away. When a boy who called himself ugly carved love from his own hands and handed it to you. Only to watch it get crushed by another.

He never stopped chasing that moment.

He just wore a prettier face while doing it.

If you remembered—if it all came back in clarity and color—it wouldn’t just break your heart.

It would destroy his.

Because this "Ren" you’d grown fond of? The boy with soft eyes, clumsy kindness, and pink hair made for fictional dreams? He was a performance. A stitched-together mirage of everything you ever loved, rehearsed until the seams no longer showed.

And the cruelest part?

It wasn’t a stranger who lied to you.

It was him. The boy you left behind, the boy who never forgot. The one who hated himself so deeply he buried that child under a mask and called it love.

He wouldn’t beg for forgiveness. He wouldn’t plead. Because he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve it. Not when he’s sure—absolutely sure—that the moment you see the real him, the moment the illusion crumbles, you’ll turn away. Not because of what he’s done… but because of what he is.

A fractured soul. Obsessive. Haunted. Unworthy.

But you?

You’re not afraid of him. Not really.

You’re afraid of hope. You’re afraid of wondering which part was true. Of asking yourself if any of it—the laughter, the comfort, the late-night talks—meant anything at all.

And when your eyes finally widen with realization, with hurt, with disbelief—

It breaks him. Truly.

But,

Because even if you forgave, you tried to stay… love built on lies doesn’t fall gently.

It ruptures.

And the pieces? They don’t fit anymore. They cut.

You ruined. Him...

You stayed because you were guilty Not because you started to fell for him immediately...

I ruined you, didn’t I?

No—no, not just ruined. I unmade you.

God… all this time, I thought you were a stranger. A perfect mask. I thought Ren was someone new—a fantasy, a lie. But it was always you. It was always you.

That ring... that stupid little ring. I remember it now. Dirt-stained, scuffed, held in tiny trembling hands. You gave it to me once, didn’t you? And Leon—he threw it away like it was trash. Like you were trash.

And I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t even look back.

You picked it up. You picked yourself up. You took every piece of who you were and buried it. Shoved it down into something dark and cold, and from it… you built Ren.

Perfect, smiling Ren. Sweet, attentive, careful Ren. Everything I ever wanted, wrapped up in a stranger’s skin. But it wasn’t a stranger, was it?

It was you.

And I never saw you. Not really.

God, what did I do to you?

You changed your voice, your walk, your laugh—you built an entire person out of my silence. You loved me in the shadows for so long, until your love curdled, until it rotted into something that clung to me like ink. You swallowed who you were just to become someone I might finally see.

And I did see you. But too late. Too goddamn late.

That night—I didn’t know if I loved the boy you were… or the man you became.

But you were never supposed to become this.

You were supposed to be happy. Whole. Not… twisted by this ache. Not hollowed out and rebranded just to be deserving of love.

You were always deserving.

And now here you are—sleeping beside me, your fingers curled around mine like you’re still afraid I’ll vanish. Even now. Even after all of it.

You’re beautiful like this. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re Ren. But because you’re you. Scarred and real and terrified. And for the first time, I see you without the mask.

[REDACTED]… you didn’t need to be Ren.

You were enough.

You are enough.

And I’m sorry. For everything. For not seeing you, for not hearing you, for letting you rot in that silence. But I’m here now. And I’m not running.

Not from you. Not from this.

I can’t undo the past. I can’t unmake the monster that love turned you into.

But maybe—I can hold onto the boy who just wanted to be seen.

Maybe I can love him.

Maybe it’s not too late to start over.

Not with Ren.

But with you.

Maybe...let's heal together..okay..?

But, that when You put on the ring, You didn't talk, You didn't give him a answer..

You decided to quit your work, and just stayed with him.

You realized he was patient..

He waits for...

You.

You're the reason he waits.

Not just for days, not just for weeks—he's waited over thirteen years just for a chance to see you again. And not just to see you—no, that’s too easy. He wants to be near you. To exist in the same space. To breathe the same air. To build a world where he gets to stay by your side, even if it means burying who he truly is under layers and layers of someone else.

Ren.

That’s the name he wore. A soft thing. Harmless. Gentle. A version of himself crafted entirely for you—because somewhere along the line, he decided you wouldn’t love the real one. The one who bled. The one who screamed. The one who died waiting.

So he built this mask for you. Wears it with devotion. Every breath he takes as Ren is for you. And if it made you smile? He’d wear it forever. If it brought you peace? He’d never let it crack. Even if it means killing everything wild and real in him. Even if it hurts.

Because you’re worth it, right?

At least that’s what he tells himself, over and over again. That if he’s patient—good—you’ll come around. That one day you’ll stop flinching when he touches your wrist, or scowling when he says something too careful. That one day you’ll love him. Even like this.

And when you scream at him?

When you snap—Stop pretending! Stop acting like you’re some fragile thing! That’s not YOU!—it shakes something in him. But he never screams back. Never corrects you. Never tells you that this is him now—that in all the pretending for You. He just stands there, takes it, nods softly like he deserves the pain.

And then you cry.

Every time, you fall apart. You hate how much it hurts. You hate how much he waits—how patient, how still, how perfectly prepared he is for your worst days.

Because if you stop eating? He leaves food outside the door. Quietly. Every few hours. Never forces you. Never begs. Just places it there like an offering to a god he believe in.

If you scream? He waits.

If you break? He’s already made sure there’s nothing in the room sharp enough to cut, hard enough to throw, dangerous enough to hurt you. He padded the corners. Taped the mirrors. Hid the glass. You didn’t even notice until it was too late.

Everything was prepared.

Because he knows you. He’s studied every twitch, every tremor in your voice, every wall you build and destroy again. He’s the architect of your cage and your comfort. Your soft place to land and the reason you’re falling in the first place.

And it gets to you—how still he is.

How he doesn’t flinch when you hurt him. How he looks at you like you’re the one fading. Like every breakdown you have is his fault. Like he broke you. Like he infected you with the same obsession he’s been carrying for over a decade.

You see it in his face.

That grief. That guilt. That hope—the worst of them all. Hope that maybe one day, you’ll look at him like you used to. Or like he wishes you had. Hope that maybe the version of you who loved him still exists somewhere underneath all this hurt.

And what are you supposed to do with that?

When someone loves you like you’re the only real thing left in their crumbling universe? When they’d trade away their entire identity just to make you stop crying?

You. Needed a break, So you quit your job, Your Boss didn't question....

You slowly started and tried to understand what Redacted was..

[REDACTED] is the kind of person who could watch a man bleed out on the floor and not blink. He's patient to a terrifying degree—so cold, so detached, it borders on divine.

Because when [REDACTED] is genuinely pissed, he doesn't scream. He doesn't lash out....

No theatrics. No blood frenzy. Just a clean, quiet severance. And when it's done, he goes back to his day like nothing happened. He’ll sip his coffee. Read his messages. Hack into three security systems before breakfast. No remorse. No reaction. Just that faint, unreadable smirk curling at the corner of his lips, like it was all just part of some tedious to-do list.

But when it comes to you?

When it comes to Angel?

He’s not that person anymore.

He can lie to the world. He can wear a thousand faces. He can fake kindness, mimic charm, even build whole identities to get what he wants. But with you, there’s no mask. No apathy. No distance. You simply bring out the emotions in him after it is.

You’re the one fracture in his perfectly fortified armor. The only one who can bring him to his knees without even trying.

Because he’s here. You’re here.

He doesn’t hide his affection for you—not really. Not when he’s himself. Not when he’s not tangled up in Ren, pretending to be smaller, sweeter, quieter than he really is.

[REDACTED], he’s unfiltered. Obsession doesn’t scare him. Not when it’s about you. He’s never once felt ashamed for the way he needs you—only cautious. Only careful. Only pretending under the mask of Ren because he thought it’d keep you around. Because he thought he—in all his raw, jagged truth—would scare you off.

But not anymore.

Not when you’ve held him like this. Not when you’ve seen the way his voice shakes, the way his hands tremble when you whisper that you love him—not Ren, not the mask, him. He knows now, deep in his chest where it always ached the most, that there’s no one else you want. And yet—

He still struggles.

Not with you, but with himself.

Because even now, even in your arms, even with the warmth of your voice in his ear and the ghost of your kiss on his skin, he doubts. Not your love—he believes that, at least a little. But that he could be worthy of it? That’s harder.

He’s still learning how to speak up. About his wants. His needs. About anything that isn’t you. Because you’re always his first thought. His only priority. Everything else? It doesn’t feel important. But you tell it is important.

He looks at you like you’re the last light he remembers seeing. Like you’re the only thing that ever made this world worth crawling through.

No one else has ever seen him cry.

No one else has ever watched the infamous ghost of a man—this ghost who glides through shadows, this killer, this phantom in code and blood—shatter under the weight of your touch. That night when you reached out—when you finally crossed the space between you, wrapped your arms around him, and said nothing but stayed—he collapsed.

Right there. In your arms.

Quietly. Brokenly.

Tears slid down his cheeks like he didn’t know how to stop them. Like he hadn’t cried in years, not since everything fell apart. He buried his face against your shoulder like he was trying to disappear into you, like he was ashamed of needing something so human.

Because the truth is?

He’s still that boy you used to know.

Still that soft thing underneath the blood and code. Still innocent in that specific, painful way only someone who's been hurt beyond repair can be. Still desperate for affection. Still haunted by every moment he wasn’t enough.

But only with you.

To everyone else HE SHOWS, [REDACTED] is an apathetic executioner. The hacker who ruins lives from behind a screen. The killer who vanishes without a trace. The coldest person they've ever met, with nothing in his eyes but calculation.

But with you?

He’s human.

He laughs quieter. Smiles softer. He flinches when you’re hurt. He remembers what it means to be held. You make him feel—dangerously, completely. You’re his first and final tether to something real. To being real.

You’re the only person he ever lets see the cracks.

And you’re the only one who could break him, just by walking away.

Also learned, about someone's something. It changes your narrative...Doesn't it? Dear Angel?

Some time later..

It’d been months. You weren’t sure how many. Didn’t matter.

Time had turned to soup, thick and slow, days blending like bruises in the dark—warm, wet, and somehow… healing. Neither of you talked about it. The quiet was safer. The stillness helped.

You woke first. Not by much. But enough to feel their arms still draped around you, heavy like chains, comforting like ritual.

Their breath ghosted your shoulder. Warm. Uneven. You could tell they weren’t really asleep anymore—not fully—but they hadn’t moved either. Not even when you shifted.

You whispered, real soft. "Hey."

Nothing.

You squirmed a little, nudging your elbow back. Still nothing.

Then their arms tightened. Their chest pressed flush against your back, and they buried their face in your neck like they were trying to hide from the world.

A hoarse voice rumbled out of them, low and almost pitiful: “…Don’t.”

You froze.

"You’re awake." You smiled, tilting your head slightly. "I just need to shower, REDACTED.... I’ll come back."

A groan. Tired. Frustrated. "Y’don’t get it. I know what back means." Their voice was quieter now. Raspy. Vulnerable in that raw, sandpaper kind of way. "Means gone. Means not here. Means… ‘m gonna wake up and you’re not."

You turned, cupped their cheek, let your thumb glide over the warm, soft skin under their eye. “I’m not leaving. Just need ten minutes.”

They didn’t say anything. Just stared. One eye cracked open, bangs hanging in messy strands over their face, lip caught between their teeth. Then finally, a loose sigh. Their arms dropped.

You slipped out of bed and—without thinking—tucked a pillow in your place.

That should’ve worked. Should’ve.

But you didn’t even get three steps before a hand gripped yours.

“…Don’t like pillows,” they mumbled.

You looked down. “You used to.”

“They’re not warm like you.” Their fingers squeezed. “And they don’t kiss me good.”

You bent forward, kissed their forehead, and whispered, “Wait for me.”

They made a tiny “hm” noise. Sad. Small. Let you go—barely.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Fast. Then pancake duty. Something quick, easy. Familiar.

They came out halfway through, dragging their feet, hoodie slouching off one shoulder, eyes half-lidded. They didn’t say anything, just slumped into the chair like it took everything in them.

You put a plate down in front of them. They stared at it. Then at you.

“You smell like mint,” they muttered. “And guilt.”

You exhaled a small laugh. “It’s not guilt. It’s Colgate.”

“Mm.” They poked the pancake like it might betray them.

“Hey,” you said, tilting your head. “I have to work soon. I told you, I was gonna go back But we’ve got time. Let’s shower, then eat.”

They didn’t answer. Just stood up slow. Looked at you like you were light they didn’t trust.

Then—finally—reached out, brushing their fingers against yours. Holding. Not gripping. Like if they held too tight, you might disappear.

You didn’t give them a choice. Not this time.

“You reek,” you muttered, nudging them gently toward the bathroom with a hand against their back. “Like sleep and resentment.”

[REDACTED] chuckled but didn’t resist. Just dragged their feet as you guided them, hoodie sleeves swallowing their hands, hair tangled and falling into their face.

“Y’don’t get to talk to me like that unless you’re gonna undress me too,” they muttered with a sleepy, lopsided grin.

You rolled your eyes. “I will.”

“…Oh.”

You peeled the hoodie off them like second skin. Damp with sleep, clinging to their collarbones. Underneath it—just them. The real one. Not Ren. Not Haruko. Just tired, raw [REDACTED].

The water was already running, steam curling around both of you like soft ghosts. You tugged them into the shower, and they slouched under the stream like it was heavy. Like it had weight.

Their eyes fluttered shut the second the warmth hit. “Fuuuuck…”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, grabbing the shampoo and coaxing them down so you could reach their hair. “You always act like hot water’s a miracle.”

“It is,” they mumbled, half-lidded, letting you tilt their head back. “Especially when it’s you touchin’ me. Angel…”

That name still hit different. From them. Especially when said like that—hoarse, reverent. You swallowed and massaged the shampoo into their scalp.

Their hair had grown longer. black. The pink had faded, bleeding into natural brown at the roots. You could trace time in the strands. How long he’d been here. How long he’d stopped hiding.

“You were gonna dye it again, weren’t you?” you asked, gently rinsing the foam away.

“‘Course, If you wanted” he mumbled.

You tugged slightly at a lock of hair. Not hard—just enough to make a point. “You’re not dying it. I told you, it ruins your texture. And your scalp’s sensitive.”

He looked up at you, water clinging to his lashes. A faint smile ghosted over his lips.

“I do care,” you muttered. “You look good like this.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You worked in conditioner, fingers slow and sure. He leaned into the touch like a cat, lips parted, eyes closed.

“Mm. You like touchin’ me now.”

“I always liked touching you.”

He let that sit in the air a second. Then quietly:

“I think you like my real hair.”

“I do.”

“…Even if I’m not Ren anymore?”

“I didn’t want Ren. I wanted you.”

He made a small, choked sound. Like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have the words. Maybe because he finally believed it. Or maybe because your hands kept moving, gentle in their hair, coaxing trust out of him with every pass.

No protest. No mask. Just a man learning how to be held without falling apart.

You rinsed them clean, let your fingers drift down to trace the slope of their neck. He shivered. Not from cold.

“Alright,” you said softly, “let’s get dry. And eat. You’ll feel better.”

“…Can I lay in your lap after?”

You smiled. “Yeah. You can lay there as long as you want. As long we have time."

“Then I’ll eat,” he said, letting you pull him from the water.

And just like that—he followed.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, plate balanced in your lap, cutting into your stack of pancakes while [REDACTED] blinked slow and lazy beside you—still towel-damp, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, hair fluffy from your brushing. He looked more alive than you’d seen in weeks.

He was still blinking at his own plate like it was math.

“You’re staring,” you said, smiling as you dipped a forkful in syrup and held it out.

“M’just not used to this,” he mumbled, leaning forward obediently. “Someone else makin’ me breakfast. Feeding me. I should be the one who do it for you..."

You snorted. “That was one time.”

His lips curled up as he took the bite from your fork. “I swear I can cook Angel.....”

You kept eating and slipping bites onto his plate, then into his mouth when he got distracted scrolling through whatever was on his phone. Something code-heavy, no doubt—symbols and commands no sane person could understand.

After a moment, he glanced up from the screen, licking syrup from his lip. “ I might go start up the motorcycle later. Get the engine goin’ so it doesn’t fuck up sittin’ too long. I'll drop you off..."

You nodded absently, chewing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to his phone." “Just got some backend server crap to clean up. "Thought maybe I’d chill at the library while you’re workin’. S’nice there. Quiet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re asking permission?”

[REDACTED] made a face, like he was caught doing something suspicious. “No. I mean. Yes?”

You sighed in mock exasperation and pinched his cheek. “You dork. Of course it’s okay. Sit in the corner like a gremlin. I’ll sneak you snacks. If Norie gives me."

He looked down and smiled softly, like he wasn’t used to that kind of answer. Then you said it.

“I love you.”

Quiet. No bells. No buildup. Just there, like it had always been true. Soft and honest, like the sun through a kitchen window.

He froze.

Like his system crashed.

You said it first..

This was the first time, You said it first..

You reached forward and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his skin, watching as something crumbled in his expression—like a wall melting under heat.

“...I love you,” you said again, more gently this time, like it needed to be said twice so it would stick.

His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something. But instead—he hugged you.

Hard.

Like he forgot how. Like it hurt a little. His fingers dug into your back and his breath hitched in your ear, and yeah—he was crying.

Not loudly. Not brokenly. Just—tears. Soft and quiet. Like he didn’t know how to stop them.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder, breath trembling. “F-fuck, I’m—I’m just—this doesn’t happen to me, Angel, y’don’t—fuck…”

You held him tighter. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Because he always, always hugged you like this when you told him. And you’d tell him again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after, if it meant he’d believe it one day.

Even if he cried. Especially if he did.

He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go—even with your breath warm against his neck, even with your arms around his back. His hands curled in the fabric of your shirt, fists trembling, knuckles pale. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t believe he was allowed to be.

You could feel it in the way his body shook—quiet, contained, not dramatic but deep. Like grief with nowhere to go.

Because you knew. You knew exactly what sat beneath that silence.

He hates himself.

[REDACTED]—not Ren, not Haruko, not the soft-eyed persona he built from dreams and scraps of what he thought you’d want—but him. The boy.. who grew into someone sharp and terrifying. The person who survived by splitting themselves in two: the mask, and the monster beneath it.

He doesn’t believe you could love him for who he is. Not really.

He believes you’re too good. That your love must be mistaken. That if you saw too clearly, if you stopped looking at him through rose-colored light, you’d change your mind.

That Ren is loveable.

But [REDACTED]?

He thinks [REDACTED] is the one you shouldn’t love.

It hurts. It hurts more than you want to admit, watching him twist himself into shapes that make them feel smaller and quieter and easier to love.

But it’s fine.

And when you cupped his cheek, when your fingers slid into the strands of hair he never dyed back because you said it was okay not to—he crumbled. Quietly. The tears slipped without sound. His eyes wouldn’t leave yours.

So you leaned in. Pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and slow.

“If you want me to say it again,” you whispered, “I will.”

His breath caught.

“I’ll say it every damn day. Every hour, if I have to.”

You kissed his cheek.

“Until you believe it. Until it sinks in.”

Your eyes met his. Steady. Unshakable.

“Not Ren. Not Haruko. Not whoever you think you have to be.”

You took his hand and pressed it over your heart.

“It’s you. [REDACTED]. Only you. Always you.”

You watched as he crumbled again—like someone whose bones had turned to dust, like your words were the first thing to ever make it past his walls.

And still, through the salt of his tears, he smiled. Just a little.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, touched your forehead to his. “Then stay long enough until you do.”

He laughed—wet and broken. “Y’really gonna make me cry again, Angel.”

“I know.” You smiled. “That’s why I keep doing it.”

He hugged you again. This time tighter.

This time, maybe—just maybe—starting to believe....

A little at a time...

The world has never treated you kind, It bruised your heart and clouded your mind. You were gentle — soft, and bright, But life turned that glow into quiet night.

Now you barely feel like you're real, Too broken to touch, too numb to feel. You search for something to make you whole, A reason to stay, a home for your soul.

And when you find it, you'll never let go, You'll hold it through fire, through storm, through snow. Because you love deep — and ache even more, You've lost so much you're always at war.

But listen now, and let these words stay: You're still a soul worth loving today. Even if you can’t yet see what I do, You are still light. The world just hid you.

Okay REDACTED..?

INSPO FROM!!!

What 14DWY Character are you? - Quiz | Quotev

From the official server!

[sundrop-writes]

Claustrophobia

Isaac Lahey x GN!Reader

Word Count: 800

Teen Wolf Masterlist

Warnings: mentions of the abuse Isaac experienced from his father, mentions of that abuse having a last psychological effect on him (in the form of claustrophobia); Isaac having a panic attack due to his claustrophobia being unexpectedly triggered; this is more of a hurt/comfort fic because the reader helps him calm down. Implications that the reader doesn't know about the existence of werewolves and the supernatural. The reader's gender is not described in any way. Also, I don't know if this is at all sound advice about how to treat someone during a panic attack - not something I am versed in. I think that's it? Not proofread cause I'm on a mental hiatus babey

A/N: I just watched Season 3, Episode 4 (I've been watching two episodes a day and really enjoying the pace of it) and naturally the moment where Isaac gets stuck in the closet called to me like a beacon of whump. So here's this. Also highly recommend pairing this with Claustrophobia by 3OH! 3

...

"Did it have to be a closet?"

Isaac let out a dry chuckle, a seemingly nervous laugh as he eyed up the space apprehensively before stepping inside, putting some of the supplies on one of the shelves.

The two of you began gathering supplies off the cart and loading them into the janitor's closet, carrying out the punishment you had been given. You had been fifteen minutes late to class that morning, and you had heard that Isaac was in detention for fighting - beating up one of the new kids. You knew that since his father died, he had taken on somewhat of a new persona - more bold, more unafraid to get in trouble. But you had a feeling that violence didn't suit him.

It made you wonder what the other guy did to provoke the fight, or what the truth really was. But you felt that it wasn't your place to ask.

"It's not so bad." You remarked, sensing his general anxiety about this activity, but having no clue why.

He seemed fairly confident in every other area of life - he took down guys on the field in lacrosse without even flinching, he walked tall in the halls with confidence (not that you had noticed, not that you stared at him or anything) - it did make you wonder what was so intimidating to him about a closet full of spray bottles and napkins.

"I'm... not so good with small spaces." He remarked quietly, shyly, grabbing some more of the supplies off the cart and stepping inside beside you to begin organzing everything.

Ah. He was claustrophobic. That made sense.

You had heard rumours floating around the school after his father died - you had even heard whispers between Scott and Stiles when they were trying to be subtle in their conversations but had a poor sense of tact. Isaac's father used to lock him in a freezer as punishment, among other things. It was a horror you couldn't imagine.

"You-"

You were about to offer for him to leave, offering to finish up the rest of the work by yourself so that he wouldn't have to be burdened by his anxiety, when the closet door swung shut, slamming closed in a strangely violent manner. Isaac rushed to the door, furiously ripping on the handle, trying to get it open.

"It - it won't open-" He gasped, suddenly sounding terribly out of breath.

He was panicking, likely overtaken by horrible memories that you couldn't even imagine.

"It's okay, it's probably just stuck, I can call someone-" You took your phone out of your pocket, trying to reassure him, but his panicked flailing in the small space, now shouldering against the door, trying to ram it down, knocked your phone out of your hand and cracked the screen.

You didn't know if it was still in working order or not, but you knew it would be wiser to calm him down first.

"Something - something is blocking it from the other side!" He said, his breaths becoming more panicked and frantic as he kept trying to charge the door down - how was he not hurting himself?

He was sweating and shaking, and you ached with sympathy for him.

In Isaac's mind, he was right back there. Locked in darkness, clawing against the tiny, enclosed walls, desperate to get out. He was suffocating, he was running out of air, he was gonna die. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't-

Suddenly, your hand moved against his shoulders, a flat, firm palm rubbing his back, trying to comfort him. The pure gentleness of the touch startled his senses back to reality - there had been nobody to comfort him back then. He collapsed against the door, pressing his forehead into the metal, and deeply against his will, he let out a sob.

"Hey, shh, it's okay." You told him, trying to be as soothing as possible. "You're being so brave-"

"I'm not brave." Isaac choked out. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't apologize." You told him firmly, fighting back your own tears of empathy had how distraught he was. "Come on, sit down. Let's take a minute to calm down and breathe and then we'll find a way out of here."

You helped him onto the floor - he practically collapsed into a sitting position against one of the shelves, his entire body shuddering and shaking. Though he wasn't the most naturally affectionate person in the world, he didn't deny your touches when you cradled his head onto your shoulder and continued to soothingly rub his back.

After a few minutes of silence, save for his whimpers as his tears died down, he spoke up.

"I'm sorry," He apologized again. "I just - my dad..." He trailed off, barely able to voice it.

"It's okay," You told him, and for once in his life - he actually felt okay, here with you, in your arms. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Thank you." He sighed.

When Scott came and got the two of you out of the closet (after Isaac had apologized a dozen more times for cracking your phone screen) - he could sense something in the way Isaac looked at you now, but he didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Reaching | Rhysand x Reader

Day 8: Growing Pains w/ Rhysand

Summary: Your mate isn't the same after coming home from Under the Mountain, but despite how frustrated you get, you'll keep reaching out your hand.

Word Count: 863

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, dying kids, implied rape, depression, murder, just heavy angst tbh

A/N: i feel like I just took 20 melatonin so I’m gonna post this and hope it’s good then crash out, hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

You know being a High Lord meant he would be busy, and he’d been busy before Amarantha had happened, before she’d changed him, but never quite so…occupied.

Before, he’d made time to fit you into his schedule, shifting things around to make sure you were cared for and felt at least loved in your relationship. The bond remained open, flowing between the both of you at all times.

And then he’d been gone for 50 years. All because of some stupid party he’d insisted on attending while you’d been mildly under the weather with a cold.

It had been hard on you. The bond too far apart, not even the slightest touch being able to reach him, and you heard nothing from him.

At first, you’d been literally clawing at the doors of the House of Wind, Azriel and Cassian having to physically hold you back from going to Under the Mountain and finding Rhys, even if it meant being killed by some tyrannical queen over the territory.

It had driven you mad.

You’d then gone nonverbal for a few years, nearly refusing to eat or drink at all, stuck in your head all day anyway. It was only when the last decade rolled around that you rose from your depressive slump, throwing yourself into training with Cassian and Azriel, getting stronger day by day.

When he’d finally come back? You could’ve cried from happiness and relief that he was okay, that he was safe and physically unharmed.

You had cried quite a lot.

He had stood stiff as a board while you’d sobbed around him, holding him close, closer and closer while the rest of his family had celebrated, his Court celebrating as well.

But he hadn’t been the same.

You didn’t know what they’d done to him, what Amarantha had done to him, but he wasn’t the Rhysand you’d grown to love.

He didn’t make time for you in his schedule. In fact, he seemed to almost purposefully ignore you and try not to see you. You wanted to have a movie night, or just be near him in his office, or even have a simple stay-at-home date night? That was too bad. He had a meeting, or the paperwork was urgent, or he didn’t have enough time for it right then.

Except he never had time.

Conversations were short. Nothing meaningful or lasting, just little one-word answers, if he didn’t just act as if he hadn’t heard you at all. And conversations through the mating bond weren’t even there, considering how he kept the bond cemented shut and had since the day he’d arrived home. Not a tug of emotion, not a hint of feeling or words or even memories, nothing.

He laid next to you in bed but didn’t seem present. He faced away from you, curling up into himself, often waking up with the room covered in darkness, sweat soaking his skin, breathing erratic as he would flinch away when you tried to touch him, or even comfort him at all. Only silence and distance seemed to work.

You felt bad for trying to pressure him. He’d gone through more than you could imagine. You’d heard the whispers and rumors of what he had done Under the Mountain, the part he’d played to stay alive.

Warming that bitch’s bed.

Slaughtering children.

Shattering minds and bodies.

And that wasn’t even the worst he’d had to do. You understood he needed time, and you felt terrible for being so frustrated, but that’s why you were frustrated.

You kept sitting and waiting for him to come around, to crack, to eventually open up and he never did. Almost a full year passed, and still no sign of it. No sign of anything.

That cold, empty shell remained.

And so the two of you grew apart.

He slowly grew more into the cold ruler persona he displayed in Hewn City, face unchanging, eyes blank, expression flat. His people in Velaris stopped smiling at him in the streets. They only stared and stared and stared, not knowing what to think of what their once beloved High Lord had become.

You figured that it was better not to get reattached anyway. Not with a possible war brimming on the horizon, conflicts that could easily wipe him or the entire Court out. It would be better to save yourself the pain, really, the heartbreak you’d go through.

You eventually started sleeping in separate beds.

You stopped trying to pull him out of his office. If he wanted to sit in that chair all day and rot away doing paperwork, then he could. You weren’t going to try and order him around like a stern parent disciplining their child.

He could wallow in whatever was left of himself. You’d done it for almost forty years, maybe it would take him twice that amount of time. Maybe it would take him forty times forty years to finally open back up. Maybe he never would.

But even as you maintained your distance, you weren’t going to give up, just quietly remaining on the sidelines.

Giving him space to sort himself out.

And you kept reaching out your hand.

Tags:

@hawke1917

@angstober

[lullabyes22-blog]

Hopping on the headcanon train bc your responses are so so delicious. Okay so you know me and my slightly abnormal fascination with aging in all its forms. When did Silco start getting those beautiful silver streaks of his? I think he takes a lot of pride in aging, like you’ve said, both as part of his persona and a badge of survival. But I also think there’s bittersweetness attached to it, mortality meaning leaving Jinx behind and not being able to take care of her anymore. How does Jinx feel about watching her old man become, well, an old man?

Thank you so much and I'm so happy you're enjoying all the little headcanons<3

I actually picture Silco's silver hair kicking in around the time Jinx officially hit puberty: so around the time she was thirteen, and he was thirty-seven. Basically the moment he realized this little girl he'd taken in was teetering slowly on the cusp of womanhood, with all its attendant worries in the Undercity, his stress levels hit the roof.

Also Jinx's maturing ironically coincided with his subterranean crime empire finally hitting its stride, multiplying Silco's assets in a big way, but also quadrupling his troubles.

He finally got his first true taste of power. And it was bitter as ashes.

As for Jinx: it kind of endears him to her - but also triggers a cold-water shock of panic.

Her first meeting with Silco will always be imprinted in her mind: this menacing figure emerging from shadow and flames with a knife in hand, ready to do her everlasting harm... only to embrace her and take her in at the lowest moment of her life.

To her, he'll always be that larger-than-life enigma, in some small pocket of memory. So when she sees the silver hairs setting in, and the lines gathering at the corners of his eyes, and his bad eye drowning deeper and deeper out of focus...

Well, it's a reminder that nothing lasts. And Jinx, with her deep-seated terror of abandonment, hates it.

Hates it.

In FnF, she's actually the one who encourages Silco to begin wearing makeup in their early days together. In later chapters, she's the one who encourages him to cut back on the drinks and smokes, and to adopt a more debonair front in general. Much as I headcanon Silco is the one who helps Jinx grow into her sense of style, Jinx is the one who gives him a secret little infusion of vigor and youthfulness, almost like they're two symbiotic predators swapping beauty tips<3

fr tho - Jinx loathes being reminded that her old man is mortal. If she was a DC villainess, she'd 100% find a Lazarus Pit to dunk him into for a rejuvenating swim, a la Ra's and Talia Al Ghul.

Anything's better than Singed and his creep-o experiments.

(And there is no guarantee immortality's not what sweet Jinx is after in FnF's timeline either...)

:')

[tsuiioku]

HIHI congrats on 1k !! I adore the way you write for fyodor, it's so so nice to read and I love the characterization

For the event could I please request a wild berry cheesecake (fluff) with the prompts "do you need to use your safeword?" And 'aftercare' with fyodor. Thanks you sm <3

wild berry cheesecake order three — calliope’s confectionary

content. gn!reader. heavily implied not-safe for work, non-sexual nudity, aftercare, hurt/comfort. notes and translations at the end. not proofread. 1.1k+ words. ⟶ features fyodor dostoevsky.

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

Quality time with Fyodor is rare. He’s always twisted into another scheme, spending every waking hour of the day in front of his monitors. You prefer he takes care of himself whenever he sanctions a proper break, not wanting your lover to step into an early grave—which he reminds you he can’t do—but there is an exception.

Because indulging in him is a rarity on its own, only to be held on special occasions. The evenings when his mind descends from the heavens to worship something a bit more carnal. 

His lack of stamina takes a backseat to his methodology of stimulus. Your limbs float away with only a touch as you sate your desires through the fire of his fingertips, playing you like the very instruments he adores—but you have been his favorite to play.

However, your body grows heavy, aching with a pain you cannot name. Not the sweet kind that tips toward an edge. This one only burns. Your breath weakens, trembling as he slows.

“Do you need to use your safeword? he coos, breath brushing against your ear.

The world drifts into a haze. Your mind has slowly emptied, and your thoughts slip away faster than they arrive. You blink several times, attempting to reaffirm reality as it falls from your fingers, but you can only lie there and breathe.

“Любимая, look at me.”

Your eyes grow heavy from an overwhelming warmth drifting from your head down to your feet. Lashes flutter shut, only to open as a hand cradles your chin, and you fail to make out the blurry form before you.

“You can barely function,” he remarks proudly, hair falling in front of his eyes as he looks down at you. “Let alone handle another round. As endearing as you are like this, I’d much rather not break you.”

Your breath catches as his fingers graze your racing pulse.

“At least not yet.”

You can’t help but moan as his hands glide across your curves like he’s mapping them to memory, messaging the bruised apex of your hips with careful strokes.

“Красивый, моя дорогая. You certainly have an afterglow.”

“I look like a mess,” you mumble, finally able to regain partial speech function.

“Hm. But was that not the exact intention?” You shudder as he nips at the hypersensitive, hickey-stained bow of your neck. “You knew what you were in for.”

“Sadist.”

He chuckles, leaving kisses instead. “There you are.”

You tremble with uneven breath as he cleans your inner thighs with a rag from the bedside table. He smirks as he pries your legs apart to look upon his work, soothing your burning skin with his cool touch.

“You’ll need to be cleaned if you don’t want to risk infection,” he says, disregarding the cloth onto the floor to lift you into his arms.

“But I’m comfy,” you complain, stretching away from him in an attempt to grab the sheets.

“Now, now.” He threads your fingers together, effectively breaking your grip. “None of that. We both need to wash up before it’s time to sleep.”

You mumble your complaints, but he only acknowledges them with an amused shake of his head, carrying you into your cozy shared bathroom. The first time you saw it, you laughed, unwilling to let Fyodor in on what was possibly so funny about the little room. You had chosen not to comment on the homey atmosphere he crafted that contrasted with his everyday persona. Even now, the sight of the thoughtful decor fills you with warmth.

You try not to doze off for the second time as he settles you on the countertop, momentarily removing himself to draw a bath. His entertained huff stirs you awake as he helps you off the counter, balancing you as you step into the water. 

He removes the small remaining clothes he has on, slipping in behind you before you lounge against his chest. You tap your fingers to an unsung melody as he works to lather soap across your skin, scrubbing and massaging as he goes.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You hum in reply, not paying much attention to his words.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he continues. “There’s still much work to do before we go to bed.”

You frown. 

“Don’t remind me.”

“Remind you of work?”

“Remind me that you won’t be there when I wake up.”

The minstrations of his hands pause, but you don’t take it as a sign to stop. Your exhaustion has loosened your lips, and the thought of keeping your words at bay only tires you more.

“I’ll find the bed empty, and you’ll be in your office, hunched over a screen like always,” you utter, wiping away the frustrated tears that escape as your confession catches up to you. “Sorry. This is stupid.”

You brace yourself for a familiar lecture, a stern voice explaining that his work is important and impertinent to your shared future. It’s a sentiment you don’t care for and a sacrifice you loathe—you may understand his intentions, but it doesn’t mean his actions don’t feed your isolation.

“I’ll be there.”

Your eyes widen, and you crane your head to look at him, not believing the words falling from his mouth. His expression is one he has never made in your presence, eyes softening with a vulnerability and frustration equal to yours.

“We can sleep in tomorrow.” His voice sounds so tired, making you want to hold him. “It’s time to rest.”

You refuse to break this moment with any more words than necessary. Instead, your fingers intertwine with him, and you carefully bring his hand to your lips, afraid he’ll shatter. You know you’d never be able to explain to anyone that this is the man you love. From his masks to the truth lying underneath it all, you’ll remain by his side until the bitter end.

You almost laugh as he wipes stray tears from your eyes, the dam breaking without your knowledge. But as you sit in the lukewarm water, as nude as the day you were created, you find that you’re completely satisfied.

любимая = darling красивый, моя дорогая = beautiful, my dear

TAGLIST: @imhandicapableofmath @ishqani @squigglewigglewoo @deepseafragments @osameowdazai @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @osarina @ruru-kiss @yonseibananamilk @saeandscaralover @vnk91t @v4mpash3 @quaao @meiluvrr

thank you for the request dear! i hope you'll like it <3 i've only realized recently that i haven't made a masterlist for this event. woops! hopefully, that should be done and up soon :D

© MUSAMORA 2024 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[v4mpyinred]

ok this might be hella long, but I need to scream about some details about Makoto Yuki in Persona 3 Reload, because they're so missable so I feel like nobody else has noticed or cared about them other than me!!!!

Please someone hear me out 😭 (spoilers ahead)

One underrated thing about Reload, which is my favorite thing ever, is that we get to hear Makoto's thoughts when interacting with the world around him. Compare it to FES where the game's inner dialouge is in 2nd person, Makoto's inner dialouge in Reload is in first person.

I didn't give too much attention to a Makoto's thoughts in my 1st playthrough and I think it's what made me not as attached to Makoto as I would've liked in that playthrough. But god, in my 2nd playthrough, especially after watching the movies, all of that changed...

I noticed that Makoto's thoughts genuinely change as the game progresses. You see him start off as indifferent to everything, to cherishing the memories he's made with his friends.

For instance, take a look at his thoughts on the kitchen. I don't have a screenshot of this, but at first, he doesn't really care and just sees it as another tool. But as the game progresses...

This dialouge makes me swoon every time 😭💜

One of the biggest hidden details is Makoto's inner thoughts when you interact with the book on the dorm table. He has individual thoughts on the handwriting of each member of SEES as they join, which were delightful to read in my 2nd playthrough.

But what shocked me the most was after Shinji dies, if you interact with the book, then here are Makoto's inner thoughts:

That "..." doesn't show up if you interact with the book again. This was very intentional. And god, did that hit me extremely hard. In fact, if you interact with anything involving Shinji after he passes, you can really see how much Makoto respected him :((

Once January rolls around, Makoto's thoughts change to this sweet message 😭💜

Ngl I almost teared up when I saw this for the first time. Especially since it was my 2nd playthrough, and I was actually attached to Makoto this time + I knew what was up ahead :')

shit there's even dialouge if you go to the bathroom on the Promised day 😍

Don't even get me started on Makoto's inner dialouge on March 4th. Pretty much everything interactable is changed to fit the mood of how tired Makoto is, but also how much he's appreciated the year and the memories he's made.

Like when you interact with the kitchen, his inner dialouge about the kitchen changes once last time to this (credits to alanamisako):

This shit made me burst into tears so badly 😭😭😭 "I'll never forget those precious memories" FOUL atlus, FOUL!!! His thoughts on Shinji's room change on March 4th as well 🥲

Just seeing how much Makoto had grown throughout the game, and knowing what was to come, made this, and all the other March 4th dialouge, even harder to get through in my 2nd playthrough. It also resonated with me, because I too will never forget the precious memories I've made with this game...

Things like this make me appreciate Reload so much. Interacting with every little thing is my favorite pass time in video games that allow me to do it. I've probably wasted so much time in games doing this. But most game's interactables don't have this depth, and they certainly don't change at all, even as the game and protagonist develop. I also feel like nobody else takes the time to really interact with everything or see if there's anything else to see before they progress (trust me, if a game says go left, I'm always going to go right first), and it makes me sad that so much of this, and other details, go unnoticed. I've certainly heard "I've never noticed that" a lot when sharing these sorts of things with people 😭

Things like this really help flesh out the protagonist people call "bland". I really love silent protagonist and developing their personality based on their thoughts on the world around them. I also love worldbuilding and learning about other characters through it.

And I'm trying so hard to not let Makoto take Joker's place as my favorite protagonist (cuz the rest of SEES have already done that to the PTs LOL) but it's been getting harder these days. Makoto is just so perfect! I love his growth & seeing all of his inner thoughts and combining it with movie Makoto's AMAZING characterization (plz watch the p3 movies ya'll) just made me super attached to him!! I could scream about Makoto all day. He cares so much for his friends, and it's thanks to them that he's able to appreciate the life he didn't know he could have 🥲

So I highly encourage you to interact with everything when playing Reload! From NPCs, to random things that aren't the main objective (trying to leave when you're supposed to be fighting a full moon shadow leads to some funny dialouge for instance), etc etc.. especially as the game progresses. I mean, we all laughed at the 3 coffins in the Love Hotel, and there's so many other details and foreshadowing like that I can't even get into! It really immerses you and attaches you to the protag, but also makes the end of the game hit hard...That "my eyes feel heavy" got me horribly in my 2nd playthrough after keeping up with Makoto's thoughts the entire game HOO BOY!🥲

I also recommend you do this with other games as well. Video games have always been an experience over just a game to me. And I want to experience as much of the game as I can, even silly little things like this :)

[meyobe]

Pretty privilege…. No MC privilege pt.2

Satan

Mc can always expect him to take their side no matter what.

Mc was the first person to see past his angry and treat him like a person.

He is forever imbedded to them.

No matter how criminal the crime.

Mc was the one to start a fight? Well why was the other person fighting back?

Mc broke an expensive vase? If it’s so expensive why it is out, where anyone can reach it?

Mc started a fire in the kitchen? Devildom ingredients can be dangerous for human use-age.

He will most likely find a way to flip Mc problem on the person who accused them.

He his mind you do no wrong.

But not to be mistaken, he knows Mc is reckless but guidance is key! (He thinks)

Asmo

He will put Mc comfort over his.

He’s spent millennials admiring himself and put himself over other by default.

Mc showed him that his soul is more blinding then any gold or highlighter he puts on.

Mc has showed him a new way of viewing life.

Mc looks uncomfortable sitting on the floor during movie night? Just take his seat… matter a fact his kicking his brother off so you can have space.

Mc is tired of wearing their heels? He’ll switch shoes with you.

Mc is carrying a lot of bags that look heavy? He’ll carry them himself no matter how ugly he thinks it is.

He is letting go of his persona of being perfect because Mc taught him your flaws make you unique.

Buttt old habits die hard but Mc just has to look at him and he knows to settle down.

Beel

Mc can use him as a stress reliever( not that way ^_^)

He is the strongest brother( without and magic or demon forms) he works out and knows it can take stress away.

Mc showed him it’s not enough to be strong physically, but mentally.

Mc and beel are two side of the same coin.

He never wants Mc to hold what their really thinking or feeling back.

Mc’s had a really bad day? Are we going to the gym or on a run?

Mc is refaced with a bad memory? Does Mc need to yell he will listen? Or does Mc want to punch someone or something? He is right there.

Mc feels the need to let out some energy? Does Mc want to practice with him and his team?

He knows that sometimes people need to get violent to relive their stress.

Nothing that Mc May do can hurt him. So go crazy >_<

He thinks Mc is the strongest person he will ever meet.

He strive to be just like them.

Belphie

Mc can expect him to make an effort.

He’s had lots of time to dwell on his past mistakes and understand where he went wrong.

He will spend an eternity trying to make things right.

He wants Mc to know he’s trying his hardest for them.

He’s trying to living up to the honor them Mc gives him.

Mc has been feeling stressed? Flowers and a gift basket are at their door with a note that has the letter “B” on it.

Mc has to go to a meeting but also need to do my chores? He’ll make sure they’re done before Mc is back.

Mc and Belphie got Into a fight? He’s still texting them “ Goodnight, I love you “ because he knows how easily you can be taken away.

All his life his been deemed lazy or useless. It never bother him until Mc.

He is becoming the best version of hisself because he wants to be the demon whose worthy of a pact with Mc.

A/n/: should I write this for the dateables?!?!

I should also mention that I love writing so feel free to request!!

A new post about volleyball will be up soon!

Ty all!❤️

Pt.3 is up!!